برائی کو ختم کرنےکے لیے کوئی مقررہ وقت نہیں ہوا کرتا،یہ آپ پر مُنحصرہے،جب آپ چاہیں

I was a really good waitress. Waitressing takes a certain gusto. You need a good memory and an ability to connect with people fast. You have to learn how to treat the kitchen as well as you treat the customers. You have to figure out which crazy people to listen to and which crazy people to ignore. I loved waiting tables because when you cashed out at the end of the night your job was truly over. You wiped down your section and paid out your busboy and you knew your work was done.

Whether we are at Cafe Gratitude or Carl’s Jr, whether we are in a cathedral or in a nightclub, whether we are inside of a mosque or on the metro, every single moment is a sacred moment. A moment far too important for us to miss. When we miss the people and the experiences and the feelings of our lives, we miss God. We don’t get to know the joy of seeing God show up in the world. More profoundly, we don’t get to participate in the wonder of God showing up in the world.

All around us were people I had spent ten years avoiding--shapeless women in wool bathing suits, dull-eyed men with hairless legs and self-conscious laughs, all Americans, all fearsomely alike. These people should be kept at home, I thought; lock them in the basement of some goddamn Elks Club and keep them pacified with erotic movies; if they want a vacation, show them a foreign art film; and if they still aren't satisfied, send them into the wilderness and run them with vicious dogs.

Одни только дураки гордятся своими талантами.(Мисс Моди Эткинсон - Глазастику Финч)

He felt that he could not turn aside from himself the hatred of men, because that hatred did not come from his being bad (in that case he could have tried to be better), but from his being shamefully and repulsively unhappy. He knew that for this, for the very fact that his heart was torn with grief, they would be merciless to him. He felt that men would crush him as dogs strangle a torn dog yelping with pain. He knew that his sole means of security against people was to hide his wounds from them

This book began with the assertion that Margaret Fuller's life was her most remarkable creation. It is just possible, however, that her most wonderful creations may still lie in the future. Fuller's most precious gift to us may reside in the ideas and the works, still yet to be imagined, of women and men who follow her example. We may decide that, despite all that Margaret Fuller endured and suffered in order to become exceptional, her life, or rather her lives, well deserve imitating.

There are two kinds of people. One kind, you can just tell by looking at them at what point they congealed into their final selves. It might be a very nice self, but you know you can expect no more suprises from it. Whereas, the other kind keep moving, changing... They are fluid. They keep moving forward and making new trysts with life, and the motion of it keeps them young. In my opinion, they are the only people who are still alive. You must be constantly on your guard against congealing.

The problem isn't who is in charge. It's what is in charge. The problem is that people are encouraged to function as machines. Or, actually, as mechanisms. Human emotion and sympathy are unprofessional. They are inappropriate to the exercise of reason. Everything which makes people good - makes them human - is ruled out. The system doesn't care about people, but we treat it as if it were one of us, as if it were the sum of our goods and not the product of our least admirable compromises.

الناس يجهدون أنفسهم هكذا لثلاثة أسباب : إما لأنهم مجانين ، أو حمقى ، أو يحاولون النسيان

I'm taking inorganic chem and physics not because I want to but because I have to. Not every doctor wants to be a scientist. Some of us just want to take care of sick people. I can't help thinking that medicine is more closely aligned to the humanities than to the sciences. I can't help thinking that I could learn more about being a good doctor from William Shakespeare than I could from Isaac Newton. After all, isn't understanding people at least as important as understanding pathology?

Passers-byPassers-by,Out of your many facesFlash memories to meNow at the day endAway from the sidewalksWhere your shoe soles traveledAnd your voices rose and blentTo form the city’s afternoon roarHindering an old silence.Passers-by,I remember lean ones among you,Throats in the clutch of a hope,Lips written over with strivings,Mouths that kiss only for love,Records of great wishes slept with,Held longAnd prayed and toiled for:Yes,Written onYour mouthsAnd your throatsI read themWhen you passed by.

إن الناس غالبًا ما يشكون مما لا يريدون عمله ، أو ما يشعرون بعدم قدرتهم على عمله لأنفسهم

I’m “exceptional”- a democratic term used to avoid the damning labels of “gifted” and “deprived” (which used to mean “bright” and “retarded”) and as soon as “exceptional” begins to mean anything to anyone they’ll change it. The idea seems to be: use an expression as long as it doesn’t mean anything to anybody. “Exceptional” refers to both ends of the spectrum, so all my life I’ve been exceptional.

إن البشر يترابطون بصورة أفضل عندما تجمعهم أشياء مشتركة ، وبكون لديهم إحساس بالمشاركة