Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Painstaking. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Painstaking Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including Joseph Joubert,Samael Aun Weor,Zbigniew Herbert,Eugene Delacroix,A.s. Peterson for you to enjoy and share.
Tenderness is the repose of passion.
In order to walk the path of the edge of the penknife the patience of the Saint Job is needed. In order to walk the path of the edge of the penknife the tenacity of the well tempered steel is needed.
A craftsman must probe to the very bottom of cruelty.
Cold exactitude is not art; ingenious artifice, when it pleases or when it expresses, is art itself.
He poured all his pain into the void of the violin and gently worked it out, turned it to beauty.
The most demanding part of living a lifetime as an artist is the strict discipline of forcing oneself to work steadfastly along the nerve of one's own most intimate sensitivity.
And carefully ... tenderly ... taking my time with every brushstroke, I sketch the curve of her neck, apply the crimson of her lips, form her face into a two-dimensional tribute to her beauty.
That which is painful sharpens one's love.
Every heart needs a cutting part sharper than a blade to stab agony
This will not be a gentle prescription for healing, but cautery and the knife. What shall I achieve? That a soul which has conquered so many miseries will be ashamed to worry about one more wound in a body which already has so many scars.
The torment of personal relations. Nothing new there except in the disguise, and in the escape on the wings of adjectives. Sweet to be pierced by daggers at the end of paragraphs.
Your work is carved out of agony as a statue is carved out of marble.
The examined life is no picnic.
Every inch of skin removed to the accompaniment of exquisite pain," added the prisoner, helpfully. Rincewind paused. He thought he knew the meaning of the word "exquisite," and it didn't seem to belong anywhere near "pain.
Dissection," writes historian Ruth Richardson in Death, Dissection, and the Destitute, "requires in its practitioners the effective suspension or suppression of many normal physical and emotional responses to the wilful mutilation of the body of another human being.
[T]here's a thin line separating the delicate from the bloodless, in art as in food.
Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want call quench the eye's bright grace.
an agony of humiliated indecision
How guilt refined the methods of self-torture, threading the beads of detail into an eternal loop, a rosary to be fingered for a lifetime.
Self-inflicted pain has a calming effect; it clears the head, diminishes one's fascination with the ego, and most important, gives one the sense of having taken some real action against the everyday foolishness of the body and of the vagrant, willful, heedless imagination.
The expectations of life depend upon diligence; the mechanic that would perfect his work must first sharpen his tools.
Thus with most careful devotion Thus with precise attention To detail, interfering preparation Of that which is already prepared Men lighten the knot of confusion Into perfect misunderstanding, Reflecting a pocket-torch of observation ...
Genius is the art of taking pains
With temerity and defiance, obstinance and patience, she chipped away at every hard edge of me until there was nothing left but the truths I feared. The bent and broken.
Without patience and the skill of a craftsman, even the greatest talent is wasted.
I think this cut might need stiches," Scarlett said, yet as her cloth wiped away the blood it revealed a smooth line of unmarked, unbroken flesh. "Wait, I don't see a wound."
"There's not one. But that feels really good." Julian moaned and arched his back.
"You scoundrel!
Learning
To believe you are magnificent. And gradually to discover that you are not magnificent. Enough labor for one human life.
Sadistic excess attempts to reach roughly and by harshness what art reaches by fineness.
Blood, sweat, tears. No practice tomorrow 'cause there's no one left to beat.
There is nothing so agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of a rough truth.
Limbs of a dismembered poet.
The frivolous work of polished idleness.
Having once decided to achieve a certain task, achieve it at all costs of tedium and distaste. The gain in self-confidence of having accomplished a tiresome labour is immense.
Finishing a painting demands a heart of steel: everything requires a decision, and I find difficulties where I least expect them ... It is at such moments that one fully realizes one's own weaknesses.
So much does suffering blunt even the coarsest sensations of men
I welcomed my slavish existence as a surgical resident, the never-ending work, the cries that kept me in the present, the immersion in blood, pus, and tears
the fluids in which one dissolved all traces of self. In working myself ragged, I felt integrated ...
It's satisfaction to the soul / To make something out of nothing, and to trim / A figured piece to fit a gaping hole, / And turn and twist and scheme until it matches. / There's nothing more respectable than patches.
The irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand.
The mind is seldom quickened to very vigorous operations but by pain, or the dread of pain. We do not disturb ourselves with the detection of fallacies which do us no harm.
The itch of scribbling.
Carving?"
"Your name. My back. I can't fucking wait."
Jane whistled under her breath. "Do I get to do it?"
He barked a laugh. "No!"
"Come on. I'm a surgeon, I'm good with knives.
Neat little rectangular arrangements of suffering. His
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
It's about whittling. It's about taking something and whittling and whittling and getting it sharp and perfect. Then you've got something.
The wounded surgeon plies the steel
That questions the distempered part;
Beneath the bleeding hands we feel
The sharp compassion of the healer's art
Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.
Beauty that arose out of pain.
Clamorous pauperism feastest
While honest Labor, pining, hideth his sharp ribs.
There are moments when art attains almost to the dignity of manual labor.
Sharp lines draw too much attention to themselves, like vanity. And what's vanity but a series of sharp lines which have yet to be softened?
The body is a bundle of careful compromises.
It made me think of my mother, when she made her pie crusts. She'd prick little holes all over the place. So it can breath, she said. I was just breathing. I closed my eyes, anticipating each cut, feeling that wash of relief when it was done.
Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots.
Is that, in the end - that capacity to hurt - the most essential ingredient for a ruler?
The subject of pain is the business I am in - to give meaning and shape to frustration and suffering. The existence of pain cannot be denied. I propose no remedies or excuses.
Always-
the sharp,
plaintive edge
on the rim
of the spoon
of my giving.
(lines 8-13 of the poem 'Confessions')
Beauty for a life long, it is an agony of torture.
The knife is the most permanent, the most immortal, the most ingenious of man's creations. The knife was a guillotine; the knife is a universal means of resolving all knots ...
It's not just the permanence of the finished product, but the discomfort inherent in the process that draws people in mourning to translate an emotional throbbing into a physical one and emerge intact on the other side with a beautiful scar.
I alter some things, eliminate and try again until I am satisfied. Then begins the mental working out of this material in its breadth, its narrowness, its height and depth.
Occasionally, in times of worry, I've longed to be stylish, but on second thought I say no-just let me be myself-and express rough, yet true things with rough workmanship.
Blunt tools are are sometimes found of use, where sharper instruments would fail.
Without minute neatness of execution, the sublime cannot exist! Grandeur of ideas is founded on precision of ideas.
Allow the hammer of pain to split open the stone armor of your hardness; exposing the tenderness and beauty of your sweet spirit and sacred heart.
To be busy with material affairs is the best preservative against reflection, fears, doubts ... all these things which stand in the way of achievement. I suppose a fellow proposing to cut his throat would experience a sort of relief while occupied in stropping his razor carefully.
It is the little things that pierce and burn and prick for years to come.
There was pain and then there was agony. Hello, agony. I'd been waiting for you. Finish me off. Please.
Watching, she had felt unusually and keenly alive, alive the way a knife is sharp, so that the humiliation she was enduring was perfect, like the paring of skin from a hard apple.
Beauty comes from tenderness.
My body is a gradual work of art
Soothe and sly stamina with a short sword they slice
They are beyond precise making the victim pay the price
Art is all in the details.
An engaging examination of a painful subject, with a focus on healing and forgiveness. - Kirkus Review
What does this patch-sewing mean you ask? Eating and drinking. The heavy cloak of the body is always getting torn. You patch it with food and other ego-satisfactions.
One must endure without losing tenderness.
A menial task which must be mine, that shall I glorify and make an art of it.
The labor we delight in physics pain.
A little labour, much health.
Never was keener anguish lavished upon a thing more charming or more delicate.
The claws of Truth were painful. The lies tore away like scabs, and John bled there for hours, stifling his cries of pain in the sleeve of his overcoat - the overcoat he'd received from his father.
With a grief no less sharp for not being intimate with its object.
One saves oneself much pain, by taking pains; much trouble, by taking trouble.
The humblest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them.
The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!
Power takes as ingratitude the writhing of its victims
Of its persistent, artless strain: Naught so can soothe a soul's own pain, As making glad another soul!
Work on with the intrepidity of a lion but at the same time with the tenderness of a flower.
He earned his love through discipline, a thundering velvet hand, his gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand.
Pain is a physical discipline.
He was a practical man: give him a sensitive technical instrument, and he could maintain it; something broken, and he could mend it, meditatively, efficiently. But confronted by his grieving wife, he felt useless.
What annoyances are more painful than those of which we cannot complain?
From the outset my main concern was with the shape and the self-contained nature of discrete things, the curve of banisters on a staircase, the molding of a stone arch over a gateway, the tangled precision of the blades in a tussock of dried grass.
Whoever said that time blunts all pain did not quite understand that bluntness can wound as grievously as sharp points and edges;
It was a knife of an idea, a cruel instrument of sacrifice, but also one of great beauty, silvery, curved, dancing with light.
Analysts keep having to pick away at the scab that the patient tries to form between himself and the analyst to cover over his wounds. The analyst keeps the surface raw, so that the wound will heal properly.
[...] the kind of healer who knows that sometimes one must inflict terrible agony - rebreak a bone, carve off a limb, kill the weak - in order to make the whole stronger.
Perfect specimens for an exacting science...
We bear the sole, relentless tenderness.
Sick, irritated, and the prey to a thousand discomforts, I go on with my labor like a true workingman, who, with sleeves rolled up, in the sweat of his brow, beats away at his anvil, not caring whether it rains or blows, hails or thunders.
Sculptors are obliged to follow the manners of the painters, and to make many ample folds, which are unsufferable hardness, and more like a rock than a natural garment.
The smallest wound or pain of the ego is examined under a microscope as if it were of eternal importance. The artist considers his isolation, his subjectivity, his individualism almost holy.