Blackened 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
on-day-when-some-faces-will-be-whitened-some-faces-will-be-blackened-as-for-those-whose-faces-are-blackened-did-you-disbelieve-after-your-belief-then-taste-punishment-for-having-
blackened-hearts-that-you-forsake
the-blackened-seals-on-our-foreheads-shall-be-no-more
a-blackened-shroud-a-handmedown-gown
crash-and-burn-of-a-blackened-heart
now-the-crows-are-blackened-ribbons-and-bows
i-go-about-blackened-but-not-by-sun-i-stand-up-in-assembly-cry-for-help-job-3028
a-silence-absorbed-them-both-lack-sound-potent-it-blackened-place-with-something-richer-than-hate-carla-h-krueger
john-bond-has-blackened-my-name-with-his-insinuations-about-private-lives-football-managers-both-my-wives-are-upset-malcolm-allison
when-blackened-night-falls-darkness-exists-if-one-chooses-to-rely-on-sight-as-thy-only-guide-truth-devour
on-day-resurrection-you-will-see-those-who-told-lies-about-allah-with-their-faces-blackened-is-there-not-place-in-hell-for-arrogant-azzumar-60
how-could-i-who-loved-life-intensely-have-let-myself-be-entangled-for-long-in-that-balderdash-books-paper-blackened-with-ink-nikos-kazantzakis
blackened-was-banshees-wail-these-boot-will-never-fill-her-jail-so-you-crawled-into-empty-boat-for-gulf-mexico-flogging-molly
gazing-up-to-blackened-sky-makes-part-me-slowly-die-among-clouds-i-can-see-dove-the-messenger-love-ablaze-my-sorrow
i-would-have-asked-you-to-let-down-your-hair-turning-to-regard-her-with-grin-his-teeth-slash-white-in-his-blackened-face-but-it-is-not-quite-long-enough-anymore-shelly-thacker
if-all-we-are-allowed-is-hours-minutes-i-want-to-be-able-to-etch-each-them-on-to-my-memory-with-exquisite-clarity-that-i-can-recall-them-at-moments-jojo-moyes
nothing-is-more-likely-to-start-me-screaming-like-madwoman-than-new-york-in-february-with-its-piles-blackened-snow-full-yellow-holes-drilled-by-florence-king
on-plains-hesitation-lie-blackened-bones-countless-millions-who-at-dawn-victory-lay-down-to-rest-in-resting-died-adlai-e-stevenson
a-vile-disturbance-will-move-us-all-its-will-is-iron-blackened-soul-innocent-blood-will-fill-its-need-watch-you-faith-turn-flee-immolation
we-deserve-blackened-rose-tons-trash-wont-decompose-moneys-reigning-in-your-head-you-dont-care-you-slash-her-death-paradox
a-modern-christ-new-messiah-born-war-from-blackened-sand-anointed-lord-by-my-disciples-ten-fists-nations-i-command-agent-steel
the-spirits-are-coming-back-to-tear-your-damned-system-sexual-slavery-into-tatters-consign-its-blackened-remnants-to-depth-everlasting-hell-victoria-woodhull
i-love-lamb-shank-its-my-favorite-thing-you-dont-have-it-in-america-its-younger-meat-it-just-falls-off-bone-its-kind-like-roast-i-really-like-blackened-cod-too
jack-gave-his-wife-two-dollars-go-down-town-get-smartened-get-out-on-street-old-george-stopped-her-he-knocked-her-down-blackened-her-eye-she-get-peter-green
the-other-side-of-the-end-of-the-universe-the-white-is-wide-what-is-on-other-side-blackened-sky-you-wont-believe-your-own-two-eyes-foreign-objects
once-my-heart-beat-to-rhythm-falling-snow-blackened-below-river-now-flows-a-stream-molten-virgin-snow-nightwish
and-as-i-venture-into-anothers-pit-everlasting-darkness-ill-return-with-simple-blackened-rose-with-that-rose-i-shall-write-stories-it-tells-larul-andrews
chaga-is-one-weirdest-mushrooms-you-may-ever-see-a-fungal-parasite-found-on-birch-trees-chaga-is-hardened-blackened-crusty-formation-that-looks-paul-stamets
we-deserve-blackened-rose-tons-trash-wont-decompose-moneys-reigning-in-your-head-you-dont-care-you-slash-her-death-slash-us-dead-paradox
the-blackened-city-calls-out-enter-temple-sin-you-must-enter-temple-sin-cannibal-corpse
no-living-creature-lives-without-mistakes-leo-as-it-spoke-flightsuit-played-videos-in-visor-showing-diapered-babies-sitting-down-hard-as-they-learned-to-walk-tiger-cubs-rolling-w
The train bore me away, through the monstrous scenery of slag-heaps, chimneys, piled scrap-iron, foul canals, paths of cindery mud criss-crossed by the prints of clogs. This was March, but the weather had been horribly cold and everywhere there were mounds of blackened snow. As we moved slowly through the outskirts of the town we passed row after row of little grey slum houses running at right angles to the embankment. At the back of one of the houses a young woman was kneeling on the stones, poking a stick up the leaden waste-pipe which ran from the sink inside and which I suppose was blocked. I had time to see everything about her-her sacking apron, her clumsy clogs, her arms reddened by the cold. She looked up as the train passed, and I was almost near enough to catch her eye. She had a round pale face, the usual exhausted face of the slum girl who is twenty-five and looks forty, thanks to miscarriages and drudgery; and it wore, for the second in which I saw it, the most desolate, hopeless expression I have ever-seen. It struck me then that we are mistaken when we say that 'It isn't the same for them as it would be for us, ' and that people bred in the slums can imagine nothing but the slums. For what I saw in her face was not the ignorant suffering of an animal. She knew well enough what was happening to her-understood as well as I did how dreadful a destiny it was to be kneeling there in the bitter cold, on the slimy stones of a slum backyard, poking a stick up a foul drain-pipe.

George Orwell
the-train-bore-me-away-through-monstrous-scenery-slagheaps-chimneys-piled-scrapiron-foul-canals-paths-cindery-mud-crisscrossed-by-prints-clogs-this-was-march-but-weather-had-been
It was almost a mystical experience. I do not know how else to put it. My mind outran time as he neared, and it was as though I had an eternity to ponder the approach of this man who was my brother. His garments were filthy, his face blackened, the stump of his right arm raised, gesturing anywhere. The great beast that he rode was striped, black and red, with a wild red mane and tail. But it really was a horse, and its eyes rolled and there was foam at its mouth and its breathing was painful to hear. I saw then that he wore his blade slung across his back, for its haft protruded high above his right shoulder. Still slowing, eyes fixed upon me, he departed the road, bearing slightly toward my left, jerked the reins once and released them, keeping control of the horse with his knees. His left hand went up in a salute-like movement that passed above his head and seized the hilt of his weapon. It came free without a sound, describing a beautiful arc above him and coming to rest in a lethal position out from his left shoulder and slanting back, like a single wing of dull steel with a minuscule line of edge that gleamed like a filament of mirror. The picture he presented was burned into my mind with a kind of magnificence, a certain splendor that was strangely moving. The blade was a long, scythe like affair that I had seen him use before. Only then we had stood as allies against a mutual foe I had begun to believe unbeatable. Benedict had proved otherwise that night. Now that I saw it raised against me I was overwhelmed with a sense of my own mortality, which I had never experienced before in this fashion. It was as though a layer had been stripped from the world and I had a sudden, full understanding of death itself.

Roger Zelazny
it-was-almost-mystical-experience-i-do-not-know-how-else-to-put-it-my-mind-outran-time-as-he-neared-it-was-as-though-i-had-eternity-to-ponder-approach-this-man-who-was-my-brother
beloved-gaze-in-thine-own-heart-the-holy-tree-is-growing-there-from-joy-holy-branches-start-and-all-trembling-flowers-they-bear-the-changing-colours-its-fruit-have-dowered-stars-
With the veil removed by the rending of Jesus' flesh, with nothing on God's side to prevent us from entering, why do we tarry without? Why do we consent to abide all our days just outside the Holy of Holies and never enter at all to look upon God? We hear the Bridegroom say, `Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice; for sweet is thy voice and thy countenance is comely.' (Song of Sol 2:14) We sense that the call is for us, but still we fail to draw near, and the years pass and we grow old and tired in the outer courts of the tabernacle. What doth hinder us? The answer usually given, simply that we are `cold,' will not explain all the facts. There is something more serious than coldness of heart, something that may be back of that coldness and be the cause of its existence. What is it? What but the presence of a veil in out hearts? A veil not taken away as the first veil was, but which remains there still shutting out the light and hiding the face of God from us. It is the veil of our fleshly fallen nature living on, unjudged within us, uncrucified and unrepudiated. It is the close- woven veil of the self-life which we have never truly acknowledged, of which we have been secretly ashamed, and which for these reasons we have never brought to the judgment of the cross. It is not too mysterious, this opaque veil, nor is it hard to identify. We have but to look in our own hearts and we shall see it there, sewn and patched and repaired it may be, but there nevertheless, an enemy to our lives and an effective block to our spiritual progress. This veil is not a beautiful thing and it is not a thing about which we commonly care to talk, but I am addressing the thirsting souls who are determined to follow God, and I know they will not turn back because the way leads temporarily through the blackened hills. The urge of God within them will assure their continuing the pursuit. They will face the facts however unpleasant and endure the cross for the joy set before them. So I am bold to mane the threads out of which this inner veil is woven. It is woven of the fine threads of the self-life, the hyphenated sins of the human spirit. They are not something we do, they are something we are, and therein lies both their subtlety and their power.

A.W. Tozer
with-veil-removed-by-rending-jesus-flesh-with-nothing-on-gods-side-to-prevent-us-from-entering-why-do-we-tarry-without-why-do-we-consent-to-abide-all-our-days-just-outside-holy-h
THE LILIES This morning it was, on the pavement, When that smell hit me again And set the houses reeling. People passed like rain: (The way rain moves and advances over the hills) And it was hot, hot and dank, The smell like animals, strong, but sweet too. What was it? Something I had forgotten. I tried to remember, standing there, Sniffing the air on the pavement. Somehow I thought of flowers. Flowers! That bad smell! I looked: down lanes, past houses- There, behind a hoarding, A rubbish-heap, soft and wet and rotten. Then I remembered: After the rain, on the farm, The vlei that was dry and paler than a stone Suddenly turned wet and green and warm. The green was a clash of music. Dry Africa became a swamp And swamp-birds with long beaks Went humming and flashing over the reeds And cicadas shrilling like a train. I took off my clothes and waded into the water. Under my feet first grass, then mud, Then all squelch and water to my waist. A faint iridescence of decay, The heat swimming over the creeks Where the lilies grew that I wanted: Great lilies, white, with pink streaks That stood to their necks in the water. Armfuls I gathered, working there all day. With the green scum closing round my waist, The little frogs about my legs, And jelly-trails of frog-spawn round the stems. Once I saw a snake, drowsing on a stone, Letting his coils trail into the water. I expect he was glad of rain too After nine moinths of being dry as bark. I don't know why I picked those lilies, Piling them on the grass in heaps, For after an hour they blackened, stank. When I left at dark, Red and sore and stupid from the heat, Happy as if I'd built a town, All over the grass were rank Soft, decaying heaps of lilies And the flies over them like black flies on meat...

Doris Lessing
the-lilies-this-morning-it-was-on-pavement-when-that-smell-hit-me-again-and-set-houses-reeling-people-passed-like-rain-the-way-rain-moves-advances-over-hills-and-it-was-hot-hot-d
When you are quite well enough to travel, Latimer, I shall take you home with me. The journey will amuse you and do you good, for I shall go through the Tyrol and Austria, and you will see many new places. Our neighbours, the Filmores, are come; Alfred will join us at Basle, and we shall all go together to Vienna, and back by Prague... ' My father was called away before he had finished his sentence, and he left my mind resting on the word Prague with a strange sense that a new and wondrous scene was breaking upon me: a city under the broad sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were summer sunshine of a long-past century arrested in its course-unrefreshed for ages by dews of night, or the rushing rain-cloud; scorching the dusty, weary, time-eaten grandeur of a people doomed to live on in the stale repetition of memories, like deposed and superannuated kings in their regal gold inwoven tatters. The city looked so thirsty that the broad river seemed to me a sheet of metal; and the blackened statues, as I passed under their blank gaze, along the unending bridge, with their ancient garments and their saintly crowns, seemed to me the real inhabitants and owners of this place, while the busy, trivial men and women, hurrying to and fro, were a swarm of ephemeral visitants infesting it for a day. It is such grim, stony beings as these, I thought, who are the fathers of ancient faded children, in those tanned time-fretted dwellings that crowd the steep before me; who pay their court in the worn and crumbling pomp of the palace which stretches its monotonous length on the height; who worship wearily in the stifling air of the churches, urged by no fear or hope, but compelled by their doom to be ever old and undying, to live on in the rigidity of habit, as they live on in perpetual midday, without the repose of night or the new birth of morning. A stunning clang of metal suddenly thrilled through me, and I became conscious of the objects in my room again: one of the fire-irons had fallen as Pierre opened the door to bring me my draught. My heart was palpitating violently, and I begged Pierre to leave my draught beside me; I would take it presently. ("The Lifted Veil")

George Eliot
when-you-are-quite-well-enough-to-travel-latimer-i-shall-take-you-home-with-me-the-journey-will-amuse-you-do-you-good-for-i-shall-go-through-tyrol-austria-you-will-see-many-new-p
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon's daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Bob Thurber
despite-icy-northeast-wind-huffing-across-bay-i-sneak-out-after-dark-after-my-mother-falls-asleep-clutching-her-leather-bible-i-hike-up-rutted-road-to-frosted-meadow-to-stand-in-
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