Story Quotes (page 143)
I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, From waiting to not waiting for you. My heart moves from cold to fire. I love you only because it's you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you. Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you. Is that I do not see you but love you blindly. Maybe January light will consume. My heart with its cruel. Ray, stealing my key to true calm. In this part of the story I am the one who. Dies, the only...
Pablo Neruda
We must knit together, in this work, as one man. We must entertain each other in brotherly affection. We must be willing to abridge ourselves of our superfluities, for the supply of other? necessities . . .We shall be as a city upon a hill. The eyes of all the people are upon us so that if we shall deal falsely with our God in this work we have undertaken, and so cause him to withdraw his present help form us, we shall be made a story and a byword throughout all the world.
John Winthrop
All is ready. Except me. I am being given, if I may venture the expression, birth to into death, such is my impression. The feet are clear already, of the great cunt of existence. Favourable presentation I trust. My head will be the last to die. Haul in your hands. I can't. The render rent. My story ended I'll be living yet. Promising lag. That is the end of me. I shall say I no more.
Samuel Beckett
Sussman had the ability to seize facts and lock them in his memory, where they remained poised for instants recall. More than any other editor at the Post, or Bernstein and Woodward, Sussman became a walking compendium of Watergate knowledge, a reference source to be summoned when even the library failed. On a deadline, he would pump these facts into a story in a constant infusion, working up a body of significant information to support what otherwise seemed like the weakest of revelations....
Carl Bernstein
I feel it right to warn the reader that he can very well skip this chapter without losing the thread of such story as I have to tell, since for the most part it is nothing more than the account of a conversation that I had with Larry. I should add, however, that except for this conversation I should perhaps not have thought it worth while to write this book.
W. Somerset Maugham
All stories are about battles, of one kind or another, which end in victory and defeat. Everything moves toward the end, when the outcome will be known. Poems, regardless of any outcome, cross the battlefields, tending the wounded, listening to the wild monologues of the triumphant or the fearful. They bring a kind of peace. Not by anaesthesia or easy reassurance, but by the promise that what has been experienced cannot disappear as if it had never been. Yet the promise is not of a monument....
John Berger
TRUE!? nervous? very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses? not destroyed? not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily? how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
Edgar Allan Poe