Truth is like the moon in the sky. Words are like a finger. A finger can point to the moon's location, but it is not the moon. To see the moon, you must look past the finger. To look for the truth in books, the Sixth Patriarch was saying, is like mistaking the finger for the moon. The moon and the finger are not the same thing. "Not same, " old Jiko would have said. "Not different, either.
It is often said that the Buddha's teaching is only a raft to help you cross the river, a finger pointing to the moon. Don't maistake the finger for the moon. The raft is not the shore. If we cling to the raft, if we cling to the finger, we miss everything. We cannot, in the name of the finger or the raft kill each other. Human life is more precious than any ideology, any doctrine.
A religious belief ... is not a statement about Reality, but a hint, a clue about something that is a mystery, beyond the grasp of human thought. In short, a religious belief is only a finger pointing to the moon. Some religious people never get beyond the study of the finger. Others are engaged in sucking it. Others yet use the finger to gouge their eyes out. These are the bigots whom religion has made blind. Rare indeed is the religionist who is sufficiently detached from the finger to see what it is indicating - these are those who, having gone beyond belief, are taken for blasphemers.
Anthony de Mello
Another thing I don't want on my tombstone," Shane said. You have others?" Claire asked. He held up one finger. "I thought it wasn't loaded," Shane said. Second finger. "Hand me a match so I can check the gas tank." Third finger. "Killed over ice cream. Basically, any death that requires me to be stupid first.
He props his elbow on the table, absently scratches his temple with his index finger, and I remember exactly what that index finger did to me earlier. How he circled my nipples with that finger, how he slipped it between my legs, drenched it with my wetness and then brought it up to his mouth, licking it, tasting me, his gaze never leaving mine...
She told me to wait, that I was going to lose a finger." Earl looked toward the kitchen and back at Ty and Duece. He snorted. "I asked her, did she think I was stupid? Then a couple of snips later, whack. Off went the finger. And you know what that woman said to me? I said 'Mara you cut my finger off.' And your mother said to me, 'Well Earl who's stupid now?
People never understand what a friendship is. I'll tell you what a friendship is to me. Friendship to me is, if my friends need my little finger to live, I'm going to have it cut off. I'm going to the hospital, they cut off my finger, and maybe I have a gold finger instead, and I become famous. But I still give it to my friend.
Having made a sufficient opening to admit my finger into the abdomen, I passed it between the intestines to the spine, and felt the aorta greatly enlarged, and beating with excessive force. By means of my finger nail, I scratched through the peritoneum on the left side of the aorta, and then gradually passed my finger between the aorta and the spine, and again penetrated the peritoneum, on the right side of the aorta. I had now my finger under the artery, and by its side I conveyed the blunt aneurismal needle, armed with a single ligature behind it...
[Stephanie] 'You see, Mrs. Mayer was going on about George's lodge, and how he wanted to be buried with his ring, and so Grandma had to check the ring out, and in the process broke off one of George's fingers. Turns out the finger was wax. Somehow Kenny got into the mortuary this morning, left Spiro a note, and chopped off George's finger. And then while I was at the mall tonight with Mary Lou, Kenny threatened me in the shoe department. That must have been when he put the finger in my pocket.' [Morelli] 'Have you been drinking?
I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
The first rule of improvisation is AGREE. Always agree and SAY YES. When you're improvising, this means you are required to agree with whatever your partner has created. So if we're improvising and I say, 'Freeze, I have a gun, ' and you say, 'That's not a gun. It's your finger. You're pointing your finger at me, ' our improvised scene has ground to a halt. But if I say, 'Freeze, I have a gun!' and you say, 'The gun I gave you for Christmas! You bastard!' then we have started a scene because we have AGREED that my finger is in fact a Christmas gun.
A new baptism I'll give you, and My very finger I will place in My people's keeping. When you point your finger, demons will flee! In this year of honey, I will cause a new hunger to arise throughout the lands for My Word. And where you have known My Word in the past, you will taste and see My Word in a different way!
If you're driving your car and someone winds the window down and gives you the finger and calls you an asshole, instead of giving him the finger back and calling him an asshole back, you just pull a funny face, and he doesn't know how to react to that, because you're using different rules.
Is it not common to say to a child, 'Put your finger in that candle, can you bear it even for one minute?' How then will you bear Hell-fire? Surely it would be torment enough to have the flesh burnt off from only one finger; what then will it be to have the whole body plunged into a lake of fire, burning with brimstone?
He slid a finger inside her, making her breath catch. She was tingling all over again, already wanting more. "This is all for me." There was a possessive note in his words that made her clench around his finger. "Yes, " she whispered. And that made something dark flare in his gaze before he captured her mouth in a frenzied mating. One thing she was sure of, they wouldn't be getting to sleep for a while.
I had a dream about you. You were a finger food salesman, and I was a man with no fingers who sold wearable silverware (called Silverwear). Through a hand gesture, you indicated you were number one, and then you tried stabbing me with your index finger. Then I insulted your grandma and stabbed you with my eating utensil. What I did was wrong-I should never have insulted your grandma.
Finished with the fries, I licked the salt off my finger as I lifted my gaze. Aiden's eyes flared silver, and something warm unfurled in my stomach. I put my other finger to my lips- Holy baby daimons everywhere, what the hell was I doing? I grabbed a napkin, wiping furiously at my fingers. Across from me, heat roared off Aiden.
Jennifer L. Armentrout
The unrelenting grip of Soldier's Syndrome slips finger by slow finger. The marrow's been affected-emotional leukemia at the deepest level. Transplants of love and friendship aid healing, yet time is still key, and the clock never ticks fast enough. Eternity gains perspective when seconds feel like years. How long have I been gone? Six eternities and counting.
We cannot win in team situations or in relationships by ourselves. It is like trying to pick up a pencil with only one finger...Even if that one finger is extremely strong, it will prove almost impossible to pick up that pencil unless you use your other fingers or some other part of your hand. Teamwork is a bit like using all of your fingers. Each one is unique and contributes something different, but they unite in pursuit of a common goal.
We cannot win in team situations or in relationships by ourselves. It is like trying to pick up a pencil with only one finger... Even if that one finger is extremely strong, it will prove almost impossible to pick up that pencil unless you use your other fingers or some other part of your hand. Teamwork is a bit like using all of your fingers. Each one is unique and contributes something different, but they unite in pursuit of a common goal.
Sophia was asked to speak to the students of a local medical school. 'Sophia, what do we need to be better doctors?' the students asked. 'Doctors, ' Sophia said, 'need strong stomachs and strong powers of observation.' Then she opened a canister. The putrid smell quickly moved through the classroom. Sophia stuck a finger in the jar, pulled it up, and then licked it. She passed the jar around encouraging each doctor in training to do the same. Each did, and though many felt nauseas, no one got sick. 'You all have very strong stomachs, ' she said. 'But your powers of observation need some work.' 'What do you mean?' they asked. 'We did just what you did.' 'There is one difference, ' she replied. 'The finger I dipped in the jar was not the finger I licked.
David W. Jones
Married?" she practically screeched, not sounding all that pleased, which left him feeling a little offended. "We're not getting married." He snorted at that. "I may have let you have your naughty little way with me for the past couple of months, but that doesn't mean I'm going to allow you to keep treating me like some dirty little boy toy. If you want to live with me then I expect you to put a ring on my finger, " he said, holding up his left hand and wiggling his ring finger to punctuate his words.
Could Hamlet have been written by a committee, or the "Mona Lisa" painted by a club? Could the New Testament have been composed as a conference report? Creative ideas do not spring from groups. They spring from individuals. The divine spark leaps from the finger of God to the finger of Adam, whether it takes ultimate shape in a law of physics or a law of the land, a poem or a policy, a sonata or a mechanical computer.
Alfred Whitney Griswold
She bent her finger and then straightened it. The mystery was in the instant before it moved, the dividing moment between not moving and moving, when her intention took effect. It was like a wave breaking. If she could only find herself at the crest, she thought, she might find the secret of herself, that part of her that was really in charge. She brought her forefinger closer to her face and stared at it, urging it to move. It remained still because she was pretending... . And when she did crook it finally, the action seemed to start in the finger itself, not in some part of her mind.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we had a world where everybody said, 'We don't know?' The fact is that you're surrounded -God and you don't see God, because you KNOW ABOUT God. The final barrier to the vision of God is your God concept. You miss God because you think you know. The highest knowledge of God is to know God as unknowable. All revelations, however divine, are never any more than a finger pointing at the moon. As we say in the East, 'When the sage points to the moon, all the idiot sees is the finger'.
Anthony de Mello
Bhikkhus, the teaching is merely a vehicle to describe the truth. Don't mistake it for the truth itself. A finger pointing at the moon is not the moon. The finger is needed to know where to look for the moon, but if you mistake the finger for the moon itself, you will never know the real moon. The teaching is like a raft that carries you to the other shore. The raft is needed, but the raft is not the other shore. An intelligent person would not carry the raft around on his head after making it across to the other shore. Bhikkhus, my teaching is the raft which can help you cross to the other shore beyond birth and death. Use the raft to cross to the other shore, but don't hang onto it as your property. Do not become caught in the teaching. You must be able to let it go.
Thech Nháº¥t Háº¡nh
If I had my child to raise all over again, I'd finger paint more, and point the finger less. I'd do less correcting, and more connecting. I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes. I would care to know less, and know to care more. I'd take more hikes and fly more kites. I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play. I'd run through more fields, and gaze at more stars. I'd do more hugging, and less tugging. I would be firm less often, and affirm much more. I'd build self esteem first, and the house later. I'd teach less about the love of power, and more about the power of love.
If I had my child to raise all over again,I'd finger paint more, and point the finger less.I'd do less correcting, and more connecting.I'd take my eyes off my watch, and watch with my eyes.I would care to know less, and know to care more.I'd take more hikes and fly more kites.I'd stop playing serious, and seriously play.I'd run through more fields, and gaze at more stars.I'd do more hugging, and less tugging.I would be firm less often, and affirm much more.I'd build self esteem first, and the house later.I'd teach less about the love of power, and more about the power of love.
Bidding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her finger and said, "Daddy, look "" one of the gnomes actually bit me!" "How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial!" said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna's outstretched finger and examining the bleeding puncture marks. "Luna, my love, if you should feel any burgeoning talent today "" perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaim in Mermish "" do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!" Ron, passing them in the opposite direction, let out a loud snort.
J. K. Rowling
Katrina held Bram in her arms, speaking softly, reassuringly, as they approached baby Modoc. This was an important moment, a beginning, for she knew the boy would spend his life with animals, especially elephants, and the meeting was of utmost importance. Neither the elephant nor the baby said a word. All was quiet as they looked at each other. Mo's small trunk wormed its way up, reaching to the baby. As Bram leaned over, his little hand pulled loose from Katrina's grasp found its way down toward the trunk. A finger extended to meet the tip of the trunk. Bram's expression was one of curiosity; he felt the wet tip, Modoc moved her 'finger' all around Bram's hand, sliding it across each finger and the palm. A big tickle grin spread across Bram's face, Modoc did her elephant 'chirp, ' a tear glistened as it ran down Katrina's face. All was well. The future had been written.
He'd spent the night in the boat. Next to the spaghetti queen. William glanced at the hobo girl. She sat across from him, huddled in a clump. Her stench had gotten worse overnight, probably from the dampness. Another night like the last one, and he might snap and dunk her into that river just to clear the air. She saw him looking. Dark eyes regarded him with slight scorn. William leaned forward and pointed at the river. 'I don't know why you rolled in spaghetti sauce, ' he said in a confidential voice. 'I don't really care. But that water over there won't hurt you. Try washing it off.' She stuck her tongue out. 'Maybe after you're clean, ' he said. Her eyes widened. She stared at him for a long moment. A little crazy spark lit up in her dark irises. She raised her finger, licked it, and rubbed some dirt off her forehead. Now what? The girl showed him her stained finger and reached toward him slowly, aiming for his face. 'No, ' William said. 'Bad hobo.' The finger kept coming closer.
HERE'S THE THING AS IN YOUR DREAM<BR /> HEAR RINGING VOICES IN BETWEEN<BR /> YOU PICK THIS TIME TO PLAY<BR /> AND YOU HAVE TO HAVE YOUR WAY<BR /> <BR /> GOT YOUR MASTERPIECE<BR /> BUT YOU DON'T SEEM PLEASED<BR /> 'COURSE EVERYTHING IS CUSTOM MADE<BR /> YOU'VE WRAPPED THE WORLD AROUND YOUR FINGER<BR /> <BR /> THE DREAMS AIN'T GONE AN ENDLESS TOWER<BR /> HAS YOUR SPRING TURNED INTO WINTER<BR /> YOU'RE FROZEN COLD, A ONE MAN SHOW<BR /> <BR /> BUT WHO IS WATCHING?<BR /> IS NO ONE WATCHING?<BR /> <BR /> <BR /> <BR /> NOW YOU GOT IT<BR /> EVERYTHING YOU'VE ASKED<BR /> MADE YOUR BRIDGES<BR /> SO WHY YOU'RE TURNING BACK?<BR /> <BR /> MY GOALS WON'T FIT YOUR TRUE<BR /> YOUR HEAD'S TOO HEAVY TOO<BR /> COULD I GIVE YOU NOW, STILL I HIM<BR /> <BR /> 'CAUSE EVERYTHING IS CUSTOM MADE<BR /> YOU'VE WRAPPED THE WORLD AROUND YOUR FINGER<BR /> WAS IT ALL A BIG MISTAKE?<BR /> HAS YOUR SPRING TURNED INTO WINTER<BR /> <BR /> YOU'RE IN CONTROL, A ONE MAN SHOW<BR /> BUT WHO IS WATCHING?<BR /> IS NO ONE WATCHING?<BR /> <BR /> 'CAUSE EVERYTHING IS CUSTOM MADE<BR /> YOU'VE WRAPPED THE WORLD AROUND YOUR FINGER<BR /> YOU CLAMED THE FAITH, TURNED OUT A SHAME<BR /> <BR /> HAS YOUR SPRING TURNED INTO WINTER?<BR /> YOU HAVE THE WRONG ONE MAN SHOW<BR /> BUT NO ONE'S WATCHING<BR /> <BR /> NO NO ONE'S WATCHING, NO NO ONE'S WATCHING<BR /> NO NO ONE'S WATCHING, NO NO ONE'S WATCHING<BR /> NO NO ONE'S WATCHING, NO NO ONE'S WATCHING<BR /> NO NO ONE'S WATCHING<BR /> <BR /> AND YOU CAN'T GO BACK<BR /> AND YOU CAN'T COME BACK<BR /> AND YOU CAN'T COME BACK<BR /> <BR /> BUT WHO IS WATCHING<BR /> IS NO ONE WATCHING?<BR /> NO ONE'S WATCHING, OH NO
Armin Van Buuren F/
LIKE A GHOST A GHOST OF SOMETHING OLD IT'S COLD AND DUSTY IN HERE JUST TWENTY YEARS AND SIX FEET DOWN I'M TOLD I KNOW YOUR FACE I SHARE YOUR NAME IN THE DARK WHEN SHADOWS HAVE THEIR WAY A FINGER'S A CHIMNEY AND THE MOON'S ON FIRE THEN SLEEP ARRIVES HE'S GOT HIS BAGS AND WARES THE DRAGON SLEEPS AND ST. GEORGE STARES YOU WON'T WRITE, NO YOU WON'T WRITE THAT'S ALL I ASK, THAT YOU JUST WRITE AND YOU SAY NO, THAT YOU CAN'T SPEAK YOU'VE LOST YOUR VOICE, YOU LET IT GO YOU LET IT GO LIKE A GHOST A GHOST OF SOMETHING OLD IT'S COLD AND DUSTY IN HERE IT'S IN YOUR HAND IT SITS JUST LIKE A GLOVE THE FINGER TRACES THE LINES OF LOVE IT'S COLD AND DUSTY IN HERE DOMEONE YOU KNEW IS WATCHING YOU I'M SOMEONE YOU KNEW
But laugh?" He pressed the flat of his hand against my stomach. "Here lives laugh." He ran his finger straight up to my mouth and spread his fingers. "Push back laugh is not good. Not healthy." "Also cry?" I asked. I traced an imaginary tear down my cheek with one finger. "Also cry." He put his hand on his own belly. "Ha ha ha, " he said, pressing his hand to show me the motion of his stomach. Then his expression changed to sad. "Huh huh huh, " he heaved with exaggerated sobs, pressing his stomach again. "Same place. Not healthy to push down.
They are one of the most unpleasant races in the galaxy - not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without an order, signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public enquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat for three months and recycled as firelighters. If you want to get a lift from a Vogon, forget it. They are vile and ill tempered. If you want to get a drink from a Vogon, stick your finger down his throat. If you want to annoy a vogon, feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
The multicolored kitten snuggled between her breasts. Lucky cat. "I thought maybe something like... Sweetums." "What? That's a wussy name. She'd totally get her ass kicked by all the other neighborhood cats. You can't call her... that. See I can't even say it. It's too ridiculous." Abby chuckled, and the sound drifted over him like a warm breeze. "I suppose you want me to call her Rowdy, or Bullet or Chainsaw, " she said. "Those aren't bad." He liked it when she teased him. "Maybe you could name her something like Flash, or Blaze, or Storm. "Or maybe I could call her pooty pie." "Oh my God." He slapped his forehead. "You're killing me. You'd be better off sticking with Sweetums." "Ha!" She pointed her finger at him. "You said it." Before he could wrap his hand around that finger and pull her against him, he gave the kitten-who purred contentedly between Abby's breasts-a rub between the ears. Lucky damn cat.