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Danh ngôn của Barbara Kingsolver (Sứ mệnh: 4)

The truth needs so little rehearsal.
Wars and elections are both too big and too small to matter in the long run. The daily work - that goes on, it adds up.
Few people know so clearly what they want. Most people can't even think what to hope for when they throw a penny in a fountain.
Pain reaches the heart with electrical speed, but truth moves to the heart as slowly as a glacier.
People's dreams are made out of what they do all day. The same way a dog that runs after rabbits will dream of rabbits. It's what you do that makes your soul, not the other way around.
The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.
What you lose in blindness is the space around you, the place where you are, and without that you might not exist. You could be nowhere at all.
Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin.
Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws.
Empathy is really the opposite of spiritual meanness. It's the capacity to understand that every war is both won and lost. And that someone else's pain is as meaningful as your own.
I used to think religion was just more of the same thing. Dump responsibility on the big guy. Now I see an importance in that. It's a relief to accept that not everything is under your control.
Readers of fiction read, I think, for a deeper embrace of the world, of reality. And that's brave. I never get over being thankful for that - for the courage of my readers.
It's a funny thing: people often ask how I discipline myself to write. I can't begin to understand the question. For me, the discipline is turning off the computer and leaving my desk to do something else.
It takes some courage to write fiction about politically controversial topics. The dread is you'll be labeled a political writer.