Twice Daily Quotes

It was November - the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines.

If you’re reading this, if there’s air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren’t finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are still going, you and I. We are stories still going.

In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures. The bed is white and silent, and much life can hide beneath its blankets.

You’re tacky and I hate you.

Beneath this mask, there is more than just flesh, Mr. Creedy. Beneath this mask, there is an idea. And ideas are bulletproof.

Being in a minority, even in a minority of one, did not make you mad. There was truth and there was untruth, and if you clung to the truth even against the whole world, you were not mad.

Nothing goes over my head. My reflexes are too fast. I would catch it.

If you can cut the people off from their history, then they can be easily persuaded.

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.

So this is how liberty dies...with thunderous applause.

Nobody makes a greater mistake than he who does nothing because he could do only a little.

Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose.

So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their endings.

Whatever became of the moment when one first knew about death? There must have been one, a moment, in childhood when it first occurred to you that you don’t go on forever.

Chaos is come again.

All things pass. None of us can manage to hold on to anything. In that way, we live our lives.

To die laughing, must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!