Hover 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
as-hover-in-the-unknown-up-against-us
that-hover-like-a-phantom-limb
i-hover-closer-to-earth-than-i-do-clouds
some-us-hover-when-we-weep-for-other-who-was-dying-since-day-they-were-born-lisa-loeb
no-one-can-enslave-you-except-your-own-thoughts-and-ideas-you-were-born-to-fly-and-hover-in-the-highest-of-heights
i-believe-that-there-is-luminosity-hiding-in-shadow-mundane-and-things-that-hover-at-periphery-our-vision-if-thats-magic-then-i-believe-in-it-natasha-mostert
as-we-hang-beneath-heavens-we-hover-over-hell-our-hearts-become-instruments-we-learn-to-play-well-dan-fogelberg
if-youre-going-to-make-science-fiction-movie-then-have-hover-craft-chase-for-gods-sake-joss-whedon
if-you-do-practice-train-your-attention-to-hover-in-present-then-you-will-build-internal-capacity-to-do-that-as-needed-at-will-voluntarily-daniel-goleman
when-dragonfly-flutters-by-you-may-not-realize-but-its-greatest-flier-in-nature-it-can-hover-fly-backwards-even-upside-down
death-doesnt-happen-instantly-for-little-while-you-hover-around-your-body-confused-what-you-want-more-than-anything-is-to-go-home-to-be-safe-to-know-youre-okay-but-my-life-was-ov
nightly-you-retrace-your-steps-again-to-return-to-scene-crime-its-uncanny-how-you-hover-in-air-wreckage-that-you-left-behind-aimee-mann
theres-thin-line-between-genius-bottombarrel-stupidness-i-hover-delicately-on-tightrope-between-two-wondering-where-ill-land-if-ill-ever-fall-suzanne-crowley
what-but-pestilential-vapour-can-hover-over-society-when-its-chief-director-is-only-instructed-in-invention-crimes-stupid-routine-childish-ceremonies-mary-wollstonecraft
it-is-horrible-texture-fabric-that-should-be-woven-ships-cables-hawsers-a-polar-wind-blows-through-it-birds-prey-hover-over-it-herman-melville
the-party-blundered-helplessly-across-sky-like-man-leaning-against-unexpectedly-open-door-it-spun-wobbled-on-its-hover-jets-it-tried-to-right-itself-wronged-itself-instead-dougla
the-moon-is-at-her-full-riding-high-floods-calm-fields-with-light-the-airs-that-hover-in-summer-sky-are-all-asleep-tonight
the-moon-is-at-her-full-riding-high-floods-calm-fields-with-light-the-airs-that-hover-in-summer-sky-are-all-asleep-tonight-william-c-bryant
the-moon-is-at-her-full-and-riding-high-floods-the-calm-fields-with-light-the-airs-that-hover-in-the-summer-sky-are-all-asleep-tonight
what-ironic-tragedy-that-affluent-christian-minority-in-world-continues-to-hoard-its-wealth-while-hundreds-millions-people-hover-on-edge-starvation-ronald-j-sider
i-remember-thinking-how-easy-it-is-to-speak-in-cliches-to-steal-line-from-pulp-fiction-let-it-fall-we-can-only-hover-around-inexpressible-with-our-words-anyway-there-is-comfort-i
a-few-feathery-flakes-are-scattered-widely-through-air-hover-downward-with-uncertain-flight-now-almost-alighting-on-earth-now-whirled-again-aloft-into-remote-regions-atmosphere-n
moths-all-sorts-ugly-creatures-hover-about-lighted-candle-can-candle-help-it-charles-dickens
goal-is-to-keep-yourself-moving-remember-dont-linger-dont-hover-you-are-not-going-to-stay-terra-elan-mcvoy
apparently-i-dont-do-stairs-i-wont-walk-on-carpet-i-refuse-to-walk-on-grass-how-do-i-do-to-get-around-hover-mariah-carey
relent-not-in-thy-effort-to-do-when-you-have-to-do-for-in-delay-lies-mediocrity-in-giving-up-lies-perishing-but-when-grounds-are-not-ready-for-landing-hover-purposefully-ernest-a
far-up-above-aliens-hover-making-home-movies-for-folks-back-home-of-all-these-weird-creatures-that-lock-up-their-spirits-drill-holes-in-themselves-thom-yorke
i-like-buying-drones-hover-boards-360-degree-cameras-fabulous-cars-i-am-little-bit-like-boy-i-also-spend-lot-on-books-i-am-voracious-reader-i-love-vintage-stores-first-editions
if-you-wish-to-be-part-my-life-door-is-always-openthe-door-remains-open-if-you-choose-to-leavebut-dont-just-hover-in-doorway-with-indecision-because-youre-blocking-traffic-karen-
in-analysis-books-as-in-analysis-complex-world-events-we-hover-between-two-kinds-error-ascribing-too-much-meaning-where-there-is-little-if-any-to-be-found-ignoring-meaning-that-s
im-like-one-tallest-ones-on-scandal-if-im-wearing-my-four-inch-abby-whelan-high-heels-i-hover-over-everybody-i-literally-have-lower-pair-high-heels-that-i-wear-when-i-do-one-scen
the-will-smith-that-you-see-in-movies-is-exactly-same-as-will-smith-in-real-life-except-for-when-he-plays-superhero-because-real-will-smith-cant-fly-he-can-only-hover
A number of years ago, when I was a freshly-appointed instructor, I met, for the first time, a certain eminent historian of science. At the time I could only regard him with tolerant condescension. I was sorry of the man who, it seemed to me, was forced to hover about the edges of science. He was compelled to shiver endlessly in the outskirts, getting only feeble warmth from the distant sun of science- in-progress; while I, just beginning my research, was bathed in the heady liquid heat up at the very center of the glow. In a lifetime of being wrong at many a point, I was never more wrong. It was I, not he, who was wandering in the periphery. It was he, not I, who lived in the blaze. I had fallen victim to the fallacy of the 'growing edge;' the belief that only the very frontier of scientific advance counted; that everything that had been left behind by that advance was faded and dead. But is that true? Because a tree in spring buds and comes greenly into leaf, are those leaves therefore the tree? If the newborn twigs and their leaves were all that existed, they would form a vague halo of green suspended in mid-air, but surely that is not the tree. The leaves, by themselves, are no more than trivial fluttering decoration. It is the trunk and limbs that give the tree its grandeur and the leaves themselves their meaning. There is not a discovery in science, however revolutionary, however sparkling with insight, that does not arise out of what went before. 'If I have seen further than other men,' said Isaac Newton, 'it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.

Isaac Asimov
a-number-years-ago-when-i-was-freshlyappointed-instructor-i-met-for-first-time-certain-eminent-historian-science-at-time-i-could-only-regard-him-with-tolerant-condescension-i-was
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
Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing The world is full of women who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself if they had the chance. Quit dancing. Get some self-respect and a day job. Right. And minimum wage, and varicose veins, just standing in one place for eight hours behind a glass counter bundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich. Selling gloves, or something. Instead of what I do sell. You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulous and without material form. Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way you cut it, but I've a choice of how, and I'll take the money. I do give value. Like preachers, I sell vision, like perfume ads, desire or its facsimile. Like jokes or war, it's all in the timing. I sell men back their worst suspicions: that everything's for sale, and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see a chain-saw murder just before it happens, when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple are still connected. Such hatred leaps in them, my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploring but ready to snap at my ankles, I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants. I keep the beat, and dance for them because they can't. The music smells like foxes, crisp as heated metal searing the nostrils or humid as August, hazy and languorous as a looted city the day after, when all the rape's been done already, and the killing, and the survivors wander around looking for garbage to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion. Speaking of which, it's the smiling tires me out the most. This, and the pretense that I can't hear them. And I can't, because I'm after all a foreigner to them. The speech here is all warty gutturals, obvious as a slam of ham, but I come from the province of the gods where meaning are lilting and oblique. I don't let on to everyone, but lean close, and I'll whisper: My mothers was raped by a holy swan. You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. That's what we tell all the husbands. There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around. Not that anyone here but you would understand. The rest of them would like to watch me and feel nothing. Reduce me to components as in a clock factory or abattoir. Crush out the mystery. Wall me up alive in my own body. They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency. Look - my feet don't hit the marble! Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising, I hover six inches in the air in my blazing swan-egg of light. You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

Margaret Atwood
helen-troy-does-counter-dancing-the-world-is-full-women-whod-tell-me-i-should-be-ashamed-myself-if-they-had-chance-quit-dancing-get-some-selfrespect-day-job-right-and-minimum-wag
Close your eyes and stare into the dark. My father's advice when I couldn't sleep as a little girl. He wouldn't want me to do that now but I've set my mind to the task regardless. I'm staring beyond my closed eyelids. Though I lie still on the ground, I feel perched at the highest point I could possibly be; clutching at a star in the night sky with my legs dangling above cold black nothingness. I take one last look at my fingers wrapped around the light and let go. Down I go, falling, then floating, and, falling again, I wait for the land of my life. I know now, as I knew as that little girl fighting sleep, that behind her gauzed screen of shut-eye, lies colour. It taunts me, dares me to open my eyes and lose sleep. Flashes of red and amber, yellow and white speckle my darkness. I refuse to open them. I rebel and I squeeze my eyelids together tighter to block out the grains of light, mere distractions that keep us awake but a sign that there's life beyond. But there's no life in me. None that I can feel, from where I lie at the bottom of the staircase. My heart beats quicker now, the lone fighter left standing in the ring, a red boxing glove pumping victoriously into the air, refusing to give up. It's the only part of me that cares, the only part that ever cared. It fights to pump the blood around to heal, to replace what I'm losing. But it's all leaving my body as quickly as it's sent; forming a deep black ocean of its own around me where I've fallen. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Never have enough time here, always trying to make our way there. Need to have left here five minutes ago, need to be there now. The phone rings again and I acknowledge the irony. I could have taken my time and answered it now. Now, not then. I could have taken all the time in the world on each of those steps. But we're always rushing. All, but my heart. That slows now. I don't mind so much. I place my hand on my belly. If my child is gone, and I suspect this is so, I'll join it there. There...where? Wherever. It; a heartless word. He or she so young; who it was to become, still a question. But there, I will mother it. There, not here. I'll tell it; I'm sorry, sweetheart, I'm sorry I ruined your chances - our chances of a life together.But close your eyes and stare into the darkness now, like Mummy is doing, and we'll find our way together. There's a noise in the room and I feel a presence. 'Oh God, Joyce, oh God. Can you hear me, love? Oh God. Oh God, please no, Hold on love, I'm here. Dad is here.' I don't want to hold on and I feel like telling him so. I hear myself groan, an animal-like whimper and it shocks me, scares me. I have a plan, I want to tell him. I want to go, only then can I be with my baby. Then, not now. He's stopped me from falling but I haven't landed yet. Instead he helps me balance on nothing, hover while I'm forced to make the decision. I want to keep falling but he's calling the ambulance and he's gripping my hand with such ferocity it's as though I'm all he has. He's brushing the hair from my forehead and weeping loudly. I've never heard him weep. Not even when Mum died. He clings to my hand with all of his strength I never knew his old body had and I remember that I am all he has and that he, once again just like before, is my whole world. The blood continues to rush through me. Rushing, rushing, rushing. We are always rushing. Maybe I'm rushing again. Maybe it's not my time to go. I feel the rough skin of old hands squeezing mine, and their intensity and their familiarity force me to open my eyes. Lights fills them and I glimpse his face, a look I never want to see again. He clings to his baby. I know I lost mind; I can't let him lose his. In making my decision I already begin to grieve. I've landed now, the land of my life. And still my heart pumps on. Even when broken it still works.

Cecelia Ahern
close-your-eyes-stare-into-dark-my-fathers-advice-when-i-couldnt-sleep-as-little-girl-he-wouldnt-want-me-to-do-that-now-but-ive-set-my-mind-to-task-regardless-im-staring-beyond-m
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