Austere Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
what-did-i-know-what-did-i-know-loves-austere-lonely-offices-robert-hayden
i-have-to-say-though-its-little-strange-doing-both-because-durant-is-straight-stern-austere
photography-is-austere-blazing-poetry-real-ansel-adams
nature-is-in-austere-mood-even-terrifying-withal-majestically-beautiful-frederick-soddy
you-may-practice-chanting-penance-austere-selfdiscipline-within-your-mind-but-without-name-life-is-useless-sri-guru-granth-sahib
tantric-zen-is-not-being-kinky-nor-is-it-being-conservative-austere-it-is-eclectic-it-is-real-mixture-all-things-frederick-lenz
nourish-yourself-with-grand-austere-ideas-beauty-that-feed-soul-seek-solitude-eugene-delacroix
in-masks-outrageous-austere-the-years-go-by-in-single-file-but-none-has-merited-my-fear-and-none-has-quite-escaped-my-smile
in-masks-outrageous-austere-the-years-go-by-in-single-file-but-none-has-merited-my-fear-and-none-has-quite-escaped-my-smile-elinor-wylie
in-masks-outrageous-and-austere-the-years-go-by-in-single-file-but-none-has-merited-my-fear-and-none-has-quite-escaped-my-smile
if-i-did-not-have-for-him-warm-affection-son-feels-toward-less-austere-preoccupied-father-i-at-least-had-immense-respect-for-him-great-lincoln-ellsworth
i-dont-take-much-from-my-own-father-because-he-was-austere-quiet-private-man-who-would-come-home-from-work-go-to-his-parlour-play-beethoven-on-his-john-mahoney
pillory-n-a-mechanical-device-for-inflicting-personal-distinction-prototype-modern-newspaper-conducted-by-persons-austere-virtues-blameless-lives-ambrose-bierce
bad-impulse-buys-make-you-feel-grim-dont-they-its-like-having-consumer-tourettes-i-gravitate-towards-austere-foreignlanguage-film-dvds-when-insecure-sally-phillips
strong-advocacy-for-education-health-care-worker-safety-will-be-indispensable-if-they-are-to-get-their-fair-share-president-bushs-austere-budget-for-arlen-specter
my-face-lends-itself-to-austere-characters-unless-theyre-two-dimensional-i-will-do-them-any-actor-will-tell-you-that-interesting-villain-is-much-more-interesting-to-play
mathematics-rightly-viewed-possesses-not-only-truth-but-supreme-beauty-a-beauty-cold-and-austere-like-that-of-sculpture
liberalism-austere-in-political-trifles-has-learned-ever-more-artfully-to-unite-constant-protest-against-government-with-constant-submission-to-it
what-people-want-is-not-what-some-would-call-imaginative-often-austere-productions-but-lavish-productions-which-cast-back-into-auditorium-image-their-affluence
my-apartment-reflects-my-views-as-architect-it-is-minimal-austere-the-architecture-doesnt-impose-itself-upon-you-the-apartment-is-stage-for-other-things-to-take-place
people-are-tired-liberty-they-have-had-surfeit-it-liberty-is-no-longer-chaste-austere-virgin-todays-youth-are-moved-by-other-slogansorder-benito-mussolini
im-not-shy-in-spotlight-i-might-seem-austere-even-arrogant-but-far-from-it-im-actually-shy-riccardo-muti
mathematics-rightly-viewed-possesses-not-only-truth-but-supreme-beauty-beauty-cold-austere-yet-sublimely-pure-capable-stern-perfection-such-as-bertrand-russell
for-i-feared-thee-because-thou-art-an-austere-man-thou-takest-up-that-thou-layedst-not-down-and-reapest-that-thou-didst-not-sow
persons-with-big-wigs-many-them-austere-aspect-whom-i-take-to-be-professors-dismal-science-coining-dismal-science-as-nickname-for-political-thomas-carlyle
if-we-would-succeed-in-works-imagination-we-must-offer-mild-morality-in-midst-rigid-manners-but-where-manners-are-corrupt-we-must-consistently-madame-de-stael
to-be-still-in-darkness-to-celebrate-lack-light-to-see-beauty-where-patterns-are-stern-gray-austere-still-lifes-this-is-quest-for-those-who-slumber-beneath-dreaming-tree-waiting-
the-gambling-known-as-business-looks-with-austere-disfavor-upon-the-business-known-as-gambling
Making another effort to be paradoxical, Williams decides to identify Orwell as an instance of 'the paradox of the exile'. This, which he also identified with D. H. Lawrence, constituted an actual 'tradition', which, in England: attracts to itself many of the liberal virtues: empiricism, a certain integrity, frankness. It has also, as the normally contingent virtue of exile, certain qualities of perception: in particular, the ability to distinguish inadequacies in the groups which have been rejected. It gives, also, an appearance of strength, although this is largely illusory. The qualities, though salutary, are largely negative; there is an appearance of hardness (the austere criticism of hypocrisy, complacency, self-deceit), but this is usually brittle, and at times hysterical: the substance of community is lacking, and the tension, in men of high quality, is very great. This is quite a fine passage, even when Williams is engaged in giving with one hand and taking away with the other. Orwell's working title for Nineteen Eighty-Four was 'The Last Man in Europe, ' and there are traces of a kind of solipsistic nobility elsewhere in his work, the attitude of the flinty and solitary loner. May he not be valued, however, as the outstanding English example of the dissident intellectual who preferred above all other allegiances the loyalty to truth? Self-evidently, Williams does not believe this and the clue is in the one word, so seemingly innocuous in itself, 'community.

Christopher Hitchens
making-another-effort-to-be-paradoxical-williams-decides-to-identify-orwell-as-instance-paradox-exile-this-which-he-also-identified-with-d-h-lawrence-constituted-actual-tradition
McKay had worn the wings in the world war with honor, flying first with the French and later with his own country's forces. And as a bird loves the trees, so did McKay love them. To him they were not merely trunks and roots, branches and leaves; to him they were personalities. He was acutely aware of differences in character even among the same species - that pine was benevolent and jolly; that one austere and monkish; there stood a swaggering bravo, and there dwelt a sage wrapped in green meditation; that birch was a wanton - the birch near her was virginal, still a-dream. The war had sapped him, nerve and brain and soul. Through all the years that had passed since then the wound had kept open. But now, as he slid his car down the vast green bowl, he felt its spirit reach out to him; reach out to him and caress and quiet him, promising him healing. He seemed to drift like a falling leaf through the clustered woods; to be cradled by gentle hands of the trees. He had stopped at the little gnome of an inn, and then he had lingered, day after day, week after week. The trees had nursed him; soft whisperings of leaves, slow chant of the needled pines, had first deadened, then driven from him the re-echoing clamor of the war and its sorrow. The open wound of his spirit had closed under their green healing; had closed and become scar; and even the scar had been covered and buried, as the scars on Earth's breast are covered and buried beneath the falling leaves of Autumn. The trees had laid green healing hands on his eyes, banishing the pictures of war. He had sucked strength from the green breasts of the hills. ("The Women Of The Woods")

Abraham Merritt
mckay-had-worn-wings-in-world-war-with-honor-flying-first-with-french-later-with-his-own-countrys-forces-and-as-bird-loves-trees-did-mckay-love-them-to-him-they-were-not-merely-t
This was all splendid stuff for Luciaphils; it was amazing how at a first glance she recognised everybody. The gallery, too, was full of dears and darlings of a few weeks' standing, and she completed a little dinner-party for next Tuesday long before she had made the circuit. All the time she kept Stephen by her side, looked over his catalogue, put a hand on his arm to direct his attention to some picture, took a speck of alien material off his sleeve, and all the time the entranced Adele felt increasingly certain that she had plumbed the depth of the adorable situation. Her sole anxiety was as to whether Stephen would plumb it too. He might-though he didn't look like it-welcome these little tokens of intimacy as indicating something more, and when they were alone attempt to kiss her, and that would ruin the whole exquisite design. Luckily his demeanour was not that of a favoured swain; it was, on the other hand, more the demeanour of a swain who feared to be favoured, and if that shy thing took fright, the situation would be equally ruined... To think that the most perfect piece of Luciaphilism was dependent on the just perceptions of Stephen! As the three made their slow progress, listening to Lucia's brilliant identifications, Adele willed Stephen to understand; she projected a perfect torrent of suggestion towards his mind. He must, he should understand... Fervent desire, so every psychist affirms, is never barren. It conveys something of its yearning to the consciousness to which it is directed, and there began to break on the dull male mind what had been so obvious to the finer feminine sense of Adele. Once again, and in the blaze of publicity, Lucia was full of touches and tweaks, and the significance of them dawned, like some pale, austere sunrise, on his darkened senses. The situation was revealed, and he saw it was one with which he could easily deal. His gloomy apprehensions brightened, and he perceived that there would be no need, when he went to stay at Riseholme next, to lock his bedroom-door, a practice which was abhorrent to him, for fear of fire suddenly breaking out in the house. Last night he had had a miserable dream about what had happened when he failed to lock his door at The Hurst, but now he dismissed its haunting. These little intimacies of Lucia's were purely a public performance. "Lucia, we must be off, " he said loudly and confidently. "Pepino will wonder where we are.

E.F. Benson
this-was-all-splendid-stuff-for-luciaphils-it-was-amazing-how-at-first-glance-she-recognised-everybody-the-gallery-too-was-full-dears-darlings-few-weeks-standing-she-completed-li
The chief care of the legislators [in the colonies of New England] was the maintenance of orderly conduct and good morals in the community: thus they constantly invaded the domain of conscience, and there was scarcely a sin which was no subject to magisterial censure. The reader is aware of the rigor with which these laws punished rape and adultery; intercourse between unmarried persons was likewise severely repressed. The judge was empowered to inflict either a pecuniary penalty, a whipping, or marriage, on the misdemeanants; and if the records of the old courts of New Haven may be believed, prosecutions of this kind were not unfrequent. We find a sentence, bearing date the 1st of May, 1660, inflicting a fine and reprimand on a young woman who was accused of using improper language, and of allowing herself to be kissed. The Code of 1650 abounds in preventive measures. It punishes idleness and drunkenness with severity. Innkeepers were forbidden to furnish more than certain quantities of liquor to each customer; and simple lying, whenever it may be injurious, is checked by a fine or a flogging. In other places, the legislator, entirely forgetting the great principles of religious toleration which he had himself demanded in Europe, makes attendance on divine service compulsory, and goes so far as to visit with severe punishment, and even with death, Christians who choose to worship God according to a ritual differing from his own. Sometimes, indeed, the zeal for regulation induces him to descend to the most frivolous particulars: thus a law is to be found in the same code which prohibits the use of tobacco. It must not be forgotten that these fantastical and vexatious laws were not imposed by authority, but that they were freely voted by all the persons interested in them, and that the manners of the community were even more austere and puritanical than the laws... These errors are no doubt discreditable to human reason; they attest the inferiority of our nature, which is incapable of laying firm hold upon what is true and just, and is often reduced to the alternative of two excesses. In strict connection with this penal legislation, which bears such striking marks of a narrow, sectarian spirit, and of those religious passions which had been warmed by persecution and were still fermenting among the people, a body of political laws is to be found, which, though written two hundred years ago, is still in advance of the liberties of our own age.

Alexis de Tocqueville
the-chief-care-legislators-in-colonies-new-england-was-maintenance-orderly-conduct-good-morals-in-community-thus-they-constantly-invaded-domain-conscience-there-was-scarcely-sin-
Tonight, however, Dickens struck him in a different light. Beneath the author's sentimental pity for the weak and helpless, he could discern a revolting pleasure in cruelty and suffering, while the grotesque figures of the people in Cruikshank's illustrations revealed too clearly the hideous distortions of their souls. What had seemed humorous now appeared diabolic, and in disgust at these two favourites he turned to Walter Pater for the repose and dignity of a classic spirit. But presently he wondered if this spirit were not in itself of a marble quality, frigid and lifeless, contrary to the purpose of nature. 'I have often thought', he said to himself, 'that there is something evil in the austere worship of beauty for its own sake.' He had never thought so before, but he liked to think that this impulse of fancy was the result of mature consideration, and with this satisfaction he composed himself for sleep. He woke two or three times in the night, an unusual occurrence, but he was glad of it, for each time he had been dreaming horribly of these blameless Victorian works... It turned out to be the Boy's Gulliver's Travels that Granny had given him, and Dicky had at last to explain his rage with the devil who wrote it to show that men were worse than beasts and the human race a washout. A boy who never had good school reports had no right to be so morbidly sensitive as to penetrate to the underlying cynicism of Swift's delightful fable, and that moreover in the bright and carefully expurgated edition they bring out nowadays. Mr Corbett could not say he had ever noticed the cynicism himself, though he knew from the critical books it must be there, and with some annoyance he advised his son to take out a nice bright modern boy's adventure story that could not depress anybody. Mr Corbett soon found that he too was 'off reading'. Every new book seemed to him weak, tasteless and insipid; while his old and familiar books were depressing or even, in some obscure way, disgusting. Authors must all be filthy-minded; they probably wrote what they dared not express in their lives. Stevenson had said that literature was a morbid secretion; he read Stevenson again to discover his peculiar morbidity, and detected in his essays a self-pity masquerading as courage, and in Treasure Island an invalid's sickly attraction to brutality. This gave him a zest to find out what he disliked so much, and his taste for reading revived as he explored with relish the hidden infirmities of minds that had been valued by fools as great and noble. He saw Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte« as two unpleasant examples of spinsterhood; the one as a prying, sub-acid busybody in everyone else's flirtations, the other as a raving, craving maenad seeking self-immolation on the altar of her frustrated passions. He compared Wordsworth's love of nature to the monstrous egoism of an ancient bellwether, isolated from the flock.

Margaret Irwin
tonight-however-dickens-struck-him-in-different-light-beneath-authors-sentimental-pity-for-weak-helpless-he-could-discern-revolting-pleasure-in-cruelty-suffering-while-grotesque-
On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

Mary Rose O'Reilley
on-first-day-november-last-year-sacred-to-many-religious-calendars-but-especially-celtic-i-went-for-walk-among-bare-oaks-birch-nothing-much-was-going-on-scarlet-sumac-had-passed-
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