Quotes
Quotes about Pain
His patient soul endures what Heav'n ordains, But neither feels nor fears ideal pains.
We Are The Living Graves Of Murdered Beasts We are the living graves of murdered beasts Slaughtered to satisfy our appetites We never pause to wonder at our feasts If animals, like men, can possibly have rights We pray on Sundays that we may have light To guide our footsteps on the path we tread We're sick of war We do not want to fight The thought of it now fills our hearts with dread And yet we gorge ourselves upon the dead Like carrion crows we live and feed on meat Regardless of the suffering and pain We cause by doing so. If thus we treat Defenseless animals for sport or gain How can we hope in this world to attain the PEACE we say we are so anxious for We pray for it o'er hecatombs of slain To God, while outraging the moral law Thus cruelty begets its offspring: war.
Virtue is not the absense of vices or the avoidance of moral dangers; virtue is a vivid and separate ting, like pain or a particular smell. - Tremendous Trifles.
The seeing of objects involves many sources of information beyond those meeting the eye when we look at an object. It generally involves knowledge of the object derived from previous experience, and this experience is not limited to vision but may include the other senses: touch, taste, smell, hearing, and perhaps also temperature or pain.
Personality is born out of pain. It is the fire shut up in the flint. - Letters to His Son, W. B. Yeats and Others.
His house was known to all the vagrant train, He chid their wanderings but reliev'd their pain; The long remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast.
Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
It takes a lot of imagination to be a good photographer. You need less imagination to be a painter, because you can invent things. But in photography everything is so ordinary; it takes a lot of looking before you learn to see the ordinary.
Unlike any other visual image, a photograph is not a rendering, an imitation or an interpretation of its subject, but actually a trace of it. No painting or drawing, however naturalist, belongs to its subject in the way that a photograph does.
If the man who paints only the tree, or flower, or other surface he sees before him were an artist, the king of artists would be the photographer. It is for the artist to do something beyond this.
Not everybody trusts paintings but people believe photographs.
Whoever feels pain in hearing a good character of his neighbor, will feel a pleasure in the reverse. And those who despair to rise in distinction by their virtues, are happy if others can be depressed to a level of themselves.
Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure, Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain.
Despise pleasure; pleasure bought by pain in injurious. [Lat., Sperne voluptates; nocet empta dolora voluptas.]
The aim of the wise is not to secure pleasure, but to avoid pain.
The vocabulary of pleasure depends on the imagery of pain.
When the brain gets as dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"-- There is a place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-blood stires and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime," And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,-- Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
What is a Sonnet? 'Tis the pearly shell That murmurs of the far-off, murmuring sea; A precious jewel carved most curiously; It is a little picture painted well. What is a Sonnet? 'Tis the tear that fell From a great poet's hidden ecstasy; A two-edged sword, a star, a song--ah me! Sometimes a heavy tolling funeral bell.
For me, poetry is an impish attempt to paint the colour of the wind.
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.
There is a pleasure in poetic pains, Which only poets know.
I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! The flower of Mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the Rose will idly blow-- The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.
Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain? - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt),
To know the pains of power, we must go to those who have it; to know its pleasures, we must go to those who are seeking it: the pains of power are real, its pleasure imaginary.
