Gasping 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
ive-been-gasping-for-air-but-its-sand-that-i-breathe
we-just-lay-on-our-bellies-in-snow-gasping-immobile-peter-habeler
a-fish-will-not-truly-learn-to-enjoy-water-without-gasping-for-air-markus-w-lunner
a-surge-emotion-washed-over-him-took-him-under-he-was-helpless-against-it-flailing-gasping-for-air-drowning-in-her-hanna-martine
nothing-value-is-free-even-breath-life-is-purchased-at-birth-only-through-gasping-effort-pain-robert-a-heinlein
i-think-my-prose-reads-as-if-english-were-my-second-language-by-time-i-get-to-end-paragraph-im-dodging-bullets-gasping-for-breath
i-want-them-dunkedplunged-deeply-into-life-brought-up-gasping-dripping-returned-to-us-humble-ready-to-learn-reuel-howe
when-he-straightened-up-again-there-were-six-harry-potters-gasping-panting-in-front-him-fred-george-turned-to-each-other-said-together-wow-were-j-k-rowling
lifes-fairly-excruciating-painful-things-happen-every-now-then-you-drag-yourself-out-stream-stand-on-bank-gasping-for-air-i-think-thats-how-i-work
ghost-gasping-brings-endless-noise-a-vacuum-soundsource-from-brittle-jaw-its-astoundment-itself-as-it-crystallizes-in-decay-obsidian-tongue
please-also-remember-pitiful-gaspingthirsty-little-mouths-beaks-in-summer-theyll-appreciate-abundantfreshcoolclean-water-food-they-can-get-easily-in-adela-popescu
you-only-know-there-is-love-you-feel-beloved-when-you-share-when-youre-gasping-for-air-you-only-know-you-are-living-every-moment-you-were-longing-for-air-debasish-mridha
i-bolted-upright-in-my-bed-gasping-for-air-still-feeling-his-touch-on-my-hand-i-could-feel-him-watching-me-i-could-feel-him-waiting-for-me-dana-michelle-burnett
i-pull-back-gasping-for-breath-reeling-his-breath-is-ragged-i-place-my-hands-on-his-cheeks-to-steady-him-is-this-okay-i-whisper-are-you-okay-his-reply-is-anguished-honest-i-love-
i-pull-back-gasping-for-breath-reeling-his-breath-is-ragged-i-place-my-hands-on-his-cheeks-to-steady-him-is-this-okay-i-whisper-are-you-okay-his-stephanie-perkins
i-want-to-be-a-fun-mom-not-a-gasping-for-air-mom
the-thinnest-slice-would-be-teeming-with-memories-love-strong-it-turned-you-inside-out-left-you-gasping-would-be-identical-match-to-slice-jodi-picoult
i-had-dream-last-night-in-my-dream-i-took-knife-to-you-i-slit-your-throat-from-ear-to-ear-the-wound-was-gasping-for-air-your-scream-clea-senses-fail
the-thunder-horses-hooves-grows-ever-louder-but-still-i-do-not-move-the-thunder-those-hooves-thudding-my-heart-gasping-in-my-lungs-make-such-cacophony-its-wonder-i-hear-edmund-at
you-can-do-all-them-pushups-to-pump-up-your-chest-i-got-12-gauge-mossberg-to-pump-up-your-chest-have-you-gasping-for-air-after-that-shell-hit-your-curtis-jackson
stephen-nodded-tell-me-he-said-in-low-voice-some-moments-later-were-i-under-naval-discipline-could-that-fellow-have-me-whippedhe-nodded-towards-mr-marshall-the-master-cried-jack-
imagine-you-are-siri-keeton-you-wake-in-agony-resurrection-gasping-after-recordshattering-bout-sleep-apnea-spanning-one-hundred-forty-days-you-can-feel-your-blood-syrupy-with-dob
some-you-we-all-know-are-poor-find-it-hard-to-live-are-sometimes-as-it-were-gasping-for-breath-i-have-no-doubt-that-some-you-who-read-this-book-are-unable-to-pay-for-all-dinners-
Yet, at the same time, as the Eastern sages also knew, man is a worm and food for worms. This is the paradox: he is out of nature and hopelessly in it; he is dual, up in the stars and yet housed in a heart-pumping, breath-gasping body that once belonged to a fish and still carries the gill-marks to prove it. His body is a material fleshy casing that is alien to him in many ways-the strangest and most repugnant way being that it aches and bleeds and will decay and die. Man is literally split in two: he has an awareness of his own splendid uniqueness in that he sticks out of nature with a towering majesty, and yet he goes back into the ground a few feet in order to blindly and dumbly rot and disappear forever. It is a terrifying dilemma to be in and to have to live with. The lower animals are, of course, spared this painful contradiction, as they lack a symbolic identity and the self-consciousness that goes with it. They merely act and move reflexively as they are driven by their instincts. If they pause at all, it is only a physical pause; inside they are anonymous, and even their faces have no name. They live in a world without time, pulsating, as it were, in a state of dumb being. This is what has made it so simple to shoot down whole herds of buffalo or elephants. The animals don't know that death is happening and continue grazing placidly while others drop alongside them. The knowledge of death is reflective and conceptual, and animals are spared it. They live and they disappear with the same thoughtlessness: a few minutes of fear, a few seconds of anguish, and it is over. But to live a whole lifetime with the fate of death haunting one's dreams and even the most sun-filled days-that's something else.

Ernest Becker
yet-at-same-time-as-eastern-sages-also-knew-man-is-worm-food-for-worms-this-is-paradox-he-is-out-nature-hopelessly-in-it-he-is-dual-up-in-stars-yet-housed-in-heartpumping-breathg
If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, You can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands, Or windows for mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, You can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle, a door, a sandwich, a Pulitzer, another woman - But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian, or a muse, or a promise, or a victim or a snack. You are a woman - Skin and bones, veins and nerves, hair and sweat You are not made of metaphors, Not apologies, not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, You can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright. Even after all this evolving it still feels unnatural, Still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, Admit they don't have the answers they thought they would by now. Some men will want to hold you like the answer. You are not the answer. You are not the problem. You are not the poem, or the punchline, or the riddle, or the joke. Woman, if you grow up the type of woman men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realising you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home. Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart. You learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean, Even after it's left you gasping, salty. So forgive yourself for the decisions you've made, The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night, And know this. Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You are born to build.

Sarah Kay
if-you-grow-up-type-woman-men-want-to-look-at-you-can-let-them-look-at-you-but-do-not-mistake-eyes-for-hands-or-windows-for-mirrors-let-them-see-what-woman-looks-like-they-may-no
Simon whispered to me, 'But is everything okay?' 'No, ' Tori said. 'I kidnapped her and forced her to escape with me. I've been using her as a human shield against those guys with guns, and I was just about to strangle her and leave her body here to throw them off my trail. But then you showed up and foiled my evil plans. Lucky for you, though. You get to rescue poor little Chloe again and win her undying gratitude.' 'Undying gratitude?' Simon looked at me. 'Cool. Does that come with eternal servitude? If so, I like my eggs sunnyside up.' I smiled. 'I'll remember that.' 'Oh, right. You must be starving.' Simon reached into his pockets. 'I can offer one bruised apple and one brown banana. Convenience stores aren't the place to buy fruit, as I keep telling someone.' 'Better than these. For you, anyway, Simon.' Derek passed a bar to Tori. 'Because you aren't supposed to have those, are you?' I said. 'Which reminds me... ' I took out the insulin. 'Derek said it's your backup.' 'So my dark secret is out.' 'I didn't know it was a secret.' 'Not really. Just not something I advertise.'... 'Backup?' Tori said. 'You mean he didn't need that?' 'Apparently not, ' I murmured. Simon looked from her to me, confused, then understanding. 'You guys thought... ' 'That if you didn't get your medicine in the next twenty-four hours, you'd be dead?' I said. 'Not exactly, but close. You know, the old 'upping the ante with a fatal disease that needs medication' twist. Apparently, it still works.' 'Kind of a letdown, then, huh?' 'No kidding. Here we were, expecting to find you minutes from death. Look at you, not even gasping.' 'All right, then. Emergency medical situation, take two.' He leaped to his feet, staggered, keeled over, then lifted his head weakly. 'Chloe? Is that you?' He coughed. 'Do you have my insulin?' I placed it in his outstretched hand. 'You saved my life, ' he said. 'How can I ever repay you?' 'Undying servitude sounds good. I like my eggs scrambled.' He held up a piece of fruit. 'Would you settle for a bruised apple?' I laughed.

Kelley Armstrong
simon-whispered-to-me-but-is-everything-okay-no-tori-said-i-kidnapped-her-forced-her-to-escape-with-me-ive-been-using-her-as-human-shield-against-those-guys-with-guns-i-was-just-
The Type Everyone needs a place. It shouldn't be inside of someone else. -Richard Siken If you grow up the type of woman men want to look at, you can let them look at you. But do not mistake eyes for hands. Or windows. Or mirrors. Let them see what a woman looks like. They may not have ever seen one before. If you grow up the type of woman men want to touch, you can let them touch you. Sometimes it is not you they are reaching for. Sometimes it is a bottle. A door. A sandwich. A Pulitzer. Another woman. But their hands found you first. Do not mistake yourself for a guardian. Or a muse. Or a promise. Or a victim. Or a snack. You are a woman. Skin and bones. Veins and nerves. Hair and sweat. You are not made of metaphors. Not apologies. Not excuses. If you grow up the type of woman men want to hold, you can let them hold you. All day they practice keeping their bodies upright- even after all this evolving, it still feels unnatural, still strains the muscles, holds firm the arms and spine. Only some men will want to learn what it feels like to curl themselves into a question mark around you, admit they do not have the answers they thought they would have by now; some men will want to hold you like The Answer. You are not The Answer. You are not the problem. You are not the poem or the punchline or the riddle or the joke. Woman. If you grow up the type men want to love, You can let them love you. Being loved is not the same thing as loving. When you fall in love, it is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping. It is realizing you have hands. It is reaching for the tightrope when the crowds have all gone home. Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt. If he leaves you with a car alarm heart, you learn to sing along. It is hard to stop loving the ocean. Even after it has left you gasping, salty. Forgive yourself for the decisions you have made, the ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night. And know this: Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours. Let the statues crumble. You have always been the place. You are a woman who can build it yourself. You were born to build.

Sarah Kay
the-type-everyone-needs-place-it-shouldnt-be-inside-someone-else-richard-siken-if-you-grow-up-type-woman-men-want-to-look-at-you-can-let-them-look-at-you-but-do-not-mistake-eyes-
The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a sharp-nosed face, round, prominent ears and a receding hairline that combined to give him a rodentlike look, glanced at him, absentmindedly wiping a tankard with a grubby cloth. Will raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. He'd be willing to bet the cloth was transferring more dirt to the tankard then it was removing. "Drink?" the tavern keeper asked. He set the tankard down on the bar, as if in preparation for filling it with whatever the stranger might order. "Not out of that, " Will said evenly, jerking a thumb at the tankard. Ratface shrugged, shoved it aside and produced another from a rack above the bar. "Suit yourself. Ale or ouisgeah?" Ousigeah, Will knew, was the strong malt spirit they distilled and drank in Hibernia. In a tavern like this, it might be more suitable for stripping runt than drinking. "I'd like coffee, " he said, noticing the battered pot by the fire at one end of the bar. "I've got ale or ouisgeah. Take your pick." Ratface was becoming more peremptory. Will gestured toward the coffeepot. The tavern keeper shook his head. "None made, " he said. "I'm not making a new pot just for you." "But he's drinking coffee, " Will said, nodding to one side. Inevitably the tavern keeper glanced that way, to see who he was talking about. The moment his eyes left Will, an iron grip seized the front of his shirt collar, twisting it into a knot that choked him and at the same time dragged him forward, off balance, over the bar, . The stranger's eyes were suddenly very close. He no longer looked boyish. The eyes were dark brown, almost black in this dim light, and the tavern keeper read danger there. A lot of danger. He heard a soft whisper of steel, and glancing down past the fist that held him so tightly, he glimpsed the heavy, gleaming blade of the saxe knife as the stranger laid it on the bar between them. He looked around for possible help. But there was nobody else at the bar, and none of the customers at the tables had noticed what was going on. "Aach... mach co'hee, " he choked. The tension on his collar eased and the stranger said softly, "What was that?" "I'll... make... coffee, " he repeated, gasping for breath. The stranger smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but the tavern keep noticed that it never reached those dark eyes. "That's wonderful. I'll wait here.

John Flanagan
the-tavern-keeper-wiry-man-with-sharpnosed-face-round-prominent-ears-receding-hairline-that-combined-to-give-him-rodentlike-look-glanced-at-him-absentmindedly-wiping-tankard-with
Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies. It is the glimpse of oneself in a storefront window, the unbidden awareness of reactions on the faces of other people- the novelist's world, not the poet's. I've lived there. I remember what the city has to offer; human companionship, major league baseball, and a clatter of quickening stimulus like a rush from strong drugs that leaves you drained. I remember how you bide your time in the city, and think, if you stop to think, 'next year, I'll start living... next year I'll start my life.' Innocence is a better world. Innocence sees that this is it, and finds it world enough, and time. Innocence is not the prerogative of infants and puppies, and far less of mountains and fixed stars, which have no prerogatives at all. It is not lost to us; the world is a better place than that. Like any other of the spirit's good gifts, it is there if you want it, free for the asking, as has been stressed by stronger words than mine. It is possible to pursue innocence as hounds pursue hares; singlemindledly, driven by a kind of love, crashing over creeks, keening and lost in fields and forests, circling, vaulting over hedges and hills wide-eyed, giving loud tongue all unawares to the deepest, most incomprehensible longing, a root-flame in the heart, and that warbling chorus resounding back from the mountains, hurling itself from ridge to ridge over the valley, now faint, now clear ringing the air through which the hounds tear, open-mouthed, the echoes of their own wails dimly knocking in their lungs. What I call innocence is the spirit's unselfconscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object. It is at once a receptiveness and total concentration. One needn't be, shouldn't be reduced to a puppy. If you wish to tell me that the city offers galleries, I'll pour you a drink and enjoy your company while it lasts; but I'll bear with me to my grave those pure moments at the Tate (was it the Tate?) where I stood planted, open-mouthed, born, before that one particular canvas, that river, up to my neck, gasping, lost, receding into watercolor depth and depth to the vanishing point, buoyant, awed, and had to be literally hauled away. These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.

Annie Dillard
selfconsciousness-is-curse-city-all-that-sophistication-implies-it-is-glimpse-oneself-in-storefront-window-unbidden-awareness-reactions-on-faces-other-people-novelists-world-not-
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