Cupboards 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
my-first-novel-is-loaded-with-food-references-largely-because-my-cupboards-were-bare-i-was-writing-hungry
i-collect-imported-teas-i-have-few-cupboards-full-its-like-wine-each-has-its-own-flavour-you-get-into-their-little-nuances-maggie-grace
all-those-nupboards-in-cupboards-theyre-good-fun-to-have-about-but-that-nooth-gush-on-my-tooth-brushhim-i-could-do-without-dr-seuss
but-we-danced-under-wigs-between-unfinished-walls-through-broken-promises-around-empty-cupboards-sherman-alexie
i-have-tidy-cupboards-i-do-like-cupboard-to-look-nice-when-you-open-it-with-labels-facing-forward
i-live-in-old-house-with-no-closets-no-builtins-i-hate-big-cupboards-martha-stewart
my-idea-good-time-abroad-is-to-visit-someones-house-hang-out-poking-into-their-cupboards-if-they-will-let-me
what-woman-however-old-has-not-bridalfavours-raiment-stowed-away-packed-in-lavender-in-inmost-cupboards-her-heart-william-makepeace-thackeray
they-only-asked-for-punishments-that-fitted-their-crimes-not-ones-that-came-like-cupboards-with-builtin-bedrooms-not-ones-you-spent-your-whole-life-in-wandering-through-its-maze-
everything-was-curved-to-fit-walls-stove-sink-cupboards-all-it-had-been-painted-with-flowers-insects-birds-in-bright-primary-colours-j-k-rowling
we-ought-to-be-as-earnest-frequent-in-our-prayers-thanksgiving-when-cupboard-is-full-as-we-would-be-in-our-prayers-supplication-if-cupboards-were-jerry-bridges
there-is-always-one-moment-in-childhood-when-door-opens-lets-future-in-we-should-be-thankful-we-cannot-see-horrors-degradations-lying-around-our-childhood-in-cupboards-bookshelve
And that discovery would betray the closely guarded secret of modern culture to the laughter of the world. For we moderns have nothing of our own. We only become worth notice by filling ourselves to overflowing with foreign customs, arts, philosophies, religions and sciences: we are wandering encyclopaedias, as an ancient Greek who had strayed into our time would probably call us. But the only value of an encyclopaedia lies in the inside, in the contents, not in what is written outside, in the binding or the wrapper. And so the whole of modern culture is essentially internal; the bookbinder prints something like this on the cover: 'Manual of internal culture for external barbarians.' The opposition of inner and outer makes the outer side still more barbarous, as it would naturally be, when the outward growth of a rude people merely developed its primitive inner needs. For what means has nature of repressing too great a luxuriance from without? Only one, -to be affected by it as little as possible, to set it aside and stamp it out at the first opportunity. And so we have the custom of no longer taking real things seriously, we get the feeble personality on which the real and the permanent make so little impression. Men become at last more careless and accommodating in external matters, and the [Pg 34] considerable cleft between substance and form is widened; until they have no longer any feeling for barbarism, if only their memories be kept continually titillated, and there flow a constant stream of new things to be known, that can be neatly packed up in the cupboards of their memory.

Friedrich Nietzsche
and-that-discovery-would-betray-closely-guarded-secret-modern-culture-to-laughter-world-for-we-moderns-have-nothing-our-own-we-only-become-worth-notice-by-filling-ourselves-to-ov
However, the majority of women are neither harlots nor courtesans; nor do they sit clasping pug dogs to dusty velvet all through the summer afternoon. But what do they do then? and there came to my mind's eye one of those long streets somewhere south of the river whose infinite rows are innumerably populated. With the eye of the imagination I saw a very ancient lady crossing the street on the arm of a middle-aged woman, her daughter, perhaps, both so respectably booted and furred that their dressing in the afternoon must be a ritual, and the clothes themselves put away in cupboards with camphor, year after year, throughout the summer months. They cross the road when the lamps are being lit (for the dusk is their favourite hour), as they must have done year after year. The elder is close on eighty; but if one asked her what her life has meant to her, she would say that she remembered the streets lit for the battle of Balaclava, or had heard the guns fire in Hyde Park for the birth of King Edward the Seventh. And if one asked her, longing to pin down the moment with date and season, but what were you doing on the fifth of April 1868, or the second of November 1875, she would look vague and say that she could remember nothing. For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the novels, without meaning to, inevitably lie. All these infinitely obscure lives remain to be recorded, I said, addressing Mary Carmichael as if she were present; and went on in thought through the streets of London feeling in imagination the pressure of dumbness, the accumulation of unrecorded life, whether from the women at the street corners with their arms akimbo, and the rings embedded in their fat swollen fingers, talking with a gesticulation like the swing of Shakespeare's words; or from the violet-sellers and match-sellers and old crones stationed under doorways; or from drifting girls whose faces, like waves in sun and cloud, signal the coming of men and women and the flickering lights of shop windows. All that you will have to explore, I said to Mary Carmichael, holding your torch firm in your hand.

Virginia Woolf
however-majority-women-are-neither-harlots-nor-courtesans-nor-do-they-sit-clasping-pug-dogs-to-dusty-velvet-all-through-summer-afternoon-but-what-do-they-do-then-there-came-to-my
Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks, ' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

Tom Robbins
ultimately-roast-turkey-must-be-regarded-as-monument-to-boomers-love-look-at-it-now-plump-glossy-floating-across-idaho-as-if-it-were-mammoth-mutated-seed-pod-hear-how-it-backfire
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