Escape Quotes - Page 2

There is no such thing as escape after all, only an exchange of one set of difficulties for another. It wasn't Mark or the farm or marriage I was trying to shake loose from but my own imperfect self, and even if I kept moving, she would dog me all the way around the world, forever.

I never had a childhood. Not like the rest of them anyway. I had a starting point from which I have never stopped running.

To escape death, she'd become death.

I wish I could fly like that hawk, rising and falling with the still spaces in the air, far above all this sickness and death and evil.

Scars prove that you're still here. That you can move on. Maybe missing a chunk of yourself, but here, goddamn it, surviving.

...you're either gonna spend your life fucking pussy, or taking it to church.

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotion know what it means to want to escape from these.

To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.

Men are free when they are obeying some deep, inward voice of religious belief. Obeying from within. Men are free when they belong to a living, organic, believing community, active in fulfilling some unfulfilled, perhaps unrealized purpose. Not when they are escaping to some wild west. The most unfree souls go west, and shout of freedom.

Vaguely conscious of that great suspense in which we live, we find our escape from its sterile, annihilating reality in many dreams, in religion, passion, art.

When introverts go to church, we crave sanctuary in every sense of the word, as we flee from the disorienting distractions of twenty-first-century life. We desire to escape from superficial relationships, trivial communications and the constant noise that pervade our world, and find rest in the probing depths of God's love.

Trap yourself inside your own brain, switch off the light, block all the escape routes, then turn your back on everything you know to be reality and try and survive there. Try. Living. Nowhere.

Time is not an enemy as such, but a missing person, sending cryptic postcards from the past.

At first, I didn’t understand. Understanding came very slowly.

I need a new trick if I am to walk without legs, see without eyes or speak without words.

It’s unpleasant magic, the kind that darkens the senses, the kind no one wants to experience, but once in a lifetime might not be able to avoid.

No trees, sky or ground. No other buildings or fields. No winding path, no brambles, no outhouse or pond or flowers, no sunshine or children playing. Just blackness.

Even though I knew, deep down, what she was trying to do, I couldn’t hate her. Even when she hurt me, I forgave her.

Right now, in this dusty anti-paradise, I have absolutely no hand in the future at all.

I have always hated lies; my own and everyone else’s.