Gutted 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
we-saw-through-the-flaws-gutted-them-out
as-result-manifest-destiny-we-gutted-our-resources
something-genuine-like-mark-in-toilet-graced-with-guts-gutted-with-grace-ee-cummings
to-me-theres-nothing-worse-than-going-to-concert-youre-looking-forward-to-hearing-your-favorite-song-they-never-play-it-youre-gutted-dido-armstrong
freemarket-capitalism-in-blink-eye-was-gutted-replaced-by-oligopoly-gerald-celente
we-have-gutted-our-ability-to-detect-next-attack-and-i-would-not-stand-for-that-as-president-united-states
i-am-house-gutted-by-fire-where-only-guilty-sometimes-sleep-before-punishment-that-devours-them-hounds-them-out-in-open-rainer-maria-rilke
in-overtime-we-talked-about-being-mentally-tough-i-was-happy-we-hit-free-throws-i-was-proud-that-we-gutted-it-out-sandra-rushing
my-father-looked-as-if-id-just-gutted-him-but-it-was-mingled-with-twisted-sense-satisfaction-it-felt-good-to-hurt-his-feelings-ernest-cline
ive-seen-dead-body-ive-seen-some-pretty-gruesome-fist-fights-ive-been-hunter-since-i-was-child-though-i-dont-anymore-ive-gutted-wild-game-george-eads
i-consider-myself-diy-home-improvement-guy-in-prior-life-i-completely-gutted-house-redid-plumbing-wiring-moved-sewage-pipes-knocked-down-walls-everything
the-globalists-gutted-american-working-class-created-middle-class-in-asia
alone-on-terrace-looking-up-at-stars-i-would-not-feel-lonely-with-him-glued-to-screen-i-feel-gutted-gabrielle-hamilton
i-was-gutted-to-leave-my-boyfriend-at-home-when-i-started-my-tour-but-taking-my-pillow-was-like-taking-a-little-bit-of-him-with-me
president-yanukovych-deposed-president-essentially-he-gutted-ukrainian-military-and-i-think-we-could-provide-some-more-assistance-to-them-in-that-regard
mom-sobbed-something-into-dads-chest-that-i-wish-i-hadnt-heard-that-i-hope-she-never-finds-out-that-i-did-hear-she-said-i-wont-be-mom-anymore-it-john-green
in-all-these-sights-i-achieve-solace-only-in-bringing-forth-trees-picturing-them-blooming-like-smoke-from-roofs-gutted-buildings-dreaming-what-fine-picturesque-pile-rubble-this-c
my-father-looked-as-if-id-just-gutted-him-i-felt-pang-regretbut-it-was-mingled-with-twisted-sense-satisfaction-it-felt-good-to-hurt-his-feelingsit-was-payback-for-way-his-choices
when-obama-gutted-medicare-by-taking-717-billion-out-it-romney-plan-does-not-do-that-the-ryan-plan-mimicked-part-obama-package-there-romney-plan-john-sununu
Now the evening's at its noon, its meridian. The outgoing tide has simmered down, and there's a lull-like the calm in the eye of a hurricane - before the reverse tide starts to set in. The last acts of the three-act plays are now on, and the after-theater eating places are beginning to fill up with early comers; Danny's and Lindy's - yes, and Horn and Hardart too. Everybody has got where they wanted to go - and that was out somewhere. Now everybody will want to get back where they came from - and that's home somewhere. Or as the coffee-grinder radio, always on the beam, put it at about this point: 'New York, New York, it's a helluva town, The Bronx is up, the Battery's down, And the people ride around in a hole in the ground. Now the incoming tide rolls in; the hours abruptly switch back to single digits again, and it's a little like the time you put your watch back on entering a different time zone. Now the buses knock off and the subway expresses turn into locals and the locals space themselves far apart; and as Johnny Carson's face hits millions of screens all at one and the same time, the incoming tide reaches its crest and pounds against the shore. There's a sudden splurge, a slew of taxis arriving at the hotel entrance one by one as regularly as though they were on a conveyor belt, emptying out and then going away again. Then this too dies down, and a deep still sets in. It's an around-the-clock town, but this is the stretch; from now until the garbage-grinding trucks come along and tear the dawn to shreds, it gets as quiet as it's ever going to get. This is the deep of the night, the dregs, the sediment at the bottom of the coffee cup. The blue hours; when guys' nerves get tauter and women's fears get greater. Now guys and girls make love, or kill each other or sometimes both. And as the windows on the 'Late Show' title silhouette light up one by one, the real ones all around go dark. And from now on the silence is broken only by the occasional forlorn hoot of a bogged-down drunk or the gutted-cat squeal of a too sharply swerved axle coming around a turn. Or as Billy Daniels sang it in Golden Boy: While the city sleeps, And the streets are clear, There's a life that's happening here. ("New York Blues")

Cornell Woolrich
now-evenings-at-its-noon-its-meridian-the-outgoing-tide-has-simmered-down-theres-lulllike-calm-in-eye-hurricane-before-reverse-tide-starts-to-set-in-the-last-acts-threeact-plays-
Birds of the Western Front Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover above the shelling. They don't turn a feather when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth, flickering star-shells and flares from the Revelation of St John. You look away from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap against one corner of a thicket to the partridge of the war zone making its nest in shattered clods. History floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling to the hard dry stars of observation. How you survive. They were all at it: Orchids of the Crimea nature notes from the trench leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath - for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch flashed like mediaeval glass. You replace gangrene and gas mask with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds translating human earth to abstract and divine. While machine-gun tracery gutted that stricken wood you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro through splintered branches, breaking buds and never a green bough left. Hundreds lay in there wounded. If any, you say, spotted one bird they may have wondered why a thing with wings would stay in such a place. She must have, sure, had chicks she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert. Like roots clutching at air you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn sounding insincere above the burning bush: plough-land latticed like folds of brain with shell-ravines where nothing stirs but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice sliding across your faces every night. Where every elixir's gone wrong you hold to what you know. A little nature study. A solitary magpie blue and white spearing a strand of willow. One for sorrow. One for Babylon, Ninevah and Northern France, for mice and desolation, the burgeoning barn-owl population and never a green bough left.

Ruth Padel
birds-western-front-your-messtin-covers-lost-kestrels-hover-above-shelling-they-dont-turn-feather-when-huntingground-explodes-in-yellow-earth-flickering-starshells-flares-from-re
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