Ditches 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
in-the-ponds-and-in-the-ditches
wrinkles-are-ditches-that-gods-have-dug-for-our-tears-emile-augier
he-said-this-is-what-lord-says-make-this-valley-full-ditches-2-kings-316
and-he-said-thus-saith-the-lord-make-this-valley-full-of-ditches
it-was-pity-thoughts-always-ran-easiest-way-like-water-in-old-ditches-walter-de-la-mare
skateboarding-was-everything-to-us-growing-up-it-changes-way-you-see-world-you-spend-all-day-looking-for-ditches
the-one-frightened-climbing-mountains-forever-lives-in-ditches
let-them-take-care-roads-ditches-stay-hell-out-my-personal-life-bob-gehlen
writing-novels-is-hardest-thing-ive-ever-done-including-digging-irrigation-ditches-thomas-harris
man-is-but-lost-in-wishes-of-wealth-fame-riches-this-airy-castle-he-stitches-with-logic-that-are-his-ditches-munindra-misra
i-learnt-to-drive-at-around-eleven-years-old-in-old-jeep-on-field-in-colorado-there-were-lots-ditches-i-could-barely-see-over-steering-wheel-david-lauren
decay-disfavor-came-together-as-other-parts-coast-were-developed-canals-became-weedclogged-ditches-breeding-mosquitoes-hotels-were-turned-into-edward-bunker
my-father-started-on-this-golf-course-at-latrobe-when-he-was-sixteen-years-old-he-was-digging-ditches-when-they-were-building-golf-course-arnold-palmer
faster-than-fairies-faster-than-witchesbridges-houses-hedges-ditchesand-charging-along-like-troops-in-battleall-through-meadows-horses-cattle-robert-louis-stevenson
remember-that-you-can-pray-any-time-anywhere-washing-dishes-digging-ditches-working-in-office-in-shop-on-athletic-field-even-in-prison-you-can-billy-graham
ritie-dont-worry-cause-you-aint-pretty-plenty-pretty-women-i-seen-digging-ditches-worse-you-smart-i-swear-to-god-i-rather-you-have-good-mind-than-maya-angelou
my-veins-are-blue-connected-and-every-single-bone-in-my-brain-is-electric-but-i-dig-ditches-like-best-em-yo-trabajo-duro-como-en-madera-y-yeso-como-jack-white
Yes, we were good at using the grapevine. But what we were best at, what we were really the kings of, that was buses and sitting around in bedrooms. No one could beat us at that. None of this led anywhere. Well, we probably weren't very good at doing things that led somewhere. We didn't have particularly good conversations, no one could say we did, the few topics we had developed so slowly we ourselves assumed they had nowhere to go; not one of us was a brilliant guitarist, although that is what we would have loved to be, more than anything else, and as far as girls were concerned, it was rare we came across one who wouldn't object if we pulled up her jumper so that we could lower our heads and kiss her nipples. These were great moments. They were luminous shafts of grace in our world of yellowing grass, grey muddy ditches and dusty country roads. Yes, that was how it was for me. I assumed it was the same for him. What was this all about? Why did we live like this? Were we waiting for something? In which case, how did we manage to be so patient? For nothing ever happened! Nothing happened! It was always the same. Day in, day out! Wind and rain, sleet and snow, sun and storm, we did the same. We heard something on the grapevine, went there, came back, sat in his bedroom, heard something else, went by bus, bike, on foot, sat in someone's bedroom. In the summer we went swimming. That was it. What was it all about? We were friends, there was no more than that. And the waiting, that was life.

Karl Ove Knausge¥rd
yes-we-were-good-at-using-grapevine-but-what-we-were-best-at-what-we-were-really-kings-that-was-buses-sitting-around-in-bedrooms-no-one-could-beat-us-at-that-none-this-led-anywhe
but-clouds-bellied-out-in-sultry-heat-sky-cracked-open-with-crimson-gash-spewed-flame-ancient-forest-began-to-smoke-by-morning-there-was-mass-booming-fiery-tongues-hissing-crashi
MOTHER - By Ted Kooser Mid April already, and the wild plums bloom at the roadside, a lacy white against the exuberant, jubilant green of new grass and the dusty, fading black of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet, only the delicate, star-petaled blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume. You have been gone a month today and have missed three rains and one nightlong watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar from six to eight while fat spring clouds went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured, a storm that walked on legs of lightning, dragging its shaggy belly over the fields. The meadowlarks are back, and the finches are turning from green to gold. Those same two geese have come to the pond again this year, honking in over the trees and splashing down. They never nest, but stay a week or two then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts, burning in circles like birthday candles, for this is the month of my birth, as you know, the best month to be born in, thanks to you, everything ready to burst with living. There will be no more new flannel nightshirts sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand. You asked me if I would be sad when it happened and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner, as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that. Were it not for the way you taught me to look at the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever.

Ted Kooser
mother-by-ted-kooser-mid-april-already-wild-plums-bloom-at-roadside-lacy-white-against-exuberant-jubilant-green-new-grass-dusty-fading-black-burnedout-ditches-no-leaves-not-yet-o
Good is to be found neither in the sermons of religious teachers and prophets, nor in the teachings of sociologists and popular leaders, nor in the ethical systems of philosophers... And yet ordinary people bear love in their hearts, are naturally full of love and pity for any living thing. At the end of the day's work they prefer the warmth of the hearth to a bonfire in the public square. Yes, as well as this terrible Good with a capital 'G', there is everyday human kindness. The kindness of an old woman carrying a piece of bread to a prisoner, the kindness of a soldier allowing a wounded enemy to drink from his water-flask, the kindness of youth towards age, the kindness of a peasant hiding an old Jew in his loft. The kindness of a prison guard who risks his own liberty to pass on letters written by a prisoner not to his ideological comrades, but to his wife and mother. The private kindness of one individual towards another; a petty, thoughtless kindness; an unwitnessed kindness. Something we could call senseless kindness. A kindness outside any system of social or religious good. But if we think about it, we realize that this private, senseless, incidental kindness is in fact eternal. It is extended to everything living, even to a mouse, even to a bent branch that a man straightens as he walks by. Even at the most terrible times, through all the mad acts carried out in the name of Universal Good and the glory of States, times when people were tossed about like branches in the wind, filling ditches and gullies like stones in an avalanche - even then this senseless, pathetic kindness remained scattered throughout life like atoms of radium.

Vasily Grossman
good-is-to-be-found-neither-in-sermons-religious-teachers-prophets-nor-in-teachings-sociologists-popular-leaders-nor-in-ethical-systems-philosophers-and-yet-ordinary-people-bear-
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