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Quote by Winston S. Churchill

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Winston S. Churchill

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“Her eyes shifted to me, piercing my soul in the process. “Your troubles are temporary, Miss Annabelle. You will grow and mature and find yourself free of them one day. And life will blossom for you then, in a way it never can in some fantasy.” I nodded, intimidated by her powerful stare. She stepped closer to me, her words and her look intensifying. “Dreams and wishes mean nothing when they’re simply a fleeting thought away. The value is gone, stolen from any victory. Don’t get stuck in a meaningless dream, child. This is all imagined glory, nothing more. Go home. Go home and awaken to a life worth living! Go now!”

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Book:Dandelions: The Disappearance of Annabelle Fancher
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“Even if an I is an illusion, we cannot deny the existence of that illusion. Reality is an “illusion,” which is not less tangible for being an illusion. If it were not an illusion, it would not have been possible as this kind of “reality.” Different, or substantially different, reality would lose its purpose. The purpose of reality is not perfection or reality per se but the voyage toward perfection and reality with meaning.”

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Book:ABSOLUTE
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“Maybe there are no endings and yet we feel things end (as we feel the ground beneath our feet and yet its solidity is, too, an illusion). Maybe there are no beginnings, as the inception of all is the energy source which has been vibrating for millions of years. Then how do we feel so deeply the power of beginnings and endings if they don't really exist? Contradictory co-existing realities. Not paradoxes. Yes, contradictory. Yes, both true. Yes, all at the same time. The complexity of existence.”

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Author:Shellen Lubin
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“She was a being who needed joy. Having joy, she could triumph over the most desperate physical ills. But when joy flickered and went out, then she remembered the grave. Now, as she went softly over the bridge and began to climb the woods, joy seemed fled forever. “She looked round her in a kind of terror, for she had come to the moment, which all sensitive people must reach at some time, when the soul perceives simultaneously the life of man—its small comforts, its upholstery of everyday—and the infinite; when it asks, bemused and anxious, ‘Which is the dream?’ They cannot both be true, it seems, for they are in flat contradiction. Yet daily life is true. There it is, with its duties and meals and wordy meetings; with its sweetness of affectionate glances and homely jests. That is no dream. Yet, when the beloved is dead, the daily life shrinks and withers; the infinite presses in. There it is, with all its indifferent stars, fearfully real, utterly unknown. With this intrusion of the infinite there come all the strange instincts of the spirit that have no part in daily life. These also are no dream. So there the soul stands, browbeaten and stunned by antithesis, murmuring, ‘Which is true? Is anything true?”

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Book:The House in Dormer Forest
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