Clutched 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
i-clutched-the-hammer-shut-it-was-in-1965
after-sixtyone-years-together-she-simply-clutched-my-hand-exhaled-sara-gruen
whenever-my-environment-had-failed-to-support-nourish-me-i-had-clutched-at-books-richard-wright
the-way-his-plump-hand-clutched-at-her-hip-seemed-somehow-improper-not-morally-aesthetically-truman-capote
he-was-amazing-father-i-clutched-my-memories-him-to-my-heart-for-long-but-hes-part-world
what-is-on-that-memory-stick-if-you-dont-mind-me-asking-she-was-following-him-back-into-his-apartment-when-he-asked-realized-she-still-clutched-it-something-i-never-want-to-see-a
the-devilclutched-hold-miserable-young-man-flew-off-with-him-through-ceiling-since-which-time-nothing-has-been-heard-him-martin-luther
the-true-harvest-my-life-is-intangible-little-star-dust-caught-portion-rainbow-i-have-clutched-henry-david-thoreau
im-going-to-arrange-you-if-thats-okay-i-swallowed-uh-sure-my-hands-were-clutched-to-my-ribcage-my-shoulders-hunched-almost-to-my-ears-what-this-isnt-tammara-webber
sophie-clutched-grant-tighter-i-dont-know-what-screwedup-messages-from-your-family-are-floating-around-in-your-head-right-now-but-youre-staying-right-here-jennifer-lane
i-took-that-smile-i-put-it-right-where-hole-in-my-chest-was-it-was-better-than-coffee-chocolate-perfect-pirouette-i-clutched-it-held-it-tight-cecil-castellucci
i-clutched-at-brow-the-mice-in-my-interior-had-now-got-up-informal-dance-were-buckwinging-all-over-place-like-bunch-nijinskys-p-g-wodehouse
i-turned-on-pillow-with-little-moan-at-this-juncture-jeeves-entered-with-vital-oolong-i-clutched-at-it-like-drowning-man-at-straw-hat-p-g-wodehouse
kent-steepled-his-fingers-in-consideration-bloodred-rubies-flashed-in-sunlight-like-eyes-demon-clutched-in-his-hands-vs-carnes
her-voice-faltered-to-stop-fear-confusion-clutched-at-her-throat-like-some-terrible-beast-suddenly-she-was-finding-it-difficult-to-breathe-emily-arden
news-was-bad-on-upland-ave-metuchen-mourn-our-loss-sons-rebelled-while-fathers-yelled-and-mothers-clutched-the-cross-the-lumineers
in-old-days-he-had-clutched-life-with-such-violence-that-juice-it-ran-out-between-his-fingers-was-lost-but-now-he-would-touch-it-delicately-thankful-for-good-accepting-ills-with-
once-i-knew-only-darkness-stillnessmy-life-was-without-past-futurebut-little-word-from-fingers-another-fell-into-my-hand-that-clutched-at-emptiness-my-heart-leaped-to-rapture-liv
england-was-cold-backward-rebellious-little-kingdom-its-king-henry-eighth-remembered-principally-for-his-six-wives-chicken-legs-clutched-in-his-fat-fists-kage-baker
the-atheist-is-god-playing-at-hide-seek-with-himself-but-is-theist-any-other-well-perhaps-for-he-has-seen-shadow-god-clutched-at-it-sri-aurobindo
she-pushed-my-chest-like-she-wanted-me-off-her-but-her-fingers-had-my-shirt-clutched-in-them-i-knew-she-was-full-shit-she-wanted-me-sc-stephens
once-i-knew-depth-where-no-hope-was-darkness-lay-on-face-all-things-but-little-word-from-fingers-another-fell-into-my-hand-that-clutched-at-emptiness-my-heart-leaped-to-rapture-l
people-took-what-they-wanted-they-clutched-at-coincidences-few-there-were-made-life-from-them-choices-are-made-in-brief-seconds-paid-for-in-time-that-remains-paolo-giordano
darkness-had-fallen-upon-everything-for-him-but-just-because-this-darkness-he-felt-that-one-guiding-clue-in-darkness-was-his-work-he-clutched-it-clung-to-it-with-all-his-strength
she-closes-her-eyes-i-can-see-moisture-shes-deepbreathing-again-i-notice-her-hands-are-clutched-around-opposing-wrists-nails-digging-in-deep-hard-scratching-pain-to-replace-pain-
Jenks and I stood there like statues watching him twitch, his eyes rolling up in his head. He clutched at his clothes pulling the wooden pole they hung from down on top of him. Slowly his right hand came scrambling out away from his body to clutch at my left leg. Without thinking I shoved my crucifix at him and he pulled his hand back with a hiss, shielding his face again. As quickly as I could, I dug my tubes of Holy Water out of my coat pocket and emptied them on his head. He shrieked again and clawed at his face. Jenks followed suit, pouring his two vials on Skorzeny's body and legs. Skorzeny started to foam and bubble before our eyes. I was paralyzed. I couldn't quite believe what was happening. Those books hadn't described any of this. I was feeling dizzy and sick. The shrieks turned to groans and a gurgling deep in his throat. He pulled his hands away from his face and it looked like the disintegrating Portrait of Dorian Gray. I looked over to Jenks who had an odd expression on his face. I looked over to Jenks who had on odd expression on his face. He motioned to me and reached for my left hand which, I noticed, was still clutching the airline hag with the stake and hammer in it. I dropped it and he grabbed it off the floor, moving over to the smoking form still squirming in the closet which smelled even more foul than before, and oozing a greenish yellow pus from the crumpled clothing on his scarecrow frame. Jenks looked back at me and handed me the stake and hammer. 'Go ahead. This was your idea. Finish it.' I declined, turning away. Jenks spun me around violently and thrust the stake into my left hand. He pushed me toward what was left of Skorzeny and forced me to my knees. He forced my hand toward Skorzeny, positioning the stake over the man's chest. Then he stuck the hammer in my right hand. 'Do it, you gutless sonofabitch. Finish it... now!' And he stepped away. I looked at him and back at Skorzeny. Then I gave one vicious swing and hit the stake dead center. The thing made a gurgling grunt, like a pig snuffling for food, and started to regurgitate a blackish fluid from its mouth. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and hit the stake three more times. Then I fell back and threw up. When I looked back, Skorzeny's hands, or what was left of them, clutched at the stake trying to pull it out. Suddenly, he emitted a kind of moaning, sucking sound, gagged and more bile-colored liquid flecked with black and red came coiling up in a viscous rope like some evil worm from his mouth. And he stopped moving, his hands still clutching the stake. Then a sort of gaseous mist started to rise from his body and it was so much worse than the original smell that I pushed Jenks aside and ran from the house. I ran all the way to a patrol car where I slumped against the left front wheel as Jenks slowly strolled toward me. He walked past me, ignoring me, and opened his trunk, taking out a couple of small gas cans, and headed back to the house. I wasn't paying much attention until he left the house again and I saw it was aflame.

Jeff Rice
jenks-i-stood-there-like-statues-watching-him-twitch-his-eyes-rolling-up-in-his-head-he-clutched-at-his-clothes-pulling-wooden-pole-they-hung-from-down-on-top-him-slowly-his-righ
Alexander moved her off him, laid her down, was over her, was pressed into her, crushing her. Anthony was right there, he didn't care, he was trying to inhale her, trying to absorb her into himself. "All this time you were stepping out in front of me, Tatiana, " he said. "Now I finally understand. You hid me on Bethel Island for eight months. For two years you hid me and deceived me - to save me. I am such an idiot, " he whispered. "Wretch or not, ravaged or not, in a carapace or not, there you still were, stepping out for me, showing the mute mangled stranger your brave and indifferent face." Her eyes closed, her arms tightened around his neck. "That stranger is my life, " she whispered. They crawled away from Anthony, from their only bed, onto a blanket on the floor, barricading themselves behind the table and chairs. "You left our boy to go find me, and this is what you found... " Alexander whispered, on top of her, pushing inside her, searching for peace. Crying out underneath him, Tatiana clutched his shoulders. "This is what you brought back from Sachsenhausen." his movement was tense, deep, needful. Oh God. Now there was comfort. "You thought you were bringing back him, but Tania, you brought back me." "Shura... you'll have to do... " Her fingers were clamped into his scars. "In you, " said Alexander, lowering his lips to her parted mouth and cleaving their flesh, "are the answers to all things." All the rivers flowed into the sea and still the sea was not full.

Paullina Simons
alexander-moved-her-off-him-laid-her-down-was-over-her-was-pressed-into-her-crushing-her-anthony-was-right-there-he-didnt-care-he-was-trying-to-inhale-her-trying-to-absorb-her-in
I know that you are preparing to fight." There were screams amongst the students, some of whom clutched each other, looking around in terror for the source of the sound. "Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood." There was silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence that presses against the eardrums, that seems too huge to be contained by walls. "Give me Harry Potter, " said Voldemort's voice, "and they shall not be harmed.Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. "You have until midnight." The silence swallowed them all again. Every head turned, every eye in the place seemed to have found Harry, to hold him forever in the glare of thousands of invisible beams. Then a figure rose from the Slytherin table and he recognized Pansy Parkinson as she raised a shaking arm and screamed, "But he's there! Potter's there. Someone grab him!" Before Harry could speak, there was a massive movement. The Gryffindors in front of him had risen and stood facing, not Harry, but the Slytherins. Then the Hufflepuffs stood, and almost at the same moment, the Ravenclaws, all of them with their backs to Harry, all of them looking toward Pansy instead, and Harry, awestruck and overwhelmed, saw wands emerging everywhere, pulled from beneath cloaks and from under sleeves. "Thank you, Miss Parkinson." said Professor McGonagall in a clipped voice."You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow.

J.K. Rowling
i-know-that-you-are-preparing-to-fight-there-were-screams-amongst-students-some-whom-clutched-each-other-looking-around-in-terror-for-source-sound-your-efforts-are-futile-you-can
SO HERE WE ARE ALL ALONE NOW, HOLD ME CLOSE, TELL ME LIES THIS ISN'T HOME AND THIS ISN'T RIGHT NOT GONNA STAND HERE AND WAIT FOR SOMETHING I CAN'T... PLEASE, PLEASE JUST SET ME FREE I FEEL THE HEAT SO WHY AM I COLD, JUST CANT SEEM TO LET YOU GO 'CAUSE' YOU STILL WANT A PIECE AND I NEED IT ALL, LIGHTS WERE ON WHEN THERE WAS NO ONE HOME WHEN YOU'D INVITE ME IN AND THEN YOU'D SHUT THE DOOR BEFORE I CLUTCHED MY PALM I COULD FEEL YOU STARE, NOTHING BETWEEN US BUT FAMILY. SO PLEASE LISTEN CLOSE, MY STORY GOES ON FRIENDS ARE LEAVING AS WE'RE GROWING OLD, COUNT MILES BACK AND I'M OUT THE DOOR, SO I'D BETTER TELL MYSELF I'M NEVER COMING HOME. EVERYBODY SAYS "PLAY BY THE RULES" SHUT YOUR MOUTH AND JUST PLAY IT COOL, GO ON AND PAY YOUR DUES, FORGET THAT! THAT'S WHAT CAME BEFORE. STOP! STOP! WAIT! WAIT! I THINK WE HAVE CONTACT, ONE SECOND I CAN'T WAIT AND GIVE ME JUST ONE CHANCE, CHANCE! CHANCE! CHANCE! I THINK WE HAVE CONTACT, ONE SECOND I CAN'T WAIT AND GIVE ME JUST ONE... STOP! STOP! WAIT! WAIT! I THINK WE HAVE CONTACT, ONE SECOND I CAN'T WAIT AND GIVE ME JUST ONE CHANCE, CHANCE! CHANCE! CHANCE! I THINK WE HAVE CONTACT... SO HERE WE ARE ALL ALONE NOW, HOLD ME CLOSE, TELL ME LIES THIS ISN'T HOME AND THIS ISN'T RIGHT NOT GONNA STAND HERE AND WAIT FOR SOMETHING I CAN'T... BREATH, BREATH AND FEEL DISEASED WELL YOU ALL CAN SEE ITS NOT TIME TO LEAVE, HOW'S IT FEEL TO BE COMPLETE? DON'T STOP ME NOW CAUSE' I CAN ALMOST REACH, PULL MYSELF OUT OF ANOTHER HOLE, TAKE IT TO THEM BUT DON'T TALK TO ME CAUSE' YOU CANT RELATE NO NEED TO RUSH, I'M ALREADY LATE, AND IN THIS CASE MY WORLD IS ERASED OUT AND PULLED MY FACE DOWN STRAIGHT FROM THE GRAVE AND I SEE TONIGHT, STRAIGHT FROM OUT MY LIES, ROLL YOUR EYES, COOL ME DOWN, I NEED TO FIND. TAKE MY HAND IN SPITE OF ME CAUSE' I'M ON MY KNEES AND I'M BEGGING PLEASE NEED A TASTE OF WHAT I CRAVE WHAT I CRAVE IS FATE! I THINK WE HAVE CONTACT...

Grade 8
so-here-we-are-all-alone-now-hold-me-close-tell-me-lies-this-isnt-home-and-this-isnt-right-not-gonna-stand-here-and-wait-for-something-i-cant-please-grade-8
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-
Suppose after all that death does end all. Next to eternal joy, next to being forever with those we love and those who have loved us, next to that, is to be wrapt in the dreamless drapery of eternal peace. Next to eternal life is eternal sleep. Upon the shadowy shore of death the sea of trouble casts no wave. Eyes that have been curtained by the everlasting dark, will never know again the burning touch of tears. Lips touched by eternal silence will never speak again the broken words of grief. Hearts of dust do not break. The dead do not weep. Within the tomb no veiled and weeping sorrow sits, and in the rayless gloom is crouched no shuddering fear. I had rather think of those I have loved, and lost, as having returned to earth, as having become a part of the elemental wealth of the world - I would rather think of them as unconscious dust, I would rather dream of them as gurgling in the streams, floating in the clouds, bursting in the foam of light upon the shores of worlds, I would rather think of them as the lost visions of a forgotten night, than to have even the faintest fear that their naked souls have been clutched by an orthodox god. I will leave my dead where nature leaves them. Whatever flower of hope springs up in my heart I will cherish, I will give it breath of sighs and rain of tears. But I cannot believe that there is any being in this universe who has created a human soul for eternal pain. I would rather that every god would destroy himself; I would rather that we all should go to eternal chaos, to black and starless night, than that just one soul should suffer eternal agony. I have made up my mind that if there is a God, he will be merciful to the merciful. Upon that rock I stand. - That he will not torture the forgiving. - Upon that rock I stand. - That every man should be true to himself, and that there is no world, no star, in which honesty is a crime. Upon that rock I stand. The honest man, the good woman, the happy child, have nothing to fear, either in this world or the world to come. Upon that rock I stand.

Robert G. Ingersoll
suppose-after-all-that-death-does-end-all-next-to-eternal-joy-next-to-being-forever-with-those-we-love-those-who-have-loved-us-next-to-that-is-to-be-wrapt-in-dreamless-drapery-et
A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon-a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit almost for a dead deity-and gazed upon the sarcophagus of rare and nameless marble, where rest at last the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world. I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine, contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon-I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris-I saw him at the head of the army of Italy-I saw him crossing the bridge of Lodi with the tri-color in his hand-I saw him in Egypt in the shadows of the pyramids-I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags. I saw him at Marengo-at Ulm and Austerlitz. I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster-driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris-clutched like a wild beast-banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fate combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king. And I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea. I thought of the orphans and widows he had made-of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky-with my children upon my knees and their arms about me-I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as 'Napoleon the Great.

Robert G. Ingersoll
a-little-while-ago-i-stood-by-grave-old-napoleon-magnificent-tomb-gilt-gold-fit-almost-for-dead-deity-gazed-upon-sarcophagus-rare-nameless-marble-where-rest-at-last-ashes-that-re
The Idiot. I have read it once, and find that I don't remember the events of the book very well-or even all the principal characters. But mostly the 'portrait of a truly beautiful person' that dostoevsky supposedly set out to write in that book. And I remember how Myshkin seemed so simple when I began the book, but by the end, I realized how I didn't understand him at all. the things he did. Maybe when I read it again it will be different. But the plot of these dostoevsky books can hold such twists and turns for the first-time reader- I guess that's b/c he was writing most of these books as serials that had to have cliffhangers and such. But I make marks in my books, mostly at parts where I see the author's philosophical points standing in the most stark relief. My copy of Moby Dick is positively full of these marks. The Idiot, I find has a few... Part 3, Section 5. The sickly Ippolit is reading from his 'Explanation' or whatever its called. He says his convictions are not tied to him being condemned to death. It's important for him to describe, of happiness: "you may be sure that Columbus was happy not when he had discovered America, but when he was discovering it." That it's the process of life-not the end or accomplished goals in it-that matter. Well. Easier said than lived! Part 3, Section 6. more of Ippolit talking-about a christian mindset. He references Jesus's parable of The Word as seeds that grow in men, couched in a description of how people are interrelated over time; its a picture of a multiplicity. Later in this section, he relates looking at a painting of Christ being taken down from the cross, at Rogozhin's house. The painting produced in him an intricate metaphor of despair over death "in the form of a huge machine of the most modern construction which, dull and insensible, has aimlessly clutched, crushed, and swallowed up a great priceless Being, a Being worth all nature and its laws, worth the whole earth, which was created perhaps solely for the sake of the advent of this Being." The way Ippolit's ideas are configured, here, reminds me of the writings of Gilles Deleuze. And the phrasing just sort of remidns me of the way everyone feels-many people feel crushed by the incomprehensible machine, in life. Many people feel martyred in their very minor ways. And it makes me think of the concept that a narrative religion like Christianity uniquely allows for a kind of socialized or externalized, shared experience of subjectivity. Like, we all know the story of this man-and it feels like our own stories at the same time. Part 4, Section 7. Myshkin's excitement (leading to a seizure) among the Epanchin's dignitary guests when he talks about what the nobility needs to become ("servants in order to be leaders"). I'm drawn to things like this because it's affirming, I guess, for me: "it really is true that we're absurd, that we're shallow, have bad habits, that we're bored, that we don't know how to look at things, that we can't understand; we're all like that." And of course he finds a way to make that into a good thing. which, it's pointed out by scholars, is very important to Dostoevsky philosophy-don't deny the earthly passions and problems in yourself, but accept them and incorporate them into your whole person. Me, I'm still working on that one.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky
the-idiot-i-have-read-it-once-find-that-i-dont-remember-events-book-well-even-all-principal-characters-but-mostly-portrait-truly-beautiful-person-that-dostoevsky-supposedly-set-o
Antonia Valleau cast the first shovelful of dirt onto her husband's fur-shrouded body, lying in the grave she'd dug in their garden plot, the only place where the soil wasn't still rock hard. I won't be breakin' down. For the sake of my children, I must be strong. Pain squeezed her chest like a steel trap. She had to force herself to take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of loam and pine. I must be doing this. She drove the shovel into the soil heaped next to the grave, hefted the laden blade, and dumped the earth over Jean-Claude, trying to block out the thumping sound the soil made as it covered him. Even as Antonia scooped and tossed, her muscles aching from the effort, her heart stayed numb, and her mind kept playing out the last sight of her husband. The memory haunting her, she paused to catch her breath and wipe the sweat off her brow, her face hot from exertion in spite of the cool spring air. Antonia touched the tips of her dirty fingers to her lips. She could still feel the pressure of Jean-Claude's mouth on hers as he'd kissed her before striding out the door for a day of hunting. She'd held up baby Jacques, and Jean-Claude had tapped his son's nose. Jacques had let out a belly laugh that made his father respond in kind. Her heart had filled with so much love and pride in her family that she'd chuckled, too. Stepping outside, she'd watched Jean-Claude ruffle the dark hair of their six-year-old, Henri. Then he strode off, whistling, with his rifle carried over his shoulder. She'd thought it would be a good day-a normal day. She assumed her husband would return to their mountain home in the afternoon before dusk as he always did, unless he had a longer hunt planned. As Antonia filled the grave, she denied she was burying her husband. Jean-Claude be gone a checkin' the trap line, she told herself, flipping the dirt onto his shroud. She moved through the nightmare with leaden limbs, a knotted stomach, burning dry eyes, and a throat that felt as though a log had lodged there. While Antonia shoveled, she kept glancing at her little house, where, inside, Henri watched over the sleeping baby. From the garden, she couldn't see the doorway. She worried about her son-what the glimpse of his father's bloody body had done to the boy. Mon Dieu, she couldn't stop to comfort him. Not yet. Henri had promised to stay inside with the baby, but she didn't know how long she had before Jacques woke up. Once she finished burying Jean-Claude, Antonia would have to put her sons on a mule and trek to where she'd found her husband's body clutched in the great arms of the dead grizzly. She wasn't about to let his last kill lie there for the animals and the elements to claim. Her family needed that meat and the fur. She heard a sleepy wail that meant Jacques had awakened. Just a few more shovelfuls. Antonia forced herself to hurry, despite how her arms, shoulders, and back screamed in pain. When she finished the last shovelful of earth, exhausted, Antonia sank to her knees, facing the cabin, her back to the grave, placing herself between her sons and where their father lay. She should go to them, but she was too depleted to move.

Debra Holland
antonia-valleau-cast-first-shovelful-dirt-onto-her-husbands-furshrouded-body-lying-in-grave-shed-dug-in-their-garden-plot-only-place-where-soil-wasnt-still-rock-hard-i-wont-be-br
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