Gust 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
a-sudden-gust-how-big-world-seems-in-wind-kim-stanley-robinson
there-is-a-powerful-need-for-people-to-feel-that-gust-of-hope-rise-up-again
when-gust-wind-hits-broken-bone-you-feel-it-shia-labeouf
wind-is-scary-during-tornado-in-life-in-general-never-know-when-gust-is-going-to-come-in-your-direction-change-everything-david-walsh
destroy-all-creatures-for-thy-sport-gust-yet-cry-if-mans-unhappy-gods-unjust-alexander-pope
you-are-not-my-sunshine-sorry-youre-more-like-gust-arctic-wind-that-bursts-in-blows-out-all-candles-when-door-cracks-open-richelle-e-goodrich
each-sudden-gust-light-explains-itself-as-flames-but-neither-they-nor-even-bombs-redoubled-on-hills-tonight-can-quite-include-me-in-their-fear-andrew-motion
a-gust-wind-rattles-window-i-look-out-leaves-are-whooshing-all-over-place-flying-past-horizontally-as-if-they-have-engines-their-own-kate-messner
a-boy-today-is-affected-by-every-change-tone-gust-opinion-that-he-lies-even-when-he-desires-to-speak-truth-rudyard-kipling
life-is-flickering-candle-we-all-carry-around-a-gust-wind-meaningless-accident-microsecond-carelessness-its-out-forever-david-wong
ive-been-clinging-to-this-world-like-discarded-shell-insect-stuck-to-branch-about-to-be-blown-off-forever-by-gust-wind-haruki-murakami
if-i-let-gust-wind-sprinkling-rain-turn-me-aside-from-easy-tasks-what-preparation-would-such-sloth-be-for-future-i-propose-myself-charlotte-bronte
the-large-white-owl-that-with-eye-is-blind-that-hath-sate-for-years-in-old-tree-hollow-is-carried-away-in-gust-wind-elizabeth-barrett-browning
the-hardest-thing-about-skateboarding-is-consistency-the-slightest-flick-your-foot-gust-wind-can-send-your-board-flying-its-really-anybodys-game-out-there
one-my-favorites-is-the-sound-music-when-julie-andrews-runs-through-hills-singing-her-head-off-i-always-wish-that-gust-wind-would-blow-her-skirt-up
peace-train-is-song-i-wrote-message-which-continues-to-breeze-thunderously-through-hearts-millions-there-is-powerful-need-for-people-to-feel-cat-stevens
disillusionment-can-come-as-fast-as-gust-but-building-faith-that-government-wont-inflate-again-is-like-building-new-sailboat-project-years-amity-shlaes
a-gust-wind-doesnt-suddenly-bang-door-open-a-clock-doesnt-chime-the-phone-doesnt-ring-yet-in-next-instant-stillness-breaks-as-if-it-is-crystal-larry-watson
what-joy-have-i-in-junes-return-my-feet-are-parchedmy-eyeballs-burn-i-scent-no-flowery-gust-but-faint-flagging-zephyr-springs-with-dry-macadam-on-its-thomas-hood
it-dances-on-air-for-moment-before-it-falls-too-a-fresh-gust-wind-almost-saves-it-but-worker-catches-sight-it-lifts-tube-up-to-suck-paper-from-air-to-suck-words-from-sky-im-sorry
she-flew-across-turbulent-gust-her-eyes-fixed-her-wings-strong-she-flies-flies-flies-along-to-reach-high-to-open-her-wings-to-breathing-sun-rise-debatrayee-banerjee
are-trials-starting-the-girl-claps-her-hands-over-her-mouth-im-sorry-she-whispers-i-its-all-right-i-dont-smile-at-her-it-will-only-scare-her-for-female-slave-smile-from-mask-is-n
Fat' is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her. I mean, is 'fat' really the worst thing a human being can be? Is 'fat' worse than 'vindictive', 'jealous', 'shallow', 'vain', 'boring' or 'cruel'? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I'm not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain... I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn't seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? 'You've lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!' 'Well, ' I said, slightly nonplussed, 'the last time you saw me I'd just had a baby.' What I felt like saying was, 'I've produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren't either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?' But no - my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate! I've got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don't want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I'd rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny - a thousand things, before 'thin'. And frankly, I'd rather they didn't give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons.

J.K. Rowling
fat-is-usually-first-insult-girl-throws-at-another-girl-when-she-wants-to-hurt-her-i-mean-is-fat-really-worst-thing-human-being-can-be-is-fat-worse-than-vindictive-jealous-shallo
Riding high and above the waves on extemporaneous notions of an afterlife, Michael brought one foot forward and let it dangle over the roof's edge. He knew that he did not have much time before the other would follow. Some patients below could see the figure atop the building from the courtyard. They started to rile with anticipation, their irate murmurings incomprehensible. A groundskeeper looked up to see what justified the commotion. Michael could hear the shouts from below. He almost toppled when the wind picked up again, but recovered and kept one foot dangling with the other anchored to the roof. The hoots came louder now, almost calling him toward them like sirens guiding ships in the night. From below it was impossible to make out the face of the balancing figurine now poised in suspended descent. Another gust came. He closed his eyes, felt the levity manifesting, and felt the complete freedom inside. He could feel himself gliding down like the sail of a weightless craft, forever plunging into the great beyond, below where mermaids sing and summon their lovers home, further down into the depths of some complacent serenity, further down where thoughts float away and never return and the lightness is so grand that there is no other worldly place imaginable, for there is no world left to be considered. There is only the soul, free from the prison of the body, and it is released to travel another millennium through time, carrying with it the progress and industry gathered from the mind previously occupied. The time it spans inconceivable. He let his other foot go from the roof and felt himself completely let go.

Matthew Chase Stroud
riding-high-above-waves-on-extemporaneous-notions-afterlife-michael-brought-one-foot-forward-let-it-dangle-over-roofs-edge-he-knew-that-he-did-not-have-much-time-before-other-wou
LITTLE BOY WAR He stands alone On a vacant road, Hands shaking from the cold. His heart is aching from the untold. Under his right arm Is a tattered bag, Which he holds tightly As if it were filled with gold. He's just six, Going on seven. And it's past ten, Going on eleven. He takes another toke From his cowboy smoke, And wishes he too Could have died with his brother And taken the ride to Heaven. His tummy rumbles and grumbles. He feels faint and tries hard not to stumble. His eyes scream with muted cries, Too loud for his tired soul to conjure enough energy To even mumble. Little kid scared, Alone in the middle of a war zone somewhere, Past curfew and without a clue As to what to do or to go where. He is just standing there with A shark's glazed and Lifeless stare. And yet, His eyes reveal a whirlpool of disaster, Just another tragic kid Who can't help growing up any faster. The streets are dark and it's just him, Standing in the shadow of a blinking ATM. He now thinks of his worn mother, And how she once took his torn shirt And lovingly sewn its hem back together. He never understood Why she had always told him: 'Buckle your sandals!' She used to call, 'Buckle them good So you walk right and Stand taller than them all!' So why did he feel so small? And why does he feel like he's about to fall? He kicks his little sandals At the sand Trying to understand What Uncle Sam And his freedom plan Had done to his once beautiful land. Babylon is crashing. In front of him, memories are flashing - Rubble, ash, blood, and dust, An empire once fueled with beauty and gust Now buried under artillery, bones, and rust. In the corner of his eye, He sees a tank suddenly appear He tries to focus on its lights Like a lost and rampant deer Then that chilling electric sound Cuts and pierces through his ears The tank stops. A lady emerges from its top, And examines the boy and sneers. She asks him what he is doing outside by himself And warns him that there are now new rules That all must adhere. But Little Boy War Glares without A drip of fear. He swings his precious bag high up in the air And cries: 'I'm not alone! Look! My mother is in here!' I watched from a distance Then turn away to disappear My heart felt like a cold rock And I couldn't control my tears. Behind my back And in my mind The little boy's Words echo forever So loud And clear: 'In here and always near. Her hands and heart are right here!

Suzy Kassem
little-boy-war-he-stands-alone-on-vacant-road-hands-shaking-from-cold-his-heart-is-aching-from-untold-under-his-right-arm-is-tattered-bag-which-he-holds-tightly-as-if-it-were-fil
Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately take to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper not matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

Shaun Tan
have-you-ever-wondered-what-happens-to-all-poems-people-write-the-poems-they-never-let-anyone-else-read-perhaps-they-are-too-private-personal-perhaps-they-are-just-not-good-enoug
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