Hunched 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
saul-was-hunched-over-his-drink-like-it-was-small-fire-james-swain
without-care-i-received-at-royal-national-orthopaedic-hospital-i-wouldnt-look-way-i-do-now-my-back-would-be-hunched-over
he-hunched-his-shoulders-tried-to-make-himself-smaller-in-seat-he-wanted-to-disappear-to-fade-away-not-to-exist-lois-lowry
i-dont-use-email-i-phone-fax-i-think-people-who-are-hunched-over-their-computer-screens-all-day-should-get-life-joan-collins
im-going-to-arrange-you-if-thats-okay-i-swallowed-uh-sure-my-hands-were-clutched-to-my-ribcage-my-shoulders-hunched-almost-to-my-ears-what-this-isnt-tammara-webber
im-not-king-in-my-own-house-i-have-to-wash-dishes-take-out-trash-say-yes-baby-im-6-foot-5-but-i-kind-walk-around-hunched-over
ah-lives-there-man-with-soul-dead-who-never-to-himself-hath-said-as-he-hunched-rolled-in-his-comfortable-bed-to-hell-with-rent-ill-drink-hunter-s-thompson
nothing-is-more-satisfying-to-me-than-sitting-in-dank-room-hunched-over-single-flickering-candle-like-ebenezer-scrooge-watching-my-ledgers-fill-themselves-with-ink
with-their-souls-patent-leather-they-come-down-road-hunched-nocturnal-where-they-breathe-they-impose-silence-dark-rubber-fear-fine-sand-federico-garcia-lorca
i-do-pilates-because-its-important-for-me-to-have-healthy-back-when-im-70-im-not-hunched-over-in-pain-thats-more-important-to-me-than-being-thin-cobie-smulders
straddling-top-world-one-foot-in-china-other-in-nepal-i-cleared-ice-from-my-oxygen-mask-hunched-shoulder-against-wind-stared-absently-down-at-jon-krakauer
i-wasnt-perfect-thing-at-17-i-didnt-have-confidence-i-was-hunched-over-real-embarrassed-i-didnt-want-to-be-in-limelight-but-it-changed-over-time
the-least-i-can-do-is-speak-out-for-hundreds-chimpanzees-who-right-now-sit-hunched-miserable-without-hope-staring-out-with-dead-eyes-from-their-metal-prisons-they-cannot-speak-fo
genevieve-hunched-her-shoulders-against-storm-sound-fury-struggled-to-imagine-worse-sort-hell-widdershins-course-seemed-perfectly-happy-but-widdershins-was-weird-ari-marmell
quentin-was-thin-tall-though-he-habitually-hunched-his-shoulders-in-vain-attempt-to-brace-himself-against-whatever-blow-was-coming-from-heavens-which-would-logically-hit-tall-peo
maureen-clapped-her-hands-together-oh-she-said-in-her-elfin-little-voice-its-pretty-pretty-simon-looked-quickly-at-hunched-shape-on-top-concrete-block-maureen-what-hell-cassandra
You were already in a prison. You've been in a prison all your life. Happiness is a prison, Evey. Happiness is the most insidious prison of all. Your lover lived in the penitentiary that we are all born into, and was forced to rake the dregs of that world for his living. He knew affection and tenderness but only briefly. Eventually, one of the other inmates stabbed him with a cutlass and he drowned upon his own blood. Is that it, Evey? Is that the happiness worth more than freedom? It's not an uncommon story, Evey. Many convicts meet with miserable ends. Your mother. Your father. Your lover. One by one, taken out behind the chemical sheds... and shot. All convicts, hunched and deformed by the smallness of their cells, the weight of their chains, the unfairness of their sentences. I didn't put you in a prison, Evey. I just showed you the bars.' 'You're wrong! It's just life, that's all! It's just how life is. It's what we've got to put up with. It's all we've got. What gives you the right to decide it's not good enough?' 'You're in a prison, Evey. You were born in a prison. You've been in a prison so long, you no longer believe there's a world outside. That's because you're afraid, Evey. You're afraid because you can feel freedom closing in upon you. You're afraid because freedom is terrifying. Don't back away from it, Evey. Part of you understands the truth even as part pretends not to. You were in a cell, Evey. They offered you a choice between the death of your principles and the death of your body. You said you'd rather die. You faced the fear of your own death and you were calm and still. The door of the cage is open, Evey. All that you feel is the wind from outside.

Alan Moore
you-were-already-in-prison-youve-been-in-prison-all-your-life-happiness-is-prison-evey-happiness-is-most-insidious-prison-all-your-lover-lived-in-penitentiary-that-we-are-all-bor
Rushing out the door on his way back to the street, he ran into someone with his shoulder. Turning to apologize to them, he stopped, horrified at what he saw. It was the white-eyed man he'd met a week ago. 'Watch your back.' He said standing there just long enough for Raven to take in the meat between his teeth, the milky, nearly opaque color of his eyes and the madness within them. Then, after only a few seconds, he was gone, vanished into the crowd as if he had never existed. Certain his mind was playing tricks and tired of being terrified for his sanity, he headed down the street as fast as he could in pursuit. As he rushed through the tightly packed crowd, he saw others like the man he'd just seen, and each of their white eyes gazed blankly into his. A woman here, a hunched drifter there, shapes and faces that shifted and darted all around him. 'Watch your back.' They hissed, and he tried to move faster, his heart racing and the nerves of his body jangling painfully with fear as he fought to get beyond them. Hands reached out for his clothes, pulling him in different directions as they tugged and he struggled to be free. Their fingers felt like talons clasped into the folds and gaps of his clothing, ripping and popping stitches in their fervor to gain some small grasp on his flesh beneath his jacket. Along with the horror of their cold, dead eyes, he could smell some strangeness-a sickly sweet smell of rot and decay only barely closeted by preserving fluids. The smell dug into his sinuses as their fingers and hands dug at him. He gagged, his teeth clenched tight as he exerted energy he didn't really have. He pushed away from them and on through the empty space he saw at the end of this group of pedestrians. Many of whom mingled with what he now felt must be the dead, wholly unaware of why he flailed and pushed against them.

Amanda M. Lyons
rushing-out-door-on-his-way-back-to-street-he-ran-into-someone-with-his-shoulder-turning-to-apologize-to-them-he-stopped-horrified-at-what-he-saw-it-was-whiteeyed-man-hed-met-wee
The game is a thread, microscopic in breadth, a hint of gossamer drawing unsuspecting souls together in simple competition to the exclusion of all else, from a mother and her infant playing peekaboo to two old men hunched over a chessboard and everything in between. The game unifies, joining father and son pitching baseballs at night after a long day at the office, pitches pounding the mitt or skipping past, one time even knocking the coffee cup handle clean off and the boy scampering off to retrieve a wild one as the dad sips and ponders. The game allows brothers to bond even when the age gap is too great for real competition, their mutual effort to fashion a bridge between disparate age and ability forming a bond of trust and respect. And finally, it is the game's presence and past and its memory that inspires each of us to forgive time and aging and their inevitable accompanying attrition because the gray and hobbled old man before me was once lean and powerful and magnificent and some of what became of him was due to the investment he made in me and after all the batting practice he threw and grounders he hit, his shoulder aches and his knees need replacement. Even though youth masks it so you don't realize it all when you're a kid, someday it happens to you and suddenly you realize you are him and you are left wishing you could go back and tell him what you now know and perhaps thank him for what he gave up. You imagine him back then receiving nothing in return except the knowledge that you would someday understand but he could not hasten that day or that revelation and he abided it all so graciously knowing that your realization might be too late for him. So you console yourself that in the absence of your gratitude he clung to hope and conviction and the future. Turn the page and you find yourself staring out at the new generation and you wince as his pitches bruise your palm and crack your thumb and realize that today the game is growth and achievement and tomorrow it will be love and memories. The game is a gift.

Drew Rogers
the-game-is-thread-microscopic-in-breadth-hint-gossamer-drawing-unsuspecting-souls-together-in-simple-competition-to-exclusion-all-else-from-mother-her-infant-playing-peekaboo-to
Fairy tales, fantasy, legend and myth... these stories, and their topics, and the symbolism and interpretation of those topics... these things have always held an inexplicable fascination for me, " she writes. "That fascination is at least in part an integral part of my character - I was always the kind of child who was convinced that elves lived in the parks, that trees were animate, and that holes in floorboards housed fairies rather than rodents. You need to know that my parents, unlike those typically found in fairy tales - the wicked stepmothers, the fathers who sold off their own flesh and blood if the need arose - had only the best intentions for their only child. They wanted me to be well educated, well cared for, safe - so rather than entrusting me to the public school system, which has engendered so many ugly urban legends, they sent me to a private school, where, automatically, I was outcast for being a latecomer, for being poor, for being unusual. However, as every cloud does have a silver lining - and every miserable private institution an excellent library - there was some solace to be found, between the carved oak cases, surrounded by the well-lined shelves, among the pages of the heavy antique tomes, within the realms of fantasy. Libraries and bookshops, and indulgent parents, and myriad books housed in a plethora of nooks to hide in when I should have been attending math classes... or cleaning my room... or doing homework... provided me with an alternative to a reality I didn't much like. Ten years ago, you could have seen a number of things in the literary field that just don't seem to exist anymore: valuable antique volumes routinely available on library shelves; privately run bookshops, rather than faceless chains; and one particular little girl who haunted both the latter two institutions. In either, you could have seen some variation upon a scene played out so often that it almost became an archetype: A little girl, contorted, with her legs twisted beneath her, shoulders hunched to bring her long nose closer to the pages that she peruses. Her eyes are glued to the pages, rapt with interest. Within them, she finds the kingdoms of Myth. Their borders stand unguarded, and any who would venture past them are free to stay and occupy themselves as they would.

Helen Pilinovsky
fairy-tales-fantasy-legend-myth-these-stories-their-topics-symbolism-interpretation-those-topics-these-things-have-always-held-inexplicable-fascination-for-me-she-writes-that-fas
Say you could view a time lapse film of our planet: what would you see? Transparent images moving through light, 'an infinite storm of beauty.' The beginning is swaddled in mists, blasted by random blinding flashes. Lava pours and cools; seas boil and flood. Clouds materialize and shift; now you can see the earth's face through only random patches of clarity. The land shudders and splits, like pack ice rent by widening lead. Mountains burst up, jutting, and dull and soften before your eyes, clothed in forests like felt. The ice rolls up, grinding green land under water forever; the ice rolls back. Forests erupt and disappear like fairy rings. The ice rolls up- mountains are mowed into lakes, land rises wet from the sea like a surfacing whale- the ice rolls back. A blue-green streaks the highest ridges, a yellow-green spreads from the south like a wave up a strand. A red dye seems to leak from the north down the ridges and into the valleys, seeping south; a white follows the red, then yellow-green washes north, then red spreads again, then white, over and over, making patterns of color too intricate to follow. Slow the film. You see dust storms, locusts, floods, in dizzying flash-frames. Zero in on a well-watered shore and see smoke from fires drifting. Stone cities rise, spread, and crumble, like paths of alpine blossoms that flourish for a day an inch above the permafrost, that iced earth no root can suck, and wither in a hour. New cities appear, and rivers sift silt onto their rooftops; more cities emerge and spread in lobes like lichen on rock. The great human figures of history, those intricate, spirited tissues whose split second in the light was too brief an exposure to yield any image but the hunched shadowless figures of ghosts. Slow it down more, come closer still. A dot appears, a flesh-flake. It swells like a balloon; it moves, circles, slows, and vanishes. This is your life.

Annie Dillard
say-you-could-view-time-lapse-film-our-planet-what-would-you-see-transparent-images-moving-through-light-infinite-storm-beauty-the-beginning-is-swaddled-in-mists-blasted-by-rando
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