Disquiet 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
he-that-upon-true-principle-lives-without-any-disquiet-thought-may-be-said-to-be-happy-roger-lestrange
things-can-never-touch-soul-but-stand-inert-outside-it-that-disquiet-can-arise-only-from-fancies-within-marcus-aurelius
this-is-what-i-see-what-troubles-me-i-look-on-all-sides-everywhere-i-see-nothing-but-obscurity-nature-offers-me-nothing-that-is-not-matter-doubt-blaise-pascal
god-now-she-knew-what-decent-men-felt-like-disquiet-before-taking-someone-for-their-first-time-jr-ward
pride-is-fruitful-source-uneasiness-it-keeps-mind-in-disquiet-humility-is-antidote-to-this-evil-lydia-sigourney
for-one-who-is-having-no-personal-experience-passionate-disquiet-others-is-at-any-rate-titillation-nerves-like-seeing-play-listening-to-music-stefan-zweig
we-must-do-our-business-faithfully-without-trouble-disquiet-recalling-our-mind-to-god-mildly-with-tranquility-as-often-as-we-find-it-wandering-from-brother-lawrence
he-did-not-know-that-old-one-was-his-father-for-such-relationship-was-utterly-beyond-his-understanding-but-as-he-looked-at-emaciated-body-he-felt-dim-disquiet-that-was-ancestor-s
lust-is-pleasure-bought-with-pains-delight-hatched-with-disquiet-content-passed-with-fear-sin-finished-with-sorrow-demonax
give-me-those-days-with-heart-in-riot-the-depths-bliss-that-touched-on-pain-the-force-hate-loves-disquiet-ah-give-me-back-my-youth-again-johann-wolfgang-von-goethe
the-world-is-mirror-infinite-beauty-yet-no-man-sees-it-it-is-temple-majesty-yet-no-man-regards-it-it-is-region-light-peace-did-not-men-disquiet-thomas-traherne
from-cave-to-skyscraper-from-club-to-weapons-mass-destruction-from-tautological-life-tribe-to-era-globalization-fictions-literature-have-multiplied-human-experiences-preventing-u
For my present purpose I require a word which shall embrace both the Sub-Creative Art in itself, and a quality of strangeness and wonder in the Expression, derived from the Image: a quality essential to fairy-story. I propose, therefore, to arrogate to myself the powers of Humpty-Dumpty, and to use Fantasy for this purpose: in a sense, that is, which combines with its older and higher use as an equivalent of Imagination the derived notions of 'unreality' (that is, of unlikeness to the Primary World), of freedom from the dominion of 'observed fact, ' in short of the fantastic. I am thus not only aware but glad of the etymological and semantic connexions of fantasy with fantastic: with images of things that are not only 'not actually present, ' but which are indeed not to be found in our primary world at all, or are generally believed not to be found there. But while admitting that, I do not assent to the depreciative tone. That the images are of things not in the primary world (if that indeed is possible) is, I think, not a lower but a higher form of Art, indeed the most nearly pure form, and so (when achieved) the most Potent. Fantasy, of course, starts out with an advantage: arresting strangeness. But that advantage has been turned against it, and has contributed to its disrepute. Many people dislike being 'arrested.' They dislike any meddling with the Primary World, or such small glimpses of it as are familiar to them. They, therefore, stupidly and even maliciously confound Fantasy with Dreaming, in which there is no Art; and with mental disorders, in which there is not even control; with delusion and hallucination. But the error or malice, engendered by disquiet and consequent dislike, is not the only cause of this confusion. Fantasy has also an essential drawback: it is difficult to achieve... Anyone inheriting the fantastic device of human language can say the green sun. Many can then imagine or picture it. But that is not enough - though it may already be a more potent thing than many a 'thumbnail sketch' or 'transcript of life' that receives literary praise. To make a Secondary World inside which the green sun will be credible, commanding Secondary Belief, will probably require labour and thought, and will certainly demand a special skill, a kind of elvish craft. Few attempt such difficult tasks. But when they are attempted and in any degree accomplished then we have a rare achievement of Art: indeed narrative art, story-making in its primary and most potent mode.

J.R.R. Tolkien
for-my-present-purpose-i-require-word-which-shall-embrace-both-subcreative-art-in-itself-quality-strangeness-wonder-in-expression-derived-from-image-quality-essential-to-fairysto
I want to move my hands, but they're fused to his rib cage. I feel his lung span, his heartbeat, his very life force wrapped in these flimsy bars of bone. So fragile yet so solid. Like a brick wall with wet mortar. A juxtaposition of hard and soft. He inhales again. 'Jayme, ' he says my name with a mix of sigh and inquiry. I open my eyes and peer into his flushed face. Roses have bloomed on his ruddy cheeks and he looks as though he's raced the wind. 'Mm?' I reply. My mind is full of babble, I'm so high. 'Jayme, ' he's insistent, almost pleading. 'What are you?' Instantaneous is the cold alarm that douses the flames still dancing in my heart. I feel the nervousness that whispers through me like a cool breeze in the leaves. 'What do you mean?' I ask, the disquiet wringing the strength from my voice. 'It doesn't hurt anymore, ' he explains, inhaling deeply. I feel the line of a frown between my brows. Gingerly, I lift the hem of his shirt. And as sure as I am that the world is round and that the sky is, indeed, blue the bruises and welts on his torso have faded to nothingness, the golden tan of his skin is sun-kissed perfection. Panic has me frozen as I stare. 'I don't understand, ' I whisper. He looks down at his exposed abdomen. 'I think you healed me.' He says it so simply, but my mind takes his words and scatters them like ashes. I feel like I'm waking from a coma and I have amnesia and everyone speaks Chinese. I can't speak. If I had the strength to, I wouldn't have the words. I feel the panic flood into me and fear spiked adrenaline courses through me, I shove him. Hard. Eyes wide with shock, he stumbles back a few steps. A few steps is all I need. Fight or flight instinct taking root, I fight to flee. The space between us gives me enough room to slide out from between him and the car. He shouts my name. It's too late. I'm running a fast as my lithe legs will carry me. My Converse pound the sidewalk and I hear the roar of his engine. It's still too late. I grew up here and I'm ten blocks from home. No newbie could track me in my own neighborhood. In my town. Not with my determination to put as much distance as I can between me and the boy who scares the shit out of me. Not when I've scared the shit out of myself. I run. I run and I don't stop.

A.D. Evans
i-want-to-move-my-hands-but-theyre-fused-to-his-rib-cage-i-feel-his-lung-span-his-heartbeat-his-life-force-wrapped-in-these-flimsy-bars-bone-so-fragile-yet-solid-like-brick-wall-
I have had so many Dwellings, Nat, that I know these Streets as well as a strowling Beggar: I was born in this Nest of Death and Contagion and now, as they say, I have learned to feather it. When first I was with Sir Chris. I found lodgings in Phenix Street off Hogg Lane, close by St Giles and Tottenham Fields, and then in later times I was lodged at the corner of Queen Street and Thames Street, next to the Blew Posts in Cheapside. (It is still there, said Nat stirring up from his Seat, I have passed it!) In the time before the Fire, Nat, most of the buildings in London were made of timber and plaister, and stones were so cheap that a man might have a cart-load of them for six-pence or seven-pence; but now, like the Aegyptians, we are all for Stone. (And Nat broke in, I am for Stone!) The common sort of People gawp at the prodigious Rate of Building and exclaim to each other London is now another City or that House was not there Yesterday or the Situacion of the Streets is quite Changd (I contemn them when they say such things! Nat adds). But this Capital City of the World of Affliction is still the Capitol of Darknesse, or the Dungeon of Man's Desires: still in the Centre are no proper Streets nor Houses but a Wilderness of dirty rotten Sheds, allways tumbling or takeing Fire, with winding crooked passages, lakes of Mire and rills of stinking Mud, as befits the smokey grove of Moloch. (I have heard of that Gentleman, says Nat all a quiver). It is true that in what we call the Out-parts there are numberless ranges of new Buildings: in my old Black-Eagle Street, Nat, tenements have been rais'd and where my Mother and Father stared without understanding at their Destroyer (Death! he cryed) new-built Chambers swarm with life. But what a Chaos and Confusion is there: meer fields of Grass give way to crooked Passages and quiet Lanes to smoking Factors, and these new Houses, commonly built by the London workmen, are often burning and frequently tumbling down (I saw one, says he, I saw one tumbling!). Thus London grows more Monstrous, Straggling and out of all Shape: in this Hive of Noise and Ignorance, Nat, we are tyed to the World as to a sensible Carcasse and as we cross the stinking Body we call out What News? or What's a clock? And thus do I pass my Days a stranger to mankind. I'll not be a Stander-by, but you will not see me pass among them in the World. (You will disquiet your self, Master, says Nat coming towards me). And what a World is it, of Tricking and Bartering, Buying and Selling, Borrowing and Lending, Paying and Receiving; when I walk among the Piss and Sir-reverence of the Streets I hear, Money makes the old Wife trot, Money makes the Mare to go (and Nat adds, What Words won't do, Gold will). What is their God but shineing Dirt and to sing its Devotions come the Westminster-Hall-whores, the Charing-cross whores, the Whitehall whores, the Channel-row whores, the Strand whores, the Fleet Street whores, the Temple-bar whores; and they are followed in the same Catch by the Riband weavers, the Silver-lace makers, the Upholsterers, the Cabinet-makers, Watermen, Carmen, Porters, Plaisterers, Lightemen, Footmen, Shopkeepers, Journey-men... and my Voice grew faint through the Curtain of my Pain.

Peter Ackroyd
i-have-had-many-dwellings-nat-that-i-know-these-streets-as-well-as-strowling-beggar-i-was-born-in-this-nest-death-contagion-now-as-they-say-i-have-learned-to-feather-it-when-firs
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