Bounded 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
cloud-bounded-along-earth-like-ball-garrett-p-serviss
sound-unbound-by-nature-becomes-bounded-by-art-dejan-stojanovic
the-kind-love-bounded-by-sympathy-will-break-down-by-arrogance-mf-moonzajer
horizon-bounded-by-propitious-sky-azure-marbled-with-pearly-white-charlotte-bronte
and-although-our-bodies-are-bounded-with-skin-we-can-differentiate-between-outside-inside-they-cannot-exist-except-in-certain-kind-natural-alan-watts
i-bounded-oer-mountains-by-sides-deep-rivers-lonely-streams-wherever-nature-led-william-wordsworth
she-liked-sharp-salty-smell-air-vastness-horizons-bounded-only-by-vault-azure-sky-above-george-rr-martin
fear-will-keep-you-bounded-overcome-those-things-that-make-you-fearful-and-move-forward-time-is-precious-and-so-are-you
a-writer-is-justly-called-universal-when-he-is-understood-within-limits-his-civilization-though-that-be-bounded-by-country-age-george-edward-woodberry
once-i-climbed-into-mountain-lions-cage-she-bounded-at-me-put-her-paw-on-my-face-but-she-kept-her-claws-withdrawn
what-ordinary-men-are-directly-aware-what-they-try-to-do-are-bounded-by-private-orbits-in-which-they-live-their-visions-their-powers-are-limited
revery-which-is-thought-in-its-nebulous-state-borders-closely-upon-land-sleep-by-which-it-is-bounded-as-by-natural-frontier-victor-hugo
biography-is-definite-region-bounded-on-north-by-history-on-south-by-fiction-on-east-by-obituary-on-west-by-tedium
a-farm-is-irregular-patch-nettles-bounded-by-shortterm-notes-containing-fool-his-wife-who-didnt-know-enough-to-stay-in-city-s-j-perelman
she-loved-sea-she-liked-sharp-salty-smell-air-vastness-horizons-bounded-only-by-vault-azure-sky-above-it-made-her-feel-small-but-free-as-well-george-rr-martin
there-is-no-limit-to-stupidity-space-itself-is-said-to-be-bounded-by-its-own-curvature-but-stupidity-continues-beyond-infinity-gene-wolfe
for-fall-year-is-more-than-three-months-bounded-by-equinox-solstice-it-is-summing-up-without-finality-years-end-hal-borland
natural-abilities-are-like-natural-plants-that-need-pruning-by-study-studies-themselves-do-give-forth-directions-too-much-at-large-except-they-be-francis-bacon
were-all-made-stories-when-they-finally-put-us-underground-stories-are-what-will-go-on-not-forever-perhaps-but-for-time-its-kind-immortality-i-suppose-bounded-by-limits-its-true-
but-it-was-not-boyish-grin-she-had-known-when-he-bounded-along-lowgravity-inner-corridors-battle-school-this-smile-had-weariness-in-it-old-fears-long-mastered-but-still-present-i
i-dont-need-your-air-to-breathe-its-suffocating-me-bounded-by-your-gravity-its-pulling-down-on-me-will-you-set-me-free-from-your-earth-will-you-make-hourcast
we-love-but-while-we-may-and-therefore-is-my-love-large-for-thee-seeing-it-is-not-bounded-save-by-love-alfred-lord-tennyson
a-small-white-rabbit-with-floppy-ears-twitching-pink-nose-bounded-out-from-thick-forest-brush-fingers-twitching-at-his-side-james-stepped-toward-small-animal-nervous-giddiness-cr
a-blind-mans-world-is-bounded-by-limits-his-touch-ignorant-mans-world-by-limits-his-knowledge-great-mans-world-by-limits-his-vision-e-paul-hovey
you may be thinking-'what she is doing ?' let me tell you-what I am doing. though this letter could be posted you directly- anyhow, does not matter. when I feel there are plenty of walls around me- I want to go to you , and I can't, feels like chained. when I saw you are with me silently - and I could not figure out 'why'?-then I feel to crash everything beside me you may be laughed at me, laughted at my feelings , you may be enjoying when my tears comes out with a loud voice in pain, I feel you are most rude one who is watching me in this-but is not helping me.you are the reason , you are the medicine -of my lost heart. my world- I never asked for you from almighty , never I thought I deserve love. when I have now- I am feeling what is the actual power of love. my love- I do not take away your normal life, though I have no idea you love me or not- but for sure you now my feelings for you at very first day. I do not ask you to come without your practical life without your feelings with me , or without any reason. I love you not because physical demand. it is far beyond of that. many times I thought -you do not response me- never did- why I am not angry with you or why I am not able to stay away from you - I have only answer - a relationship with soul. I can't stay a moment without you in my heart. wherever you are when I remember you , feel proud of you , feel you are the person who could shake me as a woman than a high headed rude person. whenever I thought of you- I smiled. I get angry , destroy your photos , my notes to you- but it is growing..more and more, my dear world- you are free.but I am bounded to love you , without you I will be dark lifeless shadow. I want you infront of me.your morning will get a start by my side at bed- will be finished at night by my side. my love- life is short.i know -may be I will not receive you, but I feel this way about you and my love to you. what I want ? a little force apply on me by you than on machine , in love.I want you to take me in your hold - when I am angry with you, a little force with a kiss or your expression of love. that's it. no- I will not be destruction of your life. if these are not for me- I will ask you stand out of me-.let me handle my pain, my obstacles, and an incomplete journey without you. love.

lity munshi
you-may-be-thinkingwhat-she-is-doing-let-me-tell-youwhat-i-am-doing-though-this-letter-could-be-posted-you-directly-anyhow-does-not-matter-when-i-feel-there-are-plenty-walls-arou
aisling-tumbled-out-his-gold-eyes-going-wild-about-room-to-take-in-all-them-his-beak-clicked-as-he-worked-it-in-silence-then-as-breaking-ice-may-bring-cascade-water-from-winters-
But the heavy stroke which most of all distresses me is my dear Mother. I cannot overcome my too selfish sorrow, all her tenderness towards me, her care and anxiety for my welfare at all times, her watchfulness over my infant years, her advice and instruction in maturer age; all, all indear her memory to me, and highten my sorrow for her loss. At the same time I know a patient submission is my Duty. I will strive to obtain it! But the lenient hand of time alone can blunt the keen Edg of Sorrow. He who deignd to weep over a departed Friend, will surely forgive a sorrow which at all times desires to be bounded and restrained, by a firm Belief that a Being of infinite wisdom and unbounded Goodness, will carve out my portion in tender mercy towards me! Yea tho he slay me I will trust in him said holy Job. What tho his corrective Hand hath been streached against me; I will not murmer. Tho earthly comforts are taken away I will not repine, he who gave them has surely a right to limit their Duration, and has continued them to me much longer than deserved. I might have been striped of my children as many others have been. I might o! forbid it Heaven, I might have been left a solitary widow. Still I have many blessing left, many comforts to be thankfull for, and rejoice in. I am not left to mourn as one without hope. My dear parent knew in whom she had Believed... The violence of her disease soon weakned her so that she was unable to converse, but whenever she could speak, she testified her willingness to leave the world and an intire resignation to the Divine Will. She retaind her Senses to the last moment of her Existance, and departed the world with an easy tranquility, trusting in the merrits of a Redeamer, " (p. 81 and 82).

Abigail Adams
but-heavy-stroke-which-most-all-distresses-me-is-my-dear-mother-i-cannot-overcome-my-too-selfish-sorrow-all-her-tenderness-towards-me-her-care-anxiety-for-my-welfare-at-all-times
IT is not impossible that among the English readers of this book there may be one who in 1915 and 1916 was in one of those trenches that were woven like a web among the ruins of Monchy-au-Bois. In that case he had opposite him at that time the 73rd Hanoverian Fusiliers, who wear as their distinctive badge a brassard with ' Gibraltar ' inscribed on it in gold, in memory of the defence of that fortress under General Elliot; for this, besides Waterloo, has its place in the regiment's history. At the time I refer to I was a nineteen-year-old lieutenant in command of a platoon, and my part of the line was easily recognizable from the English side by a row of tall shell-stripped trees that rose from the ruins of Monchy. My left flank was bounded by the sunken road leading to Berles-au-Bois, which was in the hands of the English ; my right was marked by a sap running out from our lines, one that helped us many a time to make our presence felt by means of bombs and rifle-grenades. I daresay this reader remembers, too, the white tom-cat, lamed in one foot by a stray bullet, who had his headquarters in No-man's-land. He used often to pay me a visit at night in my dugout. This creature, the sole living being that was on visiting terms with both sides, always made on me an impression of extreme mystery. This charm of mystery which lay over all that belonged to the other side, to that danger zone full of unseen figures, is one of the strongest impressions that the war has left with me. At that time, before the battle of the Somme, which opened a new chapter in the history of the war, the struggle had not taken on that grim and mathematical aspect which cast over its landscapes a deeper and deeper gloom. There was more rest for the soldier than in the later years when he was thrown into one murderous battle after another ; and so it is that many of those days come back to my memory now with a light on them that is almost peaceful.

Ernst Je¼nger
it-is-not-impossible-that-among-english-readers-this-book-there-may-be-one-who-in-1915-1916-was-in-one-those-trenches-that-were-woven-like-web-among-ruins-monchyaubois-in-that-ca
Terror is an artery. Running unfailing channels of bloodied thoroughfares by dint of the wilds beyond our knowing. Fluctuations and murmurs are audible within the splintered leeway of our preserve as a consequence of interstices modeled in such brutality. This appended artery offers no direction; idle and at times desultory. Bloodstained tracks and avenues guide casualties. Terror, like death, is not complicated, nor is it simple. It is but routine-natural. To call it otherwise is to parsimoniously say that birth is effortless, hurricanes are facile, and earthquakes are meek when they are a lot more. Myths, parables, and allegories lie in the construct of terror. Kings have fallen and succeeded in the yarns of terror. Simple men have been turned into heroes due to terror. Villains have been great orchestrators in the art of terror, allowing sole individuals and denizens to feel their makings. A soul never needed God to feel terror. The most nihilistic can undergo such a dreadful emotion. Animals are perfect examples of this. They are well-equipped creations to the world of terror and death, holding no cognizance to deity or creator. Terror is quite exclusive as it is a function of the mind, conducted by the intersections and throughways of nerves and bounded to that alone. Although it approaches with university, like hunger or sickness, it is selfish by fashion and segregating in nature. But death is quite opposite... death is all embracing. Disregarded and glossed over, it is never reserved or inaudible, especially if you listen hard enough. Death transmits a signal that can be discerned if you listen hard enough. Frail in birthing, the airing is not limited to the clairvoyant, though they are a standard audience. The most simple-minded can hear this. But they choose to ignore it for whatever grounds. Even in the obviousness of it when it comes in dream, awaking its public in night terrors and cold sweats, it should be heeded. In lurk of dark uncertainties the signal should be adhered in this societal horrific caprice. Death is a declaration waiting to broadcast the haunting awareness of our own deterrence. And within these pages is its proclamation.

J.C. Whitfield
terror-is-artery-running-unfailing-channels-bloodied-thoroughfares-by-dint-wilds-beyond-our-knowing-fluctuations-murmurs-are-audible-within-splintered-leeway-our-preserve-as-cons
Torrens kicked at the door until it was finally opened. The farm couple and three youngsters had been eating breakfast in the common room. The yard dog would have bounded in had not Torrens kicked the door shut. 'I want a bed. Quilts. A hot drink. I am a doctor. This woman is my patient.' The farm couple was terrified. The look on the face of Torrens cut short any questions. They did as he ordered. One of the children ran to fetch his medical kit from the cart. The woman motioned for Torrens to set Caroline on a straw pallet. The farmer kept his distance, but his wife, shyly, fearffully, ventured closer. She glanced at Torrens, as if requesting his permission to help. Between them, they made Caroline as comfortable as they could. Torrens knelt by the pallet. Caroline reached for his hand. 'Leave while you can. Do not burden yourself with me.' 'A light burden.' 'I wish you to find Augusta.' 'You have my promise.' 'Take this.' Caroline had slipped off a gold ring set with diamonds. 'It was a wedding gift from the king. It has not left my finger since then. I give it to you now - ' Torrens protested, but Caroline went on - 'not as a keepsake. You and I have better keepsakes in our hearts. I wish you to sell it. You will need money, perhaps even more than this will bring. But you must stary alive and find my child. Help her as you have always helped me.' 'We shall talk of this later, when you are better. We shall find her together.' 'You have never lied to me.' Caroline's smile was suddenly flirtacious. 'Sir, if you begin now, I shall take you to task for it.' Her face seemed to grow youthful and earnest for an instant. Torrens realized she held life only by strength of will. 'I am thinking of the Juliana gardens, ' Caroline said. 'How lovely they were. The orangerie. And you, my loving friend. Tell me, could we have been happy?' 'Yes.' Torrens raised her hand to his lips. 'Yes. I am certain of it.' Caroline did not speak again. Torrens stayed at her side. She died later that morning. Torrens buried her in the shelter of a hedgerow at the far edge of the field. The farmer offered to help, but Torrens refused and dug the grave himself. Later, in the farmhouse, he slept heavily for the first time since his escape. Mercifully, he did not dream. Next day, he gave the farmer his clothing in trade for peasant garb. He hitched up the cart and drove back to the road. He could have pressed on, lost himself beyond search in the provinces. He was free. Except for his promise. He turned the cart toward Marianstat.

Lloyd Alexander
torrens-kicked-at-door-until-it-was-finally-opened-the-farm-couple-three-youngsters-had-been-eating-breakfast-in-common-room-the-yard-dog-would-have-bounded-in-had-not-torrens-ki
Billos ran. He tore down the shore, bounded up on the rock, and dove into the air. The warm water engulfed him. A boiling heat knocked the wind from his lungs. The shock alone might kill him. But it was pleasure that surged through his body, not pain. The sensations coursed through his bones in great unrelenting waves. Elyon. How he was certain, he did not know. But he knew. Elyon was in this lake with him. Billos opened his eyes. Gold light drifted by. He lost all sense of direction. The water pressed in on every inch of his body, as intense as any acid, but one that burned with pleasure instead of pain. He sank into the water, opened his mouth and laughed. He wanted more, much more. He wanted to suck the water in and drink it. Without thinking, he did just that. The liquid hit his lungs. Billos pulled up, panicked. He tried to hack the water from his lungs, but inhaled more instead. No pain. He carefully sucked more water and breathed it out slowly. Then again, deep and hard. Out with a soft whoosh. He was breathing the water! Billos shrieked with laughter. He swam into the lake, deeper and deeper. The power contained in this lake was far greater than anything he'd ever imagined. "I made this, Billos." Billos whipped his body around, searching for the words' source. "Elyon?" His voice was muffled, hardly a voice at all. "Do you like it?" "Yes!" Billos said. He might have spoken; he might have shouted-he didn't know. He only knew that his whole body screamed it. Billos looked around. "Elyon?" "Why do you doubt me, Billos?" In that single moment the full weight of Billos's foolishness crashed on him like a sledgehammer. "I see you, Billos." "I made you." "I love you." The words crashed over him, reaching into the deepest folds of his flesh, caressing each hidden synapse, flowing through every vein, as though he had been given a transfusion. "I choose you, Billos." Billos began to weep. The feeling was more intense than any pain he had ever felt. The current pulled at him, tugging him up through the colors. His body trembled with pleasure. He wanted to speak, to yell, to tell the whole world that he was the most fortunate person in the universe. That he was loved by Elyon. Elyon himself. "Never leave me, Billos." "Never! I will never leave you." The current pushed him through the water and then above the surface not ten meters from the shore. He stood on the sandy bottom. For a moment he had such clarity of mind that he was sure he could understand the very fabric of space if he put his mind to it. He was chosen. He was loved.

Ted Dekker
There was just enough room for the tonga to get through among the bullock-carts, rickshaws, cycles and pedestrians who thronged both the road and the pavement-which they shared with barbers plying their trade out of doors, fortune-tellers, flimsy tea-stalls, vegetable-stands, monkey-trainers, ear-cleaners, pickpockets, stray cattle, the odd sleepy policeman sauntering along in faded khaki, sweat-soaked men carrying impossible loads of copper, steel rods, glass or scrap paper on their backs as they yelled 'Look out! Look out!' in voices that somehow pierced though the din, shops of brassware and cloth (the owners attempting with shouts and gestures to entice uncertain shoppers in), the small carved stone entrance of the Tinny Tots (English Medium) School which opened out onto the courtyard of the reconverted haveli of a bankrupt aristocrat, and beggars-young and old, aggressive and meek, leprous, maimed or blinded-who would quietly invade Nabiganj as evening fell, attempting to avoid the police as they worked the queues in front of the cinema-halls. Crows cawed, small boys in rags rushed around on errands (one balancing six small dirty glasses of tea on a cheap tin tray as he weaved through the crowd) monkeys chattered in and bounded about a great shivering-leafed pipal tree and tried to raid unwary customers as they left the well-guarded fruit-stand, women shuffled along in anonymous burqas or bright saris, with or without their menfolk, a few students from the university lounging around a chaat-stand shouted at each other from a foot away either out of habit or in order to be heard, mangy dogs snapped and were kicked, skeletal cats mewed and were stoned, and flies settled everywhere: on heaps of foetid, rotting rubbish, on the uncovered sweets at the sweetseller's in whose huge curved pans of ghee sizzled delicioius jalebis, on the faces of the sari-clad but not the burqa-clad women, and on the horse's nostrils as he shook his blinkered head and tried to forge his way through Old Brahmpur in the direction of the Barsaat Mahal.

Vikram Seth
there-was-just-enough-room-for-tonga-to-get-through-among-bullockcarts-rickshaws-cycles-pedestrians-who-thronged-both-road-pavementwhich-they-shared-with-barbers-plying-their-tra
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