Awed 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
where-the-awed-and-the-mediocre-wait
men-who-have-not-known-horror-death-are-not-likely-to-be-awed-by-it-lu-xun
it-doesnt-take-any-imagination-at-all-to-feel-awed-peter-weir
i-think-he-was-awed-by-realization-dream-i-was-awestruck-myself-kris-kristofferson
its-funny-when-we-go-out-everybody-is-awed-by-triplets-there-are-lots-questions-when-we-do-go-out-april-six
happy-soul-that-has-been-awed-by-view-gods-majesty-arthur-w-pink
the-achievement-is-appreciation-your-ability-to-be-surprised-awed-by-beauty
whats-fascinating-about-australians-is-they-have-this-quality-that-they-are-impervious-to-majesty-theyre-not-awed
i-feel-awed-by-mystery-being-both-finite-yet-infinite-much-little-conscious-yet-coincidental-warren-farrell
i-am-equally-fascinated-awed-by-visiting-alexander-mcqueen-show-as-i-am-looking-under-microscope
i-actually-felt-awed-by-remote-possibilities-person-you-liked-ever-liking-you-back-corresponding-amount-marisha-pessl
and-too-ignorant-to-be-scared-too-young-to-be-awed-tristan-thorn-traveled-beyond-fields-we-know-neil-gaiman
i-dreamed-becoming-scientist-in-general-paleontologist-in-particular-ever-since-tyrannosaurus-skeleton-awed-scared-me-stephen-jay-gould
the-feeling-awed-wonder-that-science-can-give-us-is-one-highest-experiences-which-human-psyche-is-capable-richard-dawkins
the-lord-my-life-who-calls-me-to-be-brave-walk-into-unknown-amazing-future-i-am-always-awed-by-wonder-you-susan-may-warren
i-remember-being-awed-by-it-uniqueness-nicety-style-i-suspect-i-was-bit-jealous-because-we-were-more-less-same-generation-george-plimpton
in-contrast-to-your-usual-minions-i-imagine-im-bit-more-awed-by-your-conceit-arrogance-than-i-am-by-your-supposed-magnificence-caitlin-crews
fielder-has-been-in-major-league-clubhouse-his-whole-life-hes-not-awed-wideeyed-by-this-he-knew-he-was-destined-ned-yost
i-am-beneath-everything-else-fan-i-was-fixed-in-this-mode-as-young-boy-am-awed-by-people-who-take-risks-performance-roger-ebert
to-scarlett-there-was-something-breathtaking-about-ellen-ohara-miracle-that-lived-in-house-with-her-awed-her-charmed-soothed-her-margaret-mitchell
dont-worry-i-wont-send-you-off-without-warning-just-stand-there-be-awed-by-my-beauty-its-safest-mode-around-me-savitar-sherrilyn-kenyon
i-try-to-find-beauty-in-things-on-dark-days-i-sit-in-my-armchair-looking-at-clouds-i-am-awed-at-how-rain-is-made-ayana-mathis
i-have-never-been-especially-impressed-by-heroics-people-convinced-they-are-about-to-change-world-i-am-more-awed-by-those-who-struggle-to-make-one-small-difference-ellen-goodman
there-is-no-end-to-observations-on-difference-between-measures-likely-to-be-pursued-by-minister-backed-by-standing-army-those-court-awed-by-james-burgh
a-voice-hissed-he-sheds-tears-it-was-taken-around-ring-usal-gives-moisture-to-dead-he-felt-fingers-touch-his-damp-cheek-heard-awed-whispers-frank-herbert
miss-marilyn-monroe-calls-to-mind-bouquet-fireworks-display-eliciting-from-her-awed-spectators-openmouthed-chorus-ohs-ahs-cecil-beaton
at-breakfast-said-louise-in-awed-voice-a-man-who-can-read-poetry-at-breakfast-would-be-capable-anything-mary-stewart
oh-blip-yeah-i-see-he-sounds-distracted-awed-your-child-i-whisper-our-child-he-counters-el-james
woman-must-not-accept-she-must-challenge-she-must-not-be-awed-by-that-which-has-been-built-up-around-her-she-must-reverence-that-woman-in-her-which-margaret-sanger
the-work-god-in-cross-christ-strikes-us-as-aweinspiring-only-after-we-have-first-been-awed-by-glory-god-matt-chandler
one-doesnt-have-to-be-marxist-to-be-awed-by-scale-success-early20thcent-ury-efforts-to-transform-strongwilled-human-beings-into-docile-employees-gary-hamel
What do you think he saw?" Damn-I regret the awed way I phrased that and the hushed voice I used. As if I think acid is a "religious" experience, a visionary thing. "Himself, " Josh says. "You always see your true self on acid. You just usually see more than you want to see. So it all seems disorted." See what I mean? He's not your normal stoner. The guy should become a poet, a psychologist, a scientist. We pull up near Greg's house and stare at it like it's a damn fortress. "You don't think he needs to go to the hospital?" I ask. "Nope, " Josh says. "For a while, I thought maybe, yeah. But he's good now, he's off it, he's not hallucinating anymore." "You're sure?" "Yeah." "'Cuz you can die on LSD-" "That's such anti-drug propaganda bullshit, Dan, " Josh interrupts. "Nobody's ever died from an LSD overdose. Ever. As long as you keep people from doing stupid things while they're tripping, it's all good man, man. Why do you think I babysat him?" He reaches into the backseat and punches my shoulder. "LSD isn't your dad's smack. So stop worrying." I scrunch down in the seat. How'd he know about that? "Right. What's the plan?" "I'd ask him if ther was a key hidden under a rock, " Josh says, "but he's not gonna be much help. Watch." He pokes Greg in the leg, prods him on the shoulder, grabs his cheeks and smushes them together, the way parents do to a baby, and says, " Ootchi googi Greggy, did ums have a good trippy? Did ums find out itty-bitty singies about oos-self zat oos didn't likeums?" Yup... Greg was in his own little world...

J.L. Powers
Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies. It is the glimpse of oneself in a storefront window, the unbidden awareness of reactions on the faces of other people- the novelist's world, not the poet's. I've lived there. I remember what the city has to offer; human companionship, major league baseball, and a clatter of quickening stimulus like a rush from strong drugs that leaves you drained. I remember how you bide your time in the city, and think, if you stop to think, 'next year, I'll start living... next year I'll start my life.' Innocence is a better world. Innocence sees that this is it, and finds it world enough, and time. Innocence is not the prerogative of infants and puppies, and far less of mountains and fixed stars, which have no prerogatives at all. It is not lost to us; the world is a better place than that. Like any other of the spirit's good gifts, it is there if you want it, free for the asking, as has been stressed by stronger words than mine. It is possible to pursue innocence as hounds pursue hares; singlemindledly, driven by a kind of love, crashing over creeks, keening and lost in fields and forests, circling, vaulting over hedges and hills wide-eyed, giving loud tongue all unawares to the deepest, most incomprehensible longing, a root-flame in the heart, and that warbling chorus resounding back from the mountains, hurling itself from ridge to ridge over the valley, now faint, now clear ringing the air through which the hounds tear, open-mouthed, the echoes of their own wails dimly knocking in their lungs. What I call innocence is the spirit's unselfconscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object. It is at once a receptiveness and total concentration. One needn't be, shouldn't be reduced to a puppy. If you wish to tell me that the city offers galleries, I'll pour you a drink and enjoy your company while it lasts; but I'll bear with me to my grave those pure moments at the Tate (was it the Tate?) where I stood planted, open-mouthed, born, before that one particular canvas, that river, up to my neck, gasping, lost, receding into watercolor depth and depth to the vanishing point, buoyant, awed, and had to be literally hauled away. These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.

Annie Dillard
selfconsciousness-is-curse-city-all-that-sophistication-implies-it-is-glimpse-oneself-in-storefront-window-unbidden-awareness-reactions-on-faces-other-people-novelists-world-not-
It took only a few hours for an exaggerated version of the attack on Dr. De Glew to reach all of Stanley. The big orderly told his wife; she told her sister who was married to a gas station worker; he in turn described the fight to a helper on the tank truck that serviced the Stanley station in competition with Gurmandy's. The two-man staff of the station plus four hangers-on and three children heard a tale of how a man who had turned into a wolf was vanquished by a seven-foot-tall Negro doctor armed with a pitch torch and how the wolf-man was even now stalking the towns in Washington, Bolivar, and Rapture counties. By nightfall terror held full sway. No locks could withstand the assault of the killer. No weapons save the torch could fend him off. No areaway was free of his shadow nor any wooded place safe from his onslaught. Every dog's bay was the wolf cry of the maddened man. On the plantations toward MacAllister and Skene, terrified tenants were brought to the main house by pickup truck to sleep on porches, in the kitchens, and in outbuildings. When the moon came up yellow that night over the flat land, the families in from the field gathered around a big fire and salted it with sulphur; their voices sounded low and awed drifting up to the windows of the dining room in the main house where the plantation owner ate with his own family. Around the fire, old men talked of the days before the tall evergreen cane was felled, of how wolves as big as lions crept among the cabins and watched while the older boys went by, waiting to grab off the youngest of the toddlers amid the screams of desolated mothers. Then the eyes of the youngsters around the fire grew wide. They sobbed and pressed up against their mothers, until one of the other men said sharply, 'Hush up, you're scaring the children.' There was silence then around the fire for a while, each with his own thoughts: of wolves who were truly men and men who were wolves. No man rode horseback at night if he could avoid it, and no hitchhiker was offered a lift save by the foolhardy or the secret death-lover. For town dwellers, the walk in at twilight from the garage to the house seemed inordinately long and dark.

Leslie H. Whitten Jr.
it-took-only-few-hours-for-exaggerated-version-attack-on-dr-de-glew-to-reach-all-stanley-the-big-orderly-told-his-wife-she-told-her-sister-who-was-married-to-gas-station-worker-h
The fact is,' said Van Gogh, 'the fact is that we are painters in real life, and the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.' So I breathe. I breathe at the open window above my desk, and a moist fragrance assails me from the gnawed leaves of the growing mock orange. This air is as intricate as the light that filters through forested mountain ridges and into my kitchen window; this sweet air is the breath of leafy lungs more rotted than mine; it has sifted through the serrations of many teeth. I have to love these tatters. And I must confess that the thought of this old yard breathing alone in the dark turns my mind to something else. I cannot in all honesty call the world old when I've seen it new. On the other hand, neither will honesty permit me suddenly to invoke certain experiences of newness and beauty as binding, sweeping away all knowledge. But I am thinking now of the tree with the lights in it, the cedar in the yard by the creek I saw transfigured. That the world is old and frayed is no surprise; that the world could ever become new and whole beyond uncertainty was, and is, such a surprise that I find myself referring all subsequent kinds of knowledge to it. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder: were the twigs of the cedar I saw really bloated with galls? They probably were; they almost surely were. I have seen these 'cedar apples' swell from that cedar's green before and since: reddish gray, rank, malignant. All right then. But knowledge does not vanquish mystery, or obscure its distant lights. I still now and will tomorrow steer by what happened that day, when some undeniably new spirit roared down the air, bowled me over, and turned on the lights. I stood on grass like air, air like lightning coursed in my blood, floated my bones, swam in my teeth. I've been there, seen it, been done by it. I know what happened to the cedar tree, I saw the cells in the cedar tree pulse charged like wings beating praise. Now, it would be too facile to pull everything out of the hat and say that mystery vanquishes knowledge. Although my vision of the world of the spirit would not be altered a jot if the cedar had been purulent with galls, those galls actually do matter to my understanding of this world. Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty's deep-blue speckles, that the frayed and nibbled fringe of the world is a tallith, a prayer shawl, the intricate garment of beauty? It is very tempting, but I cannot. But I can, however, affirm that corruption is not beauty's very heart and I can I think call the vision of the cedar and the knowledge of these wormy quarryings twin fjords cutting into the granite cliffs of mystery and say the new is always present simultaneously with the old, however hidden. The tree with the lights in it does not go out; that light still shines on an old world, now feebly, now bright. I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down.

Annie Dillard
the-fact-is-said-van-gogh-fact-is-that-we-are-painters-in-real-life-important-thing-is-to-breathe-as-hard-as-ever-we-can-breathe-so-i-breathe-i-breathe-at-open-window-above-my-de
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