Glimmering 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
and-youre-glimmering-and-you-are-clear
glimmering-on-the-water-a-phantom-fair
words-writers-choose-are-like-glimmering-reflection-into-our-souls-lee-bicematheson
words-writers-choose-are-glimmering-reflection-into-our-souls-lee-bicemathesonmatheson
i-wish-upon-glimmering-star-my-hopes-as-distant-as-far-so-if-this-wish-does-not-come-true-im-thankful-for-few-that-do-richelle-e-goodrich
twilight-timid-fawn-went-glimmering-by-night-dark-blue-hunter-followed-fast
there-by-starlit-fences-the-wanderer-halts-hears-my-soul-that-lingers-sighing-about-glimmering-weirs-a-e-housman
the-positive-element-kitsch-lies-in-fact-that-it-sets-free-for-moment-glimmering-realization-that-you-have-wasted-your-life-theodor-adorno
oh-rather-give-me-commentators-plain-who-with-no-deep-researches-vex-brain-who-from-dark-doubtful-love-to-run-and-hold-their-glimmering-tapers-to-george-crabbe
torrent-light-river-air-along-whose-bed-glimmering-stars-are-seen-like-gold-silver-sands-in-some-ravine-where-mountain-streams-have-left-their-henry-wadsworth-longfellow
the-whole-journey-was-odd-dreamlike-roaring-stream-wet-grey-grass-glimmering-cliffs-which-they-were-approaching-always-glorious-silently-pacing-c-s-lewis
it-seems-to-me-charm-etching-is-glimmering-through-white-paper-even-in-shadows-that-almost-everything-sparkles-suggest-sparkles-samuel-palmer
there-must-be-other-races-out-there-watching-our-tiny-yellow-sun-glimmering-in-their-unknown-field-sky-do-they-desire-us-as-we-desire-them
i-have-never-known-anyone-to-win-battle-waged-against-his-emotions-when-sentiment-hoists-his-glimmering-blade-into-air-battle-is-lost-before-it-has-begun-kelseyleigh-reber
somehow-days-summer-with-their-glimmering-enchantment-dancing-ladybugs-sailing-clouds-had-faded-into-grey-maddies-heart-had-somehow-faded-with-it-david-paul-kirkpatrick
the-sea-is-calm-tonight-the-tide-is-full-moon-lies-fair-upon-straits-on-french-coast-light-gleams-is-gone-cliffs-england-stand-glimmering-vast-out-in-tranquil-bay-matthew-arnold
the-place-true-healing-is-fierce-place-its-giant-place-its-place-monstrous-beauty-endless-dark-glimmering-light-cheryl-strayed
in-the-grass-of-your-open-in-cracks-and-crevices-caught-up-in-the-cloth-wrapped-up-in-the-gauze-of-that-last-eclipse-twilight-glimmering-we-dissolve-wintersleep
the-jealous-sun-the-sunlight-whispers-in-my-ear-his-breath-warm-sultry-tease-i-shrink-duck-beneath-tree-my-eyes-squint-to-scan-horizon-for-glimpse-wind-but-there-are-no-ashen-rib
So it hadn't been wrong or dishonest of her to say no this morning, when he asked if she hated him, any more than it had been wrong or dishonest to serve him the elaborate breakfast and to show the elaborate interest in his work, and to kiss him goodbye. The kiss, for that matter, had been exactly right-a perfectly fair, friendly kiss, a kiss for a boy you'd just met at a party, a boy who'd danced with you and made you laugh and walked you home afterwards, talking about himself all the way. The only real mistake, the only wrong and dishonest thing, was ever to have seen him as anything more than that. Oh, for a month or two, just for fun, it might be all right to play a game like that with a boy; but all these years! And all because, in a sentimentally lonely time long ago, she had found it easy and agreeable to believe whatever this one particular boy felt like saying, and to repay him for that pleasure by telling easy, agreeable lies of her own, until each was saying what the other most wanted to hear-until he was saying 'I love you' and she was saying 'Really, I mean it; you're the most interesting person I've ever met.' What a subtle, treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you'd started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying 'I'm sorry, of course you're right, ' and 'Whatever you think is best, ' and 'You're the most wonderful and valuable thing in the world, ' and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of the golden people. Then you discovered you were working at life the way the Laurel Players worked at The Petrified Forest, or the way Steve Kovick worked at his drums-earnest and sloppy and full of pretension and all wrong; you found you were saying yes when you meant no, and 'We've got to be together on this thing' when you meant the very opposite; then you were breathing gasoline as if it were flowers and abandoning yourself to a delirium of love under the weight of a clumsy, grunting, red-faced man you didn't even like-Shep Campbell!-and then you were face to face, in total darkness, with the knowledge that you didn't know who you were. (p.416-7)

Richard Yates
so-it-hadnt-been-wrong-dishonest-her-to-say-no-this-morning-when-he-asked-if-she-hated-him-any-more-than-it-had-been-wrong-dishonest-to-serve-him-elaborate-breakfast-to-show-elab
I feel as though dispossessed from the semblances of some crystalline reality to which I'd grown accustomed, and to some degree, had engaged in as a participant, but to which I had, nevertheless, grown inexplicably irrelevant. But the elements of this phenomenon are now quickly dissolving from memory and being replaced by reverse-engineered Random Access actualizations of junk code/DNA consciousness, the retro-coded catalysts of rogue cellular activity. The steel meshing titters musically and in its song, I hear a forgotten tale of the Interstitial gaps that form pinpoint vortexes at which fibers (quanta, as it were) of Reason come to a standstill, like light on the edge of a Singularity. The gaps, along their ridges, seasonally infected by the incidental wildfires in the collective unconscious substrata. Heat flanks passageways down the Interstices. Wildfires cluster-spread down the base trunk Axon in a definitive roar: hitting branches, flaring out to Dendrites to give rise to this release of the very chemical seeds through which sentience is begotten. Float about the ether, gliding a gentle current, before skimming down, to a skip over the surface of a sea of deep black with glimmering waves. And then, come to a stop, still inanimate and naked before any trespass into the Field, with all its layers that serve to veil. Plunge downward into the trenches. Swim backwards, upstream, and down through these spiraling jets of bubbles. Plummet past the threshold to trace the living history of shadows back to their source virus. And acquire this sense that the viruses as a sample, all of the outlying populations withstanding: they have their own sense of self-importance, too. Their own religion. And they mine their hosts barren with the utilitarian wherewithal that can only be expected of beings with self-preservationist motives.

Ashim Shanker
i-feel-as-though-dispossessed-from-semblances-some-crystalline-reality-to-which-id-grown-accustomed-to-some-degree-had-engaged-in-as-participant-but-to-which-i-had-nevertheless-g
The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with its light. We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as with think of a rabbit with its fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it us utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that event the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity-so much lower than that of daylight-makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.

Richard Adams
the-full-moon-well-risen-in-cloudless-eastern-sky-covered-high-solitude-with-its-light-we-are-not-conscious-daylight-as-that-which-displaces-darkness-daylight-even-when-sun-is-cl
I have sometimes thought that the mere hearing of those songs would do more to impress some minds with the horrible character of slavery, than the reading of whole volumes of philosophy on the subject could do. I did not, when a slave, understand the deep meaning of those rude and apparently incoherent songs. I was myself within the circle; so that I neither saw nor heard as those without might see and hear. They told a tale of woe which was then altogether beyond my feeble comprehension; they were tones loud, long, and deep; they breathed the prayer and complaint of souls boiling over with bitterest anguish. Every tone was a testimony against slavery, and a prayer to God for deliverance from chains. The hearing of those wild notes always depressed my spirit, and filled me with ineffable sadness. I have frequently found myself in tears while hearing them. The mere recurrence to those songs, even now, afflicts me; and while I am writing these lines, an expression of feeling has already found its way down my cheek. To those songs I trace my first glimmering conception of the dehumanizing character of slavery. I can never get rid of that conception. Those songs still follow me, to deepen my hatred of slavery, and quicken my sympathies for my brethren in bonds. If any one wishes to be impressed with the soul-killing effects of slavery, let him go to Colonel Lloyd's plantation, and, on allowance-day, place himself in the deep pine woods, and there let him, in silence, analyze the sounds that shall pass through the chambers of his soul, - and if he is not thus impressed, it will only be because "there is no flesh in his obdurate heart." I have often been utterly astonished, since I came to the north, to find persons who could speak of the singing, among slaves, as evidence of their contentment and happiness. It is impossible to conceive of a greater mistake. Slaves sing most when they are most unhappy. The songs of the slave represent the sorrows of his heart; and he is relieved by them, only as an aching heart is relieved by its tears. At least, such is my experience. I have often sung to drown my sorrow, but seldom to express my happiness. Crying for joy, and singing for joy, were alike uncommon to me while in the jaws of slavery. The singing of a man cast away upon a desolate island might be as appropriately considered as evidence of contentment and happiness, as the singing of a slave; the songs of the one and of the other are prompted by the same emotion.

Frederick Douglass
i-have-sometimes-thought-that-mere-hearing-those-songs-would-do-more-to-impress-some-minds-with-horrible-character-slavery-than-reading-whole-volumes-philosophy-on-subject-could-
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