Han Suyin Quotes

There is nothing stronger in the world than gentleness.

Goldfish are flowers ... flowers that move.

Truth, like surgery, may hurt, but it cures.

I had to learn that there is more to the human being than material comfort, more than success, more even than national spirit or patriotism. That in any being worthy of being human there is also a demand for justice, for liberty, and that justice needs the evidence of all our lives, liberty is one and indivisible and collective, and no one can talk of justice solely for expediency's sake, nor of liberty while human beings, anywhere else on earth, are still in bondage.

There is nothing in the world stronger than gentleness.

Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer, recognize and protect and comfort each other.

All humans are frightened of their own solitude. But only in solitude can we learn to know ourselves, learn to handle our own eternal aloneness.

Exploitation and oppression is not a matter of race. It is the system, the apparatus of world-wide brigandage called imperialism, which made the Powers behave the way they did. I have no illusions on this score, nor do I believe that any Asian nation or African nation, in the same state of dominance, and with the same system of colonial profit-amassing and plunder, would have behaved otherwise.

People never think about words, they only feel them.

Sadness is so ungrateful.

People bring to what they see and feel, the inner weather of their souls and complexion of their minds.

Love can never explain the loved one, my dear. It is the essence of wild unreason.

It is the illusion of all lovers to think themselves unique and their words immortal.

No single crisis shapes a generation; but a succession of events, each one bringing its shaping blows to bear.

With some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal.

Exploitation and oppression is not a matter of race. It is the system, the apparatus of world-wide brigandage called imperialism, which made the Powers behave the way they did.

We are all products of our time, vulnerable to history.

This is Malaya. Everything takes a long, a very long time, in Malaya. Things get done, occasionally, but more often they don't, and the more in a hurry you are, the quicker you break down.

These ways to make people buy were strange and new to us, and many bought for the sheer pleasure at first of holding in the hand and talking of something new. And once this was done, it was like opium, we could no longer do without this new bauble, and thus, though we hated the foreigners and though we knew they were ruining us, we bought their goods. Thus I learned the art of the foreigners, the art of creating in the human heart restlessness, disquiet, hunger for new things, and these new desires became their best helpers.

Many events seem to happen twice to me; even trifles, unimportant-seeming, recur, as if I were destined to live them again, time reconquered, but with added knowledge and a different outcome.

I really can't hate more than 5 or 10 years. Wouldn't it be terrible to be always burdened with those primary emotions you had at one time?

A family is a burial mound of its own doings and sayings.

One should never condemn what one cannot understand.

Moralists have no place in an art gallery.

Persecution matures young rebels.

The rice bowl is to me the most valid reason in the world for doing anything. A piece of one's soul to the multitudes in return for rice and wine does not seem to me a sacrilege.

And there is not anything in the world stronger than tenderness.

History, the winnowing wind, never halts. We see the chaff rise, forget the waiting grain, seed of the future, fallen to the threshing floor. We never learn, but live on, slit-narrow, as if our living were a pencil line traced upon paper, behaving as trapped denizens of a flat world hemmed in by the bigoted horizon of our own making. Yet the meaning of living is a pushing back, a pulling down of the great walls and domes of fear and ignorance, is relinquishing the nest for the sky, ignorance for understanding. The look back is also a look forward.

You can only understand the present age when it is past.

Strange are the ways of history, where no single thing abides, but all things flow into each other, fragment to fragment clinging.