Cradles 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
religions-are-cradles-despotism-marquis-de-sade
love-humiliates-you-hatred-cradles-you-janet-fitch
i-would-never-rob-your-cradles-to-feed-dogs-war-huey-long
the-cradles-civilization-are-putrid-sinks-world-henry-miller
achilles-weeps-he-cradles-me-will-not-eat-nor-speak-word-other-than-my-name-madeline-miller
we-are-all-tattooed-in-our-cradles-with-beliefs-our-tribe-record-may-seem-superficial-but-it-is-indelible-oliver-wendell-holmes
dada-is-beautiful-like-night-who-cradles-young-day-in-her-arms-hans-arp
women-are-cradles-life-what-sort-man-tries-to-break-cradle-marc-diana-palmer
oh-gather-ye-now-one-all-no-what-matter-what-all-ye-may-do-where-stars-fill-your-soul-when-moon-cradles-all-so-to-yourself-be-true-loreena-mckennitt
if-youre-lucky-you-find-something-that-reflects-you-helps-you-feel-your-life-protects-you-cradles-you-connects-you-to-everything-dar-williams
temperaments-children-are-often-as-oddly-unsuited-to-parents-as-if-capricious-fairies-had-been-filling-cradles-with-changelings-harriet-beecher-stowe
the-ocean-cradles-bloodied-moon-in-its-aquatic-arms-like-mother-holds-her-crying-babe-moonshine-noire
my-mothers-dress-bears-stains-her-life-blueberries-blood-bleach-breast-milk-she-cradles-in-her-arms-lifetime-love-sorrow-its-brilliance-nearly-blinds-me-brenda-sutton-rose
the-seventeenth-century-baby-slept-as-his-nineteenth-century-descendant-does-in-cradle-nothing-could-be-prettier-than-old-cradles-that-have-survived-successive-years-use-with-man
art-for-arts-sake-is-for-well-fed-the-well-fed-are-all-babies-in-cradles-my-kitty-along-with-them-i-am-happy-if-my-writings-are-for-my-kitty-lara-biyuts
do-you-know-when-i-am-with-you-i-am-not-afraid-at-all-it-is-magic-altogether-curious-that-happens-inside-heart-i-wish-i-could-take-it-with-me-when-i-leave-it-is-sad-my-grey-we-ar
STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama's dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn't look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter's hands, with a writer's hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother's life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Brenda Sutton Rose
stains-with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-her-teeth-keys-piano-i-pl
There were usually not nearly as many sick people inside the hospital as Yossarian saw outside the hospital, and there were generally fewer people inside the hospital who were seriously sick. There was a much lower death rate inside the hospital than outside the hospital, and a much healthier death rate. Few people died unnecessarily. People knew a lot more about dying inside the hospital and made a much neater job of it. They couldn't dominate Death inside the hospital, but they certainly made her behave. They had taught her manners. They couldn't keep Death out, but while she was there she had to act like a lady. People gave up the ghost with delicacy and taste inside the hospital. There was none of that crude, ugly ostentation about dying that was so common outside of the hospital. They did not blow-up in mid-air like Kraft or the dead man in Yossarian's tent, or freeze to death in the blazing summertime the way Snowden had frozen to death after spilling his secret to Yossarian in the back of the plane. 'I'm cold, ' Snowden had whimpered. 'I'm cold.' 'There, there, ' Yossarian had tried to comfort him. 'There, there.' They didn't take it on the lam weirdly inside a cloud the way Clevinger had done. They didn't explode into blood and clotted matter. They didn't drown or get struck by lightning, mangled by machinery or crushed in landslides. They didn't get shot to death in hold-ups, strangled to death in rapes, stabbed to death in saloons, blugeoned to death with axes by parents or children, or die summarily by some other act of God. Nobody choked to death. People bled to death like gentlemen in an operating room or expired without comment in an oxygen tent. There was none of that tricky now-you-see-me-now-you-don't business so much in vogue outside the hospital, none of that now-I-am-and-now-I-ain't. There were no famines or floods. Children didn't suffocate in cradles or iceboxes or fall under trucks. No one was beaten to death. People didn't stick their heads into ovens with the gas on, jump in front of subway trains or come plummeting like dead weights out of hotel windows with a whoosh!, accelerating at the rate of thirty-two feet per second to land with a hideous plop! on the sidewalk and die disgustingly there in public like an alpaca sack full of hairy strawberry ice cream, bleeding, pink toes awry.

Joseph Heller
there-were-usually-not-nearly-as-many-sick-people-inside-hospital-as-yossarian-saw-outside-hospital-there-were-generally-fewer-people-inside-hospital-who-were-seriously-sick-ther
Exoneration of Jesus Christ If Christ was in fact God, he knew all the future. Before Him like a panorama moved the history yet to be. He knew how his words would be interpreted. He knew what crimes, what horrors, what infamies, would be committed in his name. He knew that the hungry flames of persecution would climb around the limbs of countless martyrs. He knew that thousands and thousands of brave men and women would languish in dungeons in darkness, filled with pain. He knew that his church would invent and use instruments of torture; that his followers would appeal to whip and fagot, to chain and rack. He saw the horizon of the future lurid with the flames of the auto da fe. He knew what creeds would spring like poisonous fungi from every text. He saw the ignorant sects waging war against each other. He saw thousands of men, under the orders of priests, building prisons for their fellow-men. He saw thousands of scaffolds dripping with the best and bravest blood. He saw his followers using the instruments of pain. He heard the groans-saw the faces white with agony. He heard the shrieks and sobs and cries of all the moaning, martyred multitudes. He knew that commentaries would be written on his words with swords, to be read by the light of fagots. He knew that the Inquisition would be born of the teachings attributed to him. He saw the interpolations and falsehoods that hypocrisy would write and tell. He saw all wars that would be waged, and-he knew that above these fields of death, these dungeons, these rackings, these burnings, these executions, for a thousand years would float the dripping banner of the cross. He knew that hypocrisy would be robed and crowned-that cruelty and credulity would rule the world; knew that liberty would perish from the earth; knew that popes and kings in his name would enslave the souls and bodies of men; knew that they would persecute and destroy the discoverers, thinkers and inventors; knew that his church would extinguish reason's holy light and leave the world without a star. He saw his disciples extinguishing the eyes of men, flaying them alive, cutting out their tongues, searching for all the nerves of pain. He knew that in his name his followers would trade in human flesh; that cradles would be robbed and women's breasts unbabed for gold. And yet he died with voiceless lips. Why did he fail to speak? Why did he not tell his disciples, and through them the world: 'You shall not burn, imprison and torture in my name. You shall not persecute your fellow-men.' Why did he not plainly say: 'I am the Son of God, ' or, 'I am God'? Why did he not explain the Trinity? Why did he not tell the mode of baptism that was pleasing to him? Why did he not write a creed? Why did he not break the chains of slaves? Why did he not say that the Old Testament was or was not the inspired word of God? Why did he not write the New Testament himself? Why did he leave his words to ignorance, hypocrisy and chance? Why did he not say something positive, definite and satisfactory about another world? Why did he not turn the tear-stained hope of heaven into the glad knowledge of another life? Why did he not tell us something of the rights of man, of the liberty of hand and brain? Why did he go dumbly to his death, leaving the world to misery and to doubt? I will tell you why. He was a man, and did not know.

Robert G. Ingersoll
exoneration-jesus-christ-if-christ-was-in-fact-god-he-knew-all-future-before-him-like-panorama-moved-history-yet-to-be-he-knew-how-his-words-would-be-interpreted-he-knew-what-cri
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