The easiest thing to do on earth is not write.
William GoldmanRead
Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.
Interpretation
The quote suggests that a person's emotions and true self can be hidden and protected from the outside world.
In this quote, William Goldman uses the metaphor of a secret garden to describe a person's heart as a place of personal feelings and vulnerabilities that are often inaccessible to others. The 'high walls' signify the emotional barriers individuals build to protect themselves from hurt or intrusive judgments, emphasizing the complexity and layers involved in understanding one's true emotional state.
In practice
This quote can be used during a discussion about vulnerability in relationships.
The easiest thing to do on earth is not write.
Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it, putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before.
Chapter One. The Bride." He held up the book then. "I'm reading it to you for relax." He practically shoved the book in my face. "By S. Morgenstern. Great Florinese writer. The Princess Bride. He too came to America. S. Morgenstern. Dead now in New York. The English is his own. He spoke eight tongues." Here my father put down the book and held up all his fingers. "Eight. Once in Florin City...
Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while.
Everyone had told her, since she became a princess-in-training, that she was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now she was going to be the richest and the most powerful as well. Don't expect too much from life, Buttercup told herself as she rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.
Enough about my beauty," Buttercup said. "Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I've got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.
Goddess-nurse of the young, give ear to my prayer, and grant that this woman may reject the love-embraces of youth and dote on grey-haired old men whose powers are dulled, but whose hearts still desire.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease - of joy that kills.
There is nothing holier in this life of ours than the first consciousness of love, the first fluttering of its silken wings.
You can't deny Eros. Eros wills trike, like lightning. Our human defenses are frail, ludicrous. Like plasterboard houses in a hurricane. Your triumph is in perfect submission. And the god of Eros will flow through you, as Lawrence says, in the 'perfect obliteration of blood consciousness.
In that house, you will find my heart. You must break in, Henri, and get it back for me.' Was she mad? We had been talking figuratively. Her heart was in her body like mine. I tried to explain this to her, but she took my hand and put it against her chest. Feel for yourself.
Your love to me was like an unread book.
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