Flapping 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
thats-why-ears-have-cartilage-to-keep-them-from-flapping-bill-cosby
all-that-changing-plates-flapping-napkins-while-you-wait-40-minutes-for-your-food-hugh-casson
we-must-all-make-do-with-rags-love-we-find-flapping-on-scarecrow-humanity-angela-carter
the-sound-million-butterflies-flapping-their-wings-is-indescribable-its-heavenly
if-that-moment-had-been-real-thing-it-wouldve-been-butterfly-flapping-fluttering-toward-sun-maggie-stiefvater
happiness-is-excitement-that-has-found-settling-down-place-but-there-is-always-little-corner-that-keeps-flapping-around-el-konigsburg
her-mind-is-bird-thats-trapped-inside-her-skull-flapping-thrashing-never-breaking-free-lauren-destefano
we-all-ended-up-somewhere-with-our-various-uncertain-lives-flapping-about-us-in-tatters-our-pockets-full-foreign-coins-karen-elizabeth-gordon
sometimes-she-worried-that-she-was-too-happy-and-her-joy-would-become-restless-thing-flapping-its-wings-inside-her-as-though-looking-for-opening-to-fly-away-chimamanda-ngozi-adic
in-human-society-it-is-difficult-to-find-all-angels-flapping-there-wings-all-saints-singing-halleluya-late-chief-gani-fahewinmi
fractal-litigation-whereby-flapping-butterflys-wings-on-one-side-world-resulted-in-massive-compensation-claim-on-other-steve-aylett
snapshots-moments-mere-seconds-as-fragile-beautiful-hopeless-as-single-butterfly-flapping-on-against-gathering-wind-lauren-oliver
when-theyd-first-come-out-in-morning-single-flounder-lay-flapping-puffing-in-breezeway-one-sad-swollen-eye-looking-back-toward-sea-dennis-lehane
were-all-turkeys-some-us-are-running-around-with-our-heads-cut-off-some-us-are-flapping-our-wings-that-hard-were-close-to-flying-but-nothing-is-phil-collins
deaths-got-invisibility-cloak-harry-interrupted-again-so-he-can-sneak-up-on-people-said-ron-sometimes-he-gets-bored-running-at-them-flapping-his-j-k-rowling
his-voice-is-like-999-onewinged-vultures-all-flapping-in-unison-while-333-horned-frogs-croak-in-protest-my-love-must-sound-better-to-her-jarod-kintz
jumping-out-window-five-hundred-feet-above-ground-is-not-usually-my-idea-fun-especially-when-im-wearing-bronze-wings-flapping-my-arms-like-duck-rick-riordan
flower-petals-in-breeze-look-like-butterfly-flapping-its-wings-my-love-for-you-takes-flight-like-white-orchid-blushing-pink-jarod-kintz
deaths-got-invisibility-cloak-harry-interrupted-again-so-he-can-sneak-up-on-people-said-ron-sometimes-he-gets-bored-running-at-them-flapping-his-arms-shrieking-jk-rowling
a-burning-world-with-grabbing-hands-and-flapping-birds-with-melting-crayons-and-childrens-eyes-without-view-they-were-born-bred-they-died-for-you-a-new-january
here-in-this-ocean-in-midst-all-this-water-with-red-flags-on-those-distant-buoys-flapping-in-sea-breeze-i-find-myself-unable-to-treat-our-house-in-banana-yoshimoto
a-sentence-starts-out-like-lone-traveler-heading-into-blizzard-at-midnight-tilting-into-wind-one-arm-shielding-his-face-tails-his-thin-coat-billy-collins
across-rectorys-east-lawn-through-blizzard-flying-leaves-something-long-thin-was-flapping-in-wind-a-ragged-figure-in-white-nightgown-hanging-lifelessly-from-trees-cash-peters
it-is-not-that-i-was-credulous-simply-that-i-belived-in-all-things-dark-dangerous-it-was-part-my-young-creed-that-night-was-full-ghosts-witches-hungry-flapping-dressed-completely
if-you-are-in-love-with-your-job-you-never-get-tired-you-never-want-to-stop-you-work-work-work-you-continue-flapping-with-eternal-joy-like-bird-flying-over-sea-never-wanting-to-l
the-tall-monk-who-came-striding-down-shadowed-monastery-corridor-was-surprisingly-young-barely-thirty-as-he-swept-past-novices-his-dark-robe-flapping-wildly-around-his-legs-they-
the-wind-languished-the-floral-curtain-ceased-flapping-the-moonlight-streamed-through-lighting-up-her-face-it-was-young-animated-face-at-that-moment-it-touched-string-peg-deep-in
for-some-twenty-years-window-that-opened-at-end-cold-war-has-been-allowed-to-hang-flapping-in-wind-it-is-high-time-that-five-nuclearweapon-states-take-seriously-their-commitment-
STAINS With red clay between my toes, and the sun setting over my head, the ghost of my mother blows in, riding on a honeysuckle breeze, oh lord, riding on a honeysuckle breeze. Her teeth, the keys of a piano. I play her grinning ivory notes with cadenced fumbling fingers, splattered with paint, textured with scars. A song rises up from the belly of my past and rocks me in the bosom of buried memories. My mama's dress bears the stains of her life: blueberries, blood, bleach, and breast milk; She cradles in her arms a lifetime of love and sorrow; Its brilliance nearly blinds me. My fingers tire, as though I've played this song for years. The tune swells red, dying around the edges of a setting sun. A magnolia breeze blows in strong, a heavenly taxi sent to carry my mother home. She will not say goodbye. For there is no truth in spoken farewells. I am pregnant with a poem, my life lost in its stanzas. My mama steps out of her dress and drops it, an inheritance falling to my feet. She stands alone: bathed, blooming, burdened with nothing of this world. Her body is naked and beautiful, her wings gray and scorched, her brown eyes piercing the brown of mine. I watch her departure, her flapping wings: She doesn't look back, not even once, not even to whisper my name: Brenda. I lick the teeth of my piano mouth. With a painter's hands, with a writer's hands with rusty wrinkled hands, with hands soaked in the joys, the sorrows, the spills of my mother's life, I pick up eighty-one years of stains And pull her dress over my head. Her stains look good on me.

Brenda Sutton Rose
stains-with-red-clay-between-my-toes-sun-setting-over-my-head-ghost-my-mother-blows-in-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-oh-lord-riding-on-honeysuckle-breeze-her-teeth-keys-piano-i-pl
A cloud in the sky suddenly lighted as if turned on by a switch; its reflection just as suddenly materialized on the water upstream, flat and floating, so that I couldn't see the creek bottom, or life in the water under the cloud. Downstream, away from the cloud on the water, water turtles smooth as beans were gliding down with the current. I didn't know whether to trace the progress of one turtle... or scan the mud bank in hope of seeing a muskrat, or follow the last of the swallows who caught at my heart and trailed it after them... But shadows spread, and deepened, and stayed. Things were going on. I couldn't see whether that sere rustle I heard was a distant rattlesnake, slit-eyed, or a nearby sparrow kicking at debris... Tremendous action roiled the water everywhere I looked, big action, inexplicable... At last I stared upstream where only the deepest violet remained of the cloud, a cloud so high its underbelly still glowed feeble color from a hidden sky lighted in turn by sun halfway to China. And out of that violet, a sudden enormous black body arced over the water. I saw only a cylindrical sleekness. Head and tail, if there was a head and tail, were both submerged in a cloud. I saw only one ebony fling, a headlong dive to darkness; then the waters closed and the lights went out. I walked home in a shivering daze, uphill and down. Later I lay open-mouthed in bed, my arms flung wide at my sides to steady the whirling darkness. At this latitude I'm spinning 836 miles an hour round the earth's axis; I often fancy I feel my sweeping fall as a breakneck arc like the dive of dolphins, and the hollow rushing of wind raises hair on my neck and the side of my face. In orbit around the sun I'm moving 64,800 miles an hour. The solar system as a whole, like a merry-go-round unhinged, spins, bobs, and blinks at the speed of 43,200 miles an hour along a course set east of Hercules. Someone has piped, and we are dancing a tarantella until the sweat pours. I open my eyes and I see dark, muscled forms curl out of water, with flapping gills and flattened eyes. I close my eyes and I see stars, deep stars giving way to deeper stars, deeper stars bowing to deepest stars at the crown on an infinite cone.

Annie Dillard
a-cloud-in-sky-suddenly-lighted-as-if-turned-on-by-switch-its-reflection-just-as-suddenly-materialized-on-water-upstream-flat-floating-that-i-couldnt-see-creek-bottom-life-in-wat
One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner's head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner's thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home. Silver and blue, blue and silver. Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner's chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears. The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be. Werner's body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed. 'Ernst, ' says the man beside him. 'Ernst.' But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass. The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon. Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater. 'It's all right, ' he told her. 'Things hardly ever work on the first try. We'll make another, a better one.' Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat-a more seaworthy one-gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn't it? The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light? Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand. 'Stop, ' he calls. 'Halt, ' he calls. But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.

Anthony Doerr
one-night-he-sits-up-in-cots-around-him-are-few-dozen-sick-wounded-a-warm-september-wind-pours-across-countryside-sets-walls-tent-rippling-werners-head-swivels-lightly-on-his-nec
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