Incompleteness Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
the-purpose-of-relationships-is-not-to-have-someone-who-might-complete-you-but-to-have-someone-whom-you-might-share-your-incompleteness
the-well-your-incompleteness-runs-deep-but-make-effort-to-look-away-from-yourself-to-look-toward-him-oswald-chambers
the-true-genius-shudders-at-incompleteness-and-usually-prefers-silence-to-saying-something-which-is-not-everything-it-should-be
the-true-genius-shudders-at-incompleteness-imperfection-usually-prefers-silence-to-saying-something-which-is-not-everything-that-should-be-said-edgar-allan-poe
but-as-we-have-before-been-led-to-remark-most-mr-darwins-statements-elude-by-their-vagueness-incompleteness-test-natural-history-facts-richard-owen
great-minds-may-have-cold-hearts-form-but-no-color-it-is-incompleteness-and-they-are-afraid-any-woman-who-both-thinks-feels-deeply-sena-jeter-naslund
the-feeling-inferiority-rules-mental-life-can-be-clearly-recognized-in-sense-incompleteness-unfulfillment-in-uninterrupted-struggle-both-individuals-humanity-alfred-adler
we-dont-read-novels-to-have-experience-like-life-heck-were-living-lives-complete-with-all-incompleteness-we-turn-to-fiction-to-have-author-assure-us-that-it-means-something-orson
the-completeness-true-love-stories-lies-in-their-incompleteness-by-love-unsung-shantanand-sharma
the-book-should-be-written-counterpart-unwritten-world-its-subject-should-be-what-does-not-exist-cannot-exist-except-when-written-but-whose-absence-is-obscurely-felt-by-that-whic
theorem-incompleteness-shows-there-is-nothing-on-this-level-existence-that-can-fully-explain-this-level-existence-pat-cadigan
Then what is true love?' she asked audaciously. Derian leaned forward, his focus powerfully fixed on her. His voice turned delicate and compelling as he spoke. 'Love is so much more than a feeling. True love, Eena, is something that develops over time. It's not that initial infatuation nor the shivers and butterflies that take your breath away when you're first attracted to someone. Those things are nice, but they are barely the beginning of what could become true love. The emotions you speak of are temporary and unreliable, elicited when two people come together. The power I speak of grows ever stronger over time until it is steadfast, even in separation. Then, reunited, it solidifies unshakably.' She shook her head. 'I don't quite follow.' The captain inched closer, fixing her with the sincerest of gazes. His hands cupped as if he were holding his very heart within them. 'True love is a developed and intense appreciation for someone. It's that perfect awareness that you are finally whole when she's with you, and that hollow incompleteness you suffer when she's gone. True love takes time, Eena. It's an earned comfort that tells you she'll be right there beside you no matter what you do, not necessarily happy with your every action, but faithful to you just the same. Love is knowing someone so deeply, understanding her so completely, that you can finish her thoughts without hesitation, confident in reading her face, her body, even her slightest gesture means something to you. Love is years of devotion, sacrifice, commitment, loyalty, trust, faith, and friendship all wrapped up in one. True love does more than cause your heart to flutter, Eena. It upholds your heart when the infatuation no longer makes it flutter.' 'Wow.

Richelle E. Goodrich
then-what-is-true-love-she-asked-audaciously-derian-leaned-forward-his-focus-powerfully-fixed-on-her-his-voice-turned-delicate-compelling-as-he-spoke-love-is-much-more-than-feeli
It happens that in our phase of civility, the novel is the central form of literary art. It lends itself to explanations borrowed from any intellectual system of the universe which seems at the time satisfactory. Its history is an attempt to evade the laws of what Scott called 'the land of fiction'-the stereotypes which ignore reality, and whose remoteness from it we identify as absurd. From Cervantes forward it has been, when it has satisfied us, the poetry which is 'capable, ' in the words of Ortega, 'of coping with present reality.' But it is a 'realistic poetry' and its theme is, bluntly, 'the collapse of the poetic' because it has to do with 'the barbarous, brutal, mute, meaningless reality of things.' It cannot work with the old hero, or with the old laws of the land of romance; moreover, such new laws and customs as it creates have themselves to be repeatedly broken under the demands of a changed and no less brutal reality. 'Reality has such a violent temper that it does not tolerate the ideal even when reality itself is idealized.' Nevertheless, the effort continues to be made. The extremest revolt against the customs or laws of fiction-the antinovels of Fielding or Jane Austen or Flaubert or Natalie Sarraute-creates its new laws, in their turn to be broken. Even when there is a profession of complete narrative anarchy, as in some of the works I discussed last week, or in a poem such as Paterson, which rejects as spurious whatever most of us understand as form, it seems that time will always reveal some congruence with a paradigm-provided always that there is in the work that necessary element of the customary which enables it to communicate at all. I shall not spend much time on matters so familiar to you. Whether, with Luke¡cs, you think of the novel as peculiarly the resolution of the problem of the individual in an open society-or as relating to that problem in respect of an utterly contingent world; or express this in terms of the modern French theorists and call its progress a necessary and 'unceasing movement from the known to the unknown'; or simply see the novel as resembling the other arts in that it cannot avoid creating new possibilities for its own future-however you put it, the history of the novel is the history of forms rejected or modified, by parody, manifesto, neglect, as absurd. Nowhere else, perhaps, are we so conscious of the dissidence between inherited forms and our own reality. There is at present some good discussion of the issue not only in French but in English. Here I have in mind Iris Murdoch, a writer whose persistent and radical thinking about the form has not as yet been fully reflected in her own fiction. She contrasts what she calls 'crystalline form' with narrative of the shapeless, quasi-documentary kind, rejecting the first as uncharacteristic of the novel because it does not contain free characters, and the second because it cannot satisfy that need of form which it is easier to assert than to describe; we are at least sure that it exists, and that it is not always illicit. Her argument is important and subtle, and this is not an attempt to restate it; it is enough to say that Miss Murdoch, as a novelist, finds much difficulty in resisting what she calls 'the consolations of form' and in that degree damages the 'opacity, ' as she calls it, of character. A novel has this (and more) in common with love, that it is, so to speak, delighted with its own inventions of character, but must respect their uniqueness and their freedom. It must do so without losing the formal qualities that make it a novel. But the truly imaginative novelist has an unshakable 'respect for the contingent'; without it he sinks into fantasy, which is a way of deforming reality. 'Since reality is incomplete, art must not be too afraid of incompleteness, ' says Miss Murdoch. We must not falsify it with patterns too neat, too inclusive; there must be dissonance.

Frank Kermode
it-happens-that-in-our-phase-civility-novel-is-central-form-literary-art-it-lends-itself-to-explanations-borrowed-from-any-intellectual-system-universe-which-seems-at-time-satisf
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