Enveloping 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
enveloping-mankind-this-is-painful-punishment-addukhan-11
he-was-always-acting-always-enveloping-himself-in-artificiality-perhaps-to-conceal-volcano-within-barbara-w-tuchman
im-calling-this-evolution-im-falling-for-institution-warm-submission-enveloping-you-bad-astronaut
it-is-clearly-evident-that-most-events-widespread-nature-draw-their-causes-from-enveloping-heavens-ptolemy
my-hike-up-snake-path-at-masada-was-mystical-the-fog-rolled-in-enveloping-entire-mountain
the-blockchain-cannot-be-described-just-as-revolution-it-is-tsunami-like-phenomenon-slowly-advancing-gradually-enveloping-everything-along-its-way-by-force-its-progression
our-relationship-with-places-is-close-bond-intricate-in-nature-not-abstract-not-remote-at-all-its-enveloping-almost-continuum-with-all-we-are-tony-hiss
our-planet-is-lonely-speck-in-great-enveloping-cosmic-dark-in-our-obscurity-in-all-this-vastness-there-is-no-hint-that-help-will-come-from-elsewhere-carl-sagan
always-eyes-watching-you-voice-enveloping-you-asleep-awake-indoors-out-doors-in-bath-bed-no-escape-nothing-was-your-own-except-few-cubic-centimeters-in-your-skull-george-orwell
leaving-behind-babble-plaza-i-enter-library-i-feel-almost-physically-gravitation-books-enveloping-serenity-order-time-magically-dessicated-preserved-jorge-luis-borges
the-cosy-glow-which-had-been-enveloping-duke-became-shot-through-by-sudden-chill-it-was-as-if-he-had-been-luxuriating-in-warm-shower-bath-some-p-g-wodehouse
the-joy-laughter-youth-they-brought-was-antidote-to-somberness-enveloping-his-flat-hours-when-he-felt-walls-ceilings-were-encrusted-with-distress-unhappy-decades-rohinton-mistry
take-it-from-me-theres-nothing-like-job-well-done-except-quiet-enveloping-darkness-at-bottom-bottle-jim-beam-after-job-done-any-way-at-all-stephen-colbert
the-pains-childbirth-were-altogether-different-from-enveloping-effects-other-kinds-pain-these-were-pains-one-could-follow-with-ones-mind-margaret-mead
marriage-is-custom-brought-about-by-women-who-then-proceed-to-live-off-men-destroy-them-completely-enveloping-man-in-destructive-cocoon-eating-him-away-like-poisonous-fungus-on-t
we-need-complete-ban-on-soft-money-which-is-sort-enveloping-problem-ceiling-on-amount-money-that-can-be-spent-on-given-race-william-weld
criticism-is-windows-chandeliers-art-it-illuminates-enveloping-darkness-in-which-art-might-otherwise-rest-only-vaguely-discernible-perhaps-george-jean-nathan
i-dont-know-how-to-describe-sound-world-crashing-maybe-there-is-no-sound-just-great-emptiness-enveloping-sorrow-creeping-nothingness-that-coils-itself-around-you-like-stiff-wire-
endless-love-voluptuous-appetite-pervaded-this-stifling-nave-in-which-settled-ardent-sap-tropics-renee-was-wrapped-in-powerful-bridals-earth-that-gave-birth-to-these-dark-growths
From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of particular interest. But for us, it's different. Consider again that dot. That's here, that's home, that's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every "superstar," every "supreme leader," every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there - on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand. It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known.

Carl Sagan
from-this-distant-vantage-point-earth-might-not-seem-particular-interest-but-for-us-its-different-consider-again-that-dot-thats-here-thats-home-thats-us-on-it-everyone-you-love-e
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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