Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Undergone. 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 Undergone Quotes And Sayings by 98 Authors including Lyndsay Faye,C.d. Reiss,Nathan Hill,Clare Mackintosh,Charles Caleb Colton for you to enjoy and share.
One can grow accustomed to carrying unseeable scars, as if the tattoo one wears is inked in flesh tone over flesh tone; but nevertheless one is still covered in secret, painted with secret, stained by it.
Being under him, trapped, objectified, I lost all fear. With Jonathan, I felt safe. I felt a loss of control so complete, a surrender so honest that it became a luxurious indulgence.
a trauma that breaks you into brand new pieces.
Gradually, without my noticing, my grief has changed shape; from a raw, jagged pain that won't be silenced to a dull, rounded ache I'm able to lock away at the back of my mind.
Some persons will tell you, with an air of the miraculous, that they recovered although they were given over; whereas they might with more reason have said, they recovered because they were given over.
Bodies are becoming our personal mission to tame, extend and perfect.
Their looks and personalities were still intact, but some thing had atrophied ever so slightly. Their faces bore the distinct wear of goals gone too long unfulfilled.
[W]e are not merely tempered and schooled by failure but compelled, in however subtle a fashion, to become something other than we were.
Scars are stories, history written on the body
so far remained unbroken. Now my turn had come. In early springtime, when I was just sixteen, my mother took me to the house where she had won her shield so many years before. The Lady Abicel, long dead, had left her house and lands, along with her
Not longer loved or fostered by religion, beauty is lifted from its face as a mask, and its absence exposes features on that face which threaten to become incomprehensible to man.
We were bullied, broken, built up, bronzed and polished.
We grew dull, dusty, doubtful, dark, and forgetful.
Yet we still know that we can love deeply.
Your body is woven
from the light of heaven.
Are you aware
that its purity and swiftness
is the envy of angels
and its courage
keeps even devils away.
What is this word that broke through the fence of your teeth, Atreides?
Scars are something of a body's memoir.
You've got scars, you're beat up, you're a different person, but you're through it.
Redefined soul anew, bow now with pride. Reborn from the darkness, a man now wise.
Pam, my new therapist, who's like some blissed-out, grown-up, yoga-hippie version of Rain, says that the physical body, the idea of the self, is kind of a scar: a brief puckering of time, a fleeting sewing together of energy and heart, which go beyond the physical form, on and on and on, forever.
My natural elasticity was crushed, my intellect languished, the disposition to read departed, the cheerful spark that lingered about my eye died; the dark night of slavery closed in upon me; and behold a man transformed into a brute!
A human being sheds its leaves like a tree. Sickness prunes it down; and it no longer offers the same silhouette to the eyes which loved it, to the people to whom it afforded shade and comfort.
It is not queer, and both desolating and comforting, how, with all associations broken, one forms new ones, as a broken bone thickens in healing.
Of all the things trauma takes away from us, the worst is our willingness, or even our ability, to be vulnerable. There's a reclaiming that has to happen.
The numbness will go away, he thought. It'll take time, but I'll do it, or Faber will do it for me. Someone somewhere will give me back the old face and the old hands the way they were. Even the smile, he thought, the old burnt-in smile, that's gone. I'm lost without it
The seductive invitation of metamorphosis - of turning into something other - has continued to suffuse fantasies of identity; on the one hand holding out a way of escape from humanity, on the other annihilating the self.
The untouched created the unbroken.
Fateful encounters with a cruel world reveal our character. No human is immune from heartbreaking loss. Regardless of our socioeconomic status, eventually everybody shall suffer a grievous personal loss, a body blow that inflicts pain of inexpressible magnitude.
Far as I can tell, I still have most of my hair, my gut is not hanging over my belt, and I still have all of my teeth.
Our scrapes and bruises, tattoos, scars, smiles, and wrinkles told our stories,
He couldn't say the words, had spent too long in Silence, but he'd learned other ways to speak. Taking the paperweight she'd knocked off her desk out of his pocket, he put it in her hands. It's fixed. As long as you don't mind more than a few scars.
Time had erased me a little, rubbed me out. I had faded like a photograph buried under soil. I was tanned and older, weathered and experienced and fat. I was what we all become, a by-product of the torture of ourselves.
The lazy flesh disappeared. Our muscles became hard as steel, refined on the anvil of an experienced blacksmith. Even our faces changed. Among other things, we learned to ride, to fence, to take a fall. And these we learned for life.
My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the stuff, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.
My features have blunted with the passage of time, my reflection only faintly resembles how I see myself. Gravity demands payback for the years my body has resisted it.
The past, has been erased; the present, forgiven; and the future, redeemed.
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.
As the components of your life are stripped away, after all the ambitions and hopes vaporize, you reach a self-reflective starkness
the repetitious plucking of a single overwound string.
You are reduced / To the after-sorrow / That will last my lifetime. The hair-tearing / Grief of the mother / Whose child has been swept away.
A cut scarred where a caress faded away.
The body will shine if the character is fine; service of man and worship of God will preserve its charm.
I have been schooled by my own suffering: I've learned the many ways of being purged.
Give a name to suffering, perhaps the most immediate reminder of our insignificance and powerlessness, and suddenly it bears the trace of the human. It becomes part of our story. It is redeemed.
This book is written in
a barren period of loss with an attempt to move forward towards substance.
I had been fortified by trauma, the way a bone, once broken, grows back stronger than it had been.
We lose our hair, our teeth! Our bloom, our ideals.
When beauty breathes life back into the broken
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
Counting this row and that row of moccasins
Waiting on the silent shelf.
No matter how dilapidated, scarred and mutilated your body, I have always found you beautiful, for it is the soul beneath I seek.
When she had delight in her heart, her face transcended all her suffering, whereupon the scars and the deformed features and the mottled skin became the remarkable face of a hero and the cherished face of a friend.
We go through life. We shed our skins. We become ourselves.
Anybody who is anybody seems to be getting a lift - by plastic surgery these days. It's the new world wide craze that combines the satisfactions of psychoanalysis, massage, and a trip to the beauty salon.
Scars are proof we can can survive
You are not what has happened to you. You are what you choose to become.
It often happened that after death faces become softened and even resolved into their youthful beauty, that this was especially so when death had been preceded by any acute or prolonged suffering.
I was relieved in some weird way that the accident had actually occurred. It was a physical manifestation of what had already been going on inside the car. The outside now matched the inside - damaged beyond repair. (113)
Body and spirit, I surrendered whole, To harsh Instructors- and received a soul.
I felt emotions of gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne away by them, and forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy.
The need has gone; the memorial thereof remains.
Those men, those of former times, had soul and eyes that in no way resemble ours, and in their veins, along with their blood, flowed something that has disappeared: love and admiration for the Beautiful.
The scars without are the scars within.
Trauma is as subjective as desire, and the meanings we attribute to experiences, as well as the context in which they occur, determine their ultimate effect on our lives.
Shined, combed, brushed and gorgeous
The moved and the shaken.
Bruised, beaten, shaken, weakened, tossed, thrown, lost, alone, heard, helped, healed, hope... it still works.
Some of the most amazing people in the world were not perfect; they were scarred by suffering, hardships, losses and imperfections.
For our own past is covered by the currents of action,
But the torment of others remains an experience
Unqualified, unworn by subsequent attrition.
People change, and smile: but the agony abides.
Passing beauties are only the fugitive reflections of the eternal. All beauty alters and all life melts away; in short, everything passes with marvelous rapidity; beautiful Helen of Troy has become a toothless skull, then a handful of dust, then nothing.
gone, you see, yet finding
I stood there feeling the lightness of my bones, knowing now this was not only lack of sleep that had transformed my bones into feathers, but my body's recognition that soon I would be leaving this place I had inhabited for one year, this place made entirely of grief.
If our inward griefs were written on our brows, how many who are envied now would be pitied. It would seem that they had their deadliest foe in their own breast, and their whole happiness would be reduced to mere seeming.
I pointed to the wound. "It's missing," I said.
My grandmother smiled, and that was all it took for me to stop seeing the scar, and to recognize her again. "Yes," she said. "But see how much of me is left?
Quite without thought, he glanced at his left hand, and saw the ghost of the scar at the base of his thumb, the "C" so faded that it was scarcely visible. He had not noticed it or thought of it in years, and felt suddenly as though there was not air enough to breathe.
Fatima's hair, what was left of it, had pulled free of the coil into which she'd put it before striking the match. Her face was now black and shiny, as if an artist commissioned to lacquer the eyes of a statue of
Necessary, forever necessary, to burn out false shames and smelt the heaviest ore of the body into purity.
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice - An humble and a contrite heart.
Scars become a reminder for hope.
Suffering passes; having suffered never passes.
Gone. Vanished. Nothing left. Nothing said.
Recovery is an unbecoming. My healing has been a peeling away of costume after cstume until here I am, still and naked before God, stripped down to my real identity.
One can live without having survived
Although, we were trampled, our spirit sustains us.
[Sarah has had the middle finger of her left hand amputated] and she says that when she types:
I can't rely on E,D, and C anymore. They go missing when I need them most. Pleased becomes please. Ecstasies becomes stasis.
At last, my arm is complete again
Grief works its own perversions and betrayals; the shape of what we have lost is as subject to corruption as the mortal body ...
To have suffered ... sets a keen edge on what remains of the agreeable. This is a great truth and has to be learned in the fire.
excoriated and burned, mapped and measured and meted
The loss is transformative, in good ways and bad, a tangle of change that cannot be threaded into the usual narrative spools ... It's not an emergence from the cocoon, but a tree growing around an obstruction.
paralyzed by the past, caught in the amber of loss.
Life was resumed, and anxious living blew away as if it had not been. I could not breathe deep enough or long enough. It was a return to happiness.
Any natural, normal human being, when faced with any kind of loss, will go from shock all the way through acceptance.
Injuries to the body, especially the face, are not treated simply as problems of form. We should rather speak of themas belonging in the province of mental hygiene. Otherwise, who whould willingly devote his efforts to cosmetic work?
The mask is torn off, while the reality remains
The human journey is a continuous act of transfiguration.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Seldom is a Gothic head more beautiful than when broken.
In youth the human body drew me and was the object of my secret and natural dreams. But body after body has taken away from me that sensual phosphorescence which my youth delighted in.
Gone? - gone? What means that little word? - What
The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives.
The past five years had informed me about human sorrow. While no two griefs are the same, nobody understands suffering like those who've been there.
The body suffers, but the spirit is renewed.
Unexpressed grief leaves the deepest scars.