Confusions 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
you-live-out-the-confusions-until-they-become-clear
one-learns-in-life-to-keep-silent-draw-ones-confusions-cornelia-otis-skinner
one-learns-in-life-to-keep-silent-draw-ones-own-confusions-cornelia-otis-skinner
she-is-too-absorbed-in-difficulties-being-seventeen-to-want-to-hear-confusions-fortyfour-barbara-kingsolver
childhood-is-not-all-candy-stores-recess-its-frustrations-confusions-too-chelsey-philpot
christianity-is-not-being-destroyed-by-the-confusions-and-concussions-of-the-time-it-is-being-discovered
civil-confusions-often-spring-from-trifles-but-decide-great-issues-aristotle
my-best-works-are-erotic-displays-mental-confusions-with-intrusions-irrelevant-information-marlene-dumas
a-real-mom-sees-beyond-your-confusions-and-understands-the-kind-of-support-you-need-to-sail-through-and-then-gives-it-all-to-you
insight-into-two-selves-within-man-clears-up-many-confusions-contradictions-it-was-our-understanding-that-preceded-our-victory-vernon-howard
the-image-that-fiction-presents-is-purged-distractions-confusions-accidents-ordinary-life-robert-penn-warren
i-feel-that-these-stories-are-being-written-to-articulate-certain-confusions-disappointments-i-do-mean-to-shake-up-reader-i-do-hope-theyre-on-target
i-think-that-when-youre-writing-fiction-what-youre-doing-is-reflecting-life-as-you-see-it-putting-down-how-you-think-how-other-people-think-sort-confusions-that-you-dont-normally
ive-learned-to-value-failed-conversations-missed-connections-confusions-what-remains-is-whats-unsaid-whats-underneath-understanding-on-another-level-anna-kamienska
innumerable-confusions-feeling-despair-invariably-emerge-in-periods-great-technological-cultural-transition-marshall-mcluhan
it-is-astonishing-how-elements-which-seem-insoluble-become-soluble-when-someone-listens-how-confusions-which-seem-irremediable-turn-into-relatively-carl-rogers
these-poems-with-all-their-crudities-doubts-confusions-are-written-for-love-man-in-praise-god-id-be-damn-fool-if-they-werent-dylan-thomas
people-are-deeply-imbedded-in-philosophical-ie-grammatical-confusions-and-to-free-them-presupposes-pulling-them-out-immensely-manifold-connections-ludwig-wittgenstein
to-most-teenagers-life-is-strange-uncharted-land-filled-with-mixture-new-joys-intensely-felt-painful-confusions-for-which-they-know-no-anodyne-eleanor-roosevelt
all-perplexities-confusions-distresses-in-america-arise-not-from-defects-in-their-constitution-confederation-nor-from-want-honor-virtue-as-much-from-downright-ignorance-nature-co
it-is-easier-to-hide-behind-philosophical-arguments-heavily-footnoted-for-effect-than-it-is-to-admit-our-hurts-our-confusions-our-loves-our-passions-ravi-zacharias
a-fiveyear-old-is-in-pretty-good-position-to-assess-who-is-beautiful-who-is-not-removed-from-confusions-sexuality-he-she-can-judge-face-as-face-roger-rosenblatt
were-all-mad-whole-damned-race-were-wrapped-in-illusions-delusions-confusions-about-penetrability-partitions-were-all-mad-in-solitary-confinement-william-golding
it-is-easy-enough-to-praise-men-for-courage-their-convictions-i-wish-i-could-teach-sad-young-this-mealy-generation-courage-their-confusions
In Uganda, I wrote a questionaire that I had my research assistants give; on it, I asked about the embalasassa, a speckled lizard said to be poisonous and to have been sent by Prime minsister Milton Obote to kill Baganda in the late 1960s. It is not poisonous and was no more common in the 1960s than it had been in previous decades, as Makerere University science professors announced on the radio and stated in print... I wrote the question, What is the difference between basimamoto and embalasassa? Anyone who knows anything about the Bantu language-myself included-would know the answer was contained in the question: humans and reptiles are different living things and belong to different noun classes... A few of my informants corrected my ignorance... but many, many more ignored the translation in my question and moved beyond it to address the history of the constructs of firemen and poisonous lizards without the slightest hesitation. They disregarded language to engage in a discussion of events... My point is not about the truth of the embalasassa story... but rather that the labeling of one thing as 'true' and the other as 'fictive' or 'metaphorical'-all the usual polite academic terms for false-may eclipse all the intricate ways in which people use social truths to talk about the past. Moreover, chronological contradictions may foreground the fuzziness of certain ideas and policies, and that fuzziness may be more accurate than any exact historical reconstruction... Whether the story of the poisionous embalasassa was real was hardly the issue; there was a real, harmless lizard and there was a real time when people in and around Kampala feared the embalasassa. They feared it in part because of beliefs about lizards, but mainly what frightened people was their fear of their government and the lengths to which it would go to harm them. The confusions and the misunderstandings show what is important; knowledge about the actual lizard would not.

Luise White
in-uganda-i-wrote-questionaire-that-i-had-my-research-assistants-give-on-it-i-asked-about-embalasassa-speckled-lizard-said-to-be-poisonous-to-have-been-sent-by-prime-minsister-mi
When it begins it is like a light in a tunnel, a rush of steel and steam across a torn up life. It is a low rumble, an earthquake in the back of the mind. My spine is a track with cold black steel racing on it, a trail of steam and dust following behind, ghost like. It feels like my whole life is holding its breath. By the time she leaves the room I am surprised that she can't see the train. It has jumped the track of my spine and landed in my mothers' living room. A cold dark thing, black steel and redwood paneling. It is the old type, from the western movies I loved as a kid. He throws open the doors to the outside world, to the dark ocean. I feel a breeze tugging at me, a slender finger of wind that catches at my shirt. Pulling. Grabbing. I can feel the panic build in me, the need to scream or cry rising in my throat. And then I am out the door, running, tumbling down the steps falling out into the darkened world, falling out into the lifeless ocean. Out into the blackness. Out among the stars and shadows. And underneath my skin, in the back of my head and down the back of my spine I can feel the desperation and I can feel the noise. I can feel the deep and ancient ache of loudness that litters across my bones. It's like an old lover, comfortable and well known, but unwelcome and inappropriate with her stories of our frolicking. And then she's gone and the Conductor is closing the door. The darkness swells around us, enveloping us in a cocoon, pressing flat against the train like a storm. I wonder, what is this place? Those had been heady days, full and intense. It's funny. I remember the problems, the confusions and the fears of life we all dealt with. But, that all seems to fade. It all seems to be replaced by images of the days when it was all just okay. We all had plans back then, patterns in which we expected the world to fit, how it was to be deciphered. Eventually you just can't carry yourself any longer, can't keep your eyelids open, and can't focus on anything but the flickering light of the stars. Hours pass, at first slowly like a river and then all in a rush, a climax and I am home in the dorm, waking up to the ringing of the telephone. When she is gone the apartment is silent, empty, almost like a person sleeping, waiting to wake up. When she is gone, and I am alone, I curl up on the bed, wait for the house to eject me from its dying corpse. Crazy thoughts cross through my head, like slants of light in an attic. The Boston 395 rocks a bit, a creaking noise spilling in from the undercarriage. I have decided that whatever this place is, all these noises, sensations - all the train-ness of this place - is a fabrication. It lulls you into a sense of security, allows you to feel as if it's a familiar place. But whatever it is, it's not a train, or at least not just a train. The air, heightened, tense against the glass. I can hear the squeak of shoes on linoleum, I can hear the soft rattle of a dying man's breathing. Men in white uniforms, sharp pressed lines, run past, rolling gurneys down florescent hallways.

Jason Derr
when-it-begins-it-is-like-light-in-tunnel-rush-steel-steam-across-torn-up-life-it-is-low-rumble-earthquake-in-back-mind-my-spine-is-track-with-cold-black-steel-racing-on-it-trail
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