Frayed 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
that-your-time-has-come-your-ends-are-frayed
i-wear-frayed-khaki-pants
christmas-is-a-holiday-that-persecutes-the-lonely-the-frayed-and-the-rejected
our-tribe-unraveled-like-coarse-rope-frayed-at-either-end-as-old-new-among-us-were-taken-louise-erdrich
historys-got-no-bows-on-it-only-frayed-ends-ribbons-knots-that-cant-be-untied-orson-scott-card
writing-is-affair-yearning-for-great-voyages-hauling-on-frayed-ropes-israel-shenker
shaggy-existentialists-in-frayed-sandals-dilettantes-by-score-spies-by-portfolio-jan-morris
a-few-blossoms-float-into-room-they-drop-like-frayed-yellow-ribbons-on-gray-carpet-eileen-granfors
i-am-frayed-nibbled-survivor-in-fallen-world-i-am-getting-along-i-am-aging-eaten-have-done-my-share-eating-too-annie-dillard
satan-does-some-his-worst-work-on-exhausted-christians-when-nerves-are-frayed-mind-is-faint-vance-havner
it-was-not-that-she-was-unaware-frayed-ragged-edges-life-she-would-merely-iron-them-out-with-firm-hand-neatly-hem-them-down-p-d-james
our-ignorance-allowed-us-to-live-as-you-are-in-mountains-your-rope-is-frayed-about-to-break-but-you-dont-know-it-feel-safe-primo-levi
i-have-strong-appreciation-for-oversize-sweatshirts-loose-mohair-sweaters-jeans-that-are-frayed-at-ankles
sometimes-i-wonder-that-one-missing-sock-after-doing-laundry-is-smart-one-after-being-unhappy-for-long-it-finally-walks-away-from-frayed-wornout-relationship-anthony-liccione
through-hollow-globe-ringof-frayed-rusty-scrapironis-it-sea-that-shinesis-it-road-at-worlds-edge-denise-levertov
my-poor-life-this-shawl-frayed-on-strongboxes-full-gold-i-roll-along-with-dream-and-smoke-and-only-flame-in-universe-blaise-cendrars
its-frustrating-when-our-best-efforts-to-help-people-fail-but-if-we-could-see-life-through-their-weary-eyes-experience-their-trials-with-same-frayed-emotions-we-might-understand-
once-restless-frayed-mood-has-turned-to-anger-violence-psychosis-richard-like-most-finds-it-difficult-to-see-it-as-illness-rather-than-being-willful-angry-irrational-simply-tires
my-hands-trembled-i-took-deep-drag-to-calm-my-frayed-nerves-i-just-wanted-to-forget-that-terrible-sight-but-questions-multiplied-in-my-mind-as-smoke-furled-katherine-mcintyre
many-night-i-woke-to-murmer-paper-knew-dad-was-up-sitting-in-kitchen-with-frayed-king-james-oh-but-he-worked-that-book-he-held-to-it-like-rope-ladder-leif-enger
the-bonds-trust-between-united-states-israel-have-been-frayed-but-even-hostility-disrespect-obama-administration-has-shown-has-not-severed-those-adam-hasner
how-did-it-die-he-asked-short-circuit-i-said-old-frayed-wires-he-looked-at-me-like-i-was-senile-could-have-been-disease-violence-or-sometimes-things-die-because-we-dont-love-them
the-world-nature-human-beings-do-not-move-like-machines-the-edges-are-never-clearcut-but-always-frayed-nature-never-draws-line-without-smudging-it-winston-churchill
her-husband-had-been-nails-bolts-rope-that-held-her-her-home-together-she-stood-imagined-planks-falling-off-her-arms-tearing-free-as-those-nails-rusted-rope-frayed-parted-deep-in
Forever' by Logan Keeley October 18, 20xx Lying beside me in the failure of flesh, You wait for the words that will let your mind rest, But I've already left you-I'm inside this song, I'm chasing the rhythms that split right from wrong, Forming chords on your shoulder, tracing notes on your hips, I can't hear your thoughts as they fall from your lips, and Every day I give away A piece of me all torn and frayed- What I can't keep, I sell for cheap, Til nothing's left for you and me- Chorus: How can so much love feel like nothing at all? How can so much nothing leave me dying to crawl To the foot of your bed, I should be with you-instead, I walk away, stumbling, waiting, always waiting to fall. When you look in my eyes, can you see I'm not there, Just skin over bones and this flesh that I bear, And there's no room for you, and you know I can never Get out of myself, get over myself, For even one moment, much less for forever. They all take their shares and they all think they see This stranger inside who pretends to be me. They're a roomful of mirrors in this funhouse of fame, I shrink and I grow, I am wild, I am tame, But when I stand before you, I can pause, I can heal, Because you make me matter-you make me real. Every day they took away A piece of me all torn and frayed- What I couldn't keep, I sold for cheap, So now what's left for you and me? How can so much love feel like nothing at all? How can so much nothing leave me dying to crawl To the foot of your bed, I should be with you-instead, I walk away, stumbling, waiting, always waiting to fall. So I close my eyes, fill my hands with your hair, It's your skin and your bones and your flesh that I bear, If I could be part of you, if we could come together I could find myself, I could lose myself, Just for one moment, or maybe forever. They always say that nothing lasts forever Well, can this nothing last forever Now? When you look in my eyes, and this time I'm there, More than skin over bones and this flesh that we bare, When I'm getting worse, when you make me better, We'll find ourselves, we'll lose ourselves, We'll take this one moment... and make it forever.

Jeri Smith-Ready
forever-by-logan-keeley-october-18-20xx-lying-beside-me-in-failure-flesh-you-wait-for-words-that-will-let-your-mind-rest-but-ive-already-left-youim-inside-this-song-im-chasing-rh
The fact is,' said Van Gogh, 'the fact is that we are painters in real life, and the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.' So I breathe. I breathe at the open window above my desk, and a moist fragrance assails me from the gnawed leaves of the growing mock orange. This air is as intricate as the light that filters through forested mountain ridges and into my kitchen window; this sweet air is the breath of leafy lungs more rotted than mine; it has sifted through the serrations of many teeth. I have to love these tatters. And I must confess that the thought of this old yard breathing alone in the dark turns my mind to something else. I cannot in all honesty call the world old when I've seen it new. On the other hand, neither will honesty permit me suddenly to invoke certain experiences of newness and beauty as binding, sweeping away all knowledge. But I am thinking now of the tree with the lights in it, the cedar in the yard by the creek I saw transfigured. That the world is old and frayed is no surprise; that the world could ever become new and whole beyond uncertainty was, and is, such a surprise that I find myself referring all subsequent kinds of knowledge to it. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder: were the twigs of the cedar I saw really bloated with galls? They probably were; they almost surely were. I have seen these 'cedar apples' swell from that cedar's green before and since: reddish gray, rank, malignant. All right then. But knowledge does not vanquish mystery, or obscure its distant lights. I still now and will tomorrow steer by what happened that day, when some undeniably new spirit roared down the air, bowled me over, and turned on the lights. I stood on grass like air, air like lightning coursed in my blood, floated my bones, swam in my teeth. I've been there, seen it, been done by it. I know what happened to the cedar tree, I saw the cells in the cedar tree pulse charged like wings beating praise. Now, it would be too facile to pull everything out of the hat and say that mystery vanquishes knowledge. Although my vision of the world of the spirit would not be altered a jot if the cedar had been purulent with galls, those galls actually do matter to my understanding of this world. Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty's deep-blue speckles, that the frayed and nibbled fringe of the world is a tallith, a prayer shawl, the intricate garment of beauty? It is very tempting, but I cannot. But I can, however, affirm that corruption is not beauty's very heart and I can I think call the vision of the cedar and the knowledge of these wormy quarryings twin fjords cutting into the granite cliffs of mystery and say the new is always present simultaneously with the old, however hidden. The tree with the lights in it does not go out; that light still shines on an old world, now feebly, now bright. I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down.

Annie Dillard
the-fact-is-said-van-gogh-fact-is-that-we-are-painters-in-real-life-important-thing-is-to-breathe-as-hard-as-ever-we-can-breathe-so-i-breathe-i-breathe-at-open-window-above-my-de
All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam's waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam's curse. 'Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.' A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

Annie Dillard
all-at-once-something-wonderful-happened-although-at-first-it-seemed-perfectly-ordinary-a-female-goldfinch-suddenly-hove-into-view-she-lighted-weightlessly-on-head-bankside-purpl
The North Korean capital, Pyongyang, is a city consecrated to the worship of a father-son dynasty. (I came to think of them, with their nuclear-family implications, as 'Fat Man and Little Boy.') And a river runs through it. And on this river, the Taedong River, is moored the only American naval vessel in captivity. It was in January 1968 that the U.S.S. Pueblo strayed into North Korean waters, and was boarded and captured. One sailor was killed; the rest were held for nearly a year before being released. I looked over the spy ship, its radio antennae and surveillance equipment still intact, and found photographs of the captain and crew with their hands on their heads in gestures of abject surrender. Copies of their groveling 'confessions, ' written in tremulous script, were also on show. So was a humiliating document from the United States government, admitting wrongdoing in the penetration of North Korean waters and petitioning the 'D.P.R.K.' (Democratic People's Republic of Korea) for 'lenience.' Kim Il Sung ('Fat Man') was eventually lenient about the men, but not about the ship. Madeleine Albright didn't ask to see the vessel on her visit last October, during which she described the gruesome, depopulated vistas of Pyongyang as 'beautiful.' As I got back onto the wharf, I noticed a refreshment cart, staffed by two women under a frayed umbrella. It didn't look like much-one of its three wheels was missing and a piece of brick was propping it up-but it was the only such cart I'd see. What toothsome local snacks might the ladies be offering? The choices turned out to be slices of dry bread and cups of warm water. Nor did Madeleine Albright visit the absurdly misnamed 'Demilitarized Zone, ' one of the most heavily militarized strips of land on earth. Across the waist of the Korean peninsula lies a wasteland, roughly following the 38th parallel, and packed with a titanic concentration of potential violence. It is four kilometers wide (I have now looked apprehensively at it from both sides) and very near to the capital cities of both North and South. On the day I spent on the northern side, I met a group of aging Chinese veterans, all from Szechuan, touring the old battlefields and reliving a war they helped North Korea nearly win (China sacrificed perhaps a million soldiers in that campaign, including Mao Anying, son of Mao himself). Across the frontier are 37, 000 United States soldiers. Their arsenal, which has included undeclared nuclear weapons, is the reason given by Washington for its refusal to sign the land-mines treaty. In August 1976, U.S. officers entered the neutral zone to trim a tree that was obscuring the view of an observation post. A posse of North Koreans came after them, and one, seizing the ax with which the trimming was to be done, hacked two U.S. servicemen to death with it. I visited the ax also; it's proudly displayed in a glass case on the North Korean side.

Christopher Hitchens
the-north-korean-capital-pyongyang-is-city-consecrated-to-worship-fatherson-dynasty-i-came-to-think-them-with-their-nuclearfamily-implications-as-fat-man-little-boy-and-river-run
I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key... Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world's rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers. And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. Thomas Merton wrote, 'There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.' There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It's no self-conscious, so apparently moral, simple to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won't have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus. Ezekiel excoriates false prophets who have 'not gone up into the gaps.' The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once blind man unbound. The gaps are the cliffs in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock- more than a maple- a universe. This is how you spend the afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.

Annie Dillard
i-was-standing-lost-sunk-my-hands-in-my-pockets-gazing-toward-tinker-mountain-feeling-earth-reel-down-all-at-once-i-saw-what-looked-like-martian-spaceship-whirling-towards-me-in-
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