Iris 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
white-iris-the-iris-danced-across-ancient-grecian-skies-gliding-with-her-embossed-satiny-milken-sides-muse
but-life-doesnt-turn-out-way-you-expect-ever-iris-from-what-comes-after-steve-watkins
wind-passed-again-iris-shuddered-about-diamond-chip-samuel-r-delany
iris-i-am-bunch-longing-dissolved-in-sea-happiness-in-your-love-2nd-lieutenant-clifford-vincent
dead-my-old-fine-hopes-and-dry-my-dreaming-but-still-iris-blue-each-spring-shushiki
what-sets-iris-stevenson-apart-is-her-success-in-system-that-in-no-way-supports-her-with-hardest-possible-children-to-convert
the-world-like-great-iris-even-more-gigantic-eye-which-has-also-just-opened-stretched-out-to-encompass-everything-stared-back-at-him-ray-bradbury
finer-than-any-sand-are-dusts-gold-that-gleam-vague-starpoints-in-mystic-iris-their-eyes-charles-baudelaire
imagine-someone-pointing-to-place-in-iris-rembrandt-eye-saying-the-walls-my-room-should-be-painted-this-color-ludwig-wittgenstein
donde-termina-el-arco-iris-en-tu-alma-o-en-el-horizonte-where-does-rainbow-end-in-your-soul-on-horizon-pablo-neruda
my-lifesaver-has-always-been-hazel-iris-your-soul-it-never-fails-when-world-plunges-me-deep-into-darkness-one-look-from-you-is-all-it-takes-to-save-me-leanne-mechelle
the-white-light-truth-in-traversing-many-sided-transparent-soul-poet-is-refracted-into-irishued-poetry-herbert-spencer
what-in-your-life-is-calling-you-when-all-noise-is-silenced-the-meetings-adjourned-the-lists-laid-aside-and-wild-iris-blooms-by-itself-in-dark-rumi
who-would-deduce-dragonfly-from-larva-iris-from-bud-lawyer-from-infant-we-are-all-shapeshifters-magical-reinventors-life-is-really-plural-noun-diane-ackerman
if-each-person-has-an-unique-finger-print-iris-and-voice-pattern-then-why-not-have-an-unique-authentic-self
iris-squeezed-his-hand-dont-lose-hope-frank-rainbows-always-stand-for-hope-rick-riordan
use-colors-on-eyes-that-contrast-with-iris-to-make-eyes-appear-more-vibrant
iris-if-you-were-melodypiano-melody-i-used-only-good-notes-jack-black
i-know-where-iberian-peninsula-is-iris-i-know-i-know-you-probably-built-first-road-furrowed-first-wheat-field-ever-sown-there-brat-cradle-robber-grave-robber-molly-harper
iris-johansens-lovers-weathered-sack-city-states-vagaries-french-revolution-judith-mcnaughts-heroines-endured-amnesia-social-ostracism-misunderstandings-big-they-deserved-their-o
your-failure-to-enjoy-highly-rated-novel-doesnt-mean-youre-dim-you-may-find-that-graham-greene-is-more-to-your-taste-stephen-hawking-iris-murdoch-ian-rankin-dickens-stephen-king-
its-birthmark-called-nevus-ota-it-covers-whole-white-my-eye-darkens-it-the-square-eye-white-part-is-completely-dark-on-my-right-eye-not-just-iris
the-biggest-spur-to-my-interest-in-art-came-when-i-played-van-gogh-in-biographical-film-lust-for-life-the-role-affected-me-deeply-i-was-haunted-by-this-talented-genius-who-took-h
The Knowing Afterwards, when we have slept, paradise- comaed and woken, we lie a long time looking at each other. I do not know what he sees, but I see eyes of surpassing tenderness and calm, a calm like the dignity of matter. I love the open ocean blue-grey-green of his iris, I love the curve of it against the white, that curve the sight of what has caused me to come, when he's quite still, deep inside me. I have never seen a curve like that, except the earth from outer space. I don't know where he got his kindness without self-regard, almost without self, and yet he chose one woman, instead of the others. By knowing him, I get to know the purity of the animal which mates for life. Sometimes he is slightly smiling, but mostly he just gazes at me gazing, his entire face lit. I love to see it change if I cry-there is no worry, no pity, no graver radiance. If we are on our backs, side by side, with our faces turned fully to face each other, I can hear a tear from my lower eye hit the sheet, as if it is an early day on earth, and then the upper eye's tears braid and sluice down through the lower eyebrow like the invention of farmimg, irrigation, a non-nomadic people. I am so lucky that I can know him. This is the only way to know him. I am the only one who knows him. When I wake again, he is still looking at me, as if he is eternal. For an hour we wake and doze, and slowly I know that though we are sated, though we are hardly touching, this is the coming the other coming brought us to the edge of-we are entering, deeper and deeper, gaze by gaze, this place beyond the other places, beyond the body itself, we are making love.

Sharon Olds
the-knowing-afterwards-when-we-have-slept-paradise-comaed-woken-we-lie-long-time-looking-at-each-other-i-do-not-know-what-he-sees-but-i-see-eyes-surpassing-tenderness-calm-calm-l
MOTHER - By Ted Kooser Mid April already, and the wild plums bloom at the roadside, a lacy white against the exuberant, jubilant green of new grass and the dusty, fading black of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet, only the delicate, star-petaled blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume. You have been gone a month today and have missed three rains and one nightlong watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar from six to eight while fat spring clouds went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured, a storm that walked on legs of lightning, dragging its shaggy belly over the fields. The meadowlarks are back, and the finches are turning from green to gold. Those same two geese have come to the pond again this year, honking in over the trees and splashing down. They never nest, but stay a week or two then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts, burning in circles like birthday candles, for this is the month of my birth, as you know, the best month to be born in, thanks to you, everything ready to burst with living. There will be no more new flannel nightshirts sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand. You asked me if I would be sad when it happened and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner, as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that. Were it not for the way you taught me to look at the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever.

Ted Kooser
mother-by-ted-kooser-mid-april-already-wild-plums-bloom-at-roadside-lacy-white-against-exuberant-jubilant-green-new-grass-dusty-fading-black-burnedout-ditches-no-leaves-not-yet-o
That was true, Iris would sometimes think, about marriage: it was only a boat, too. A wooden boat, difficult to build, even more difficult to maintain, whose beauty derived at least in part from its unlikelihood. Long ago the pragmatic justifications for both marriage and wooden-boat building had been lost or superseded. Why invest countless hours, years, and dollars in planing and carving, gluing and fastening, caulking and fairing, when a fiberglass boat can be had at a fraction of the cost? Why struggle to maintain love and commitment over decades when there were far easier ways to live, ones that required no effort or attention to prevent corrosion and rot? Why continue to pour your heart into these obsolete arts? Because their beauty, the way they connect you to your history and to the living world, justifies your efforts. A long marriage, like a classic wooden boat, could be a thing of grace, but only if great effort was devoted to its maintenance. At first your notions of your life with another were no more substantial than a pattern laid down in plywood. Then year by year you constructed the frame around the form, and began layering memories, griefs, and small triumphs like strips of veneer planking bent around the hull of everyday routine. You sanded down the rough edges, patched the misunderstandings, faired the petty betrayals. Sometimes you sprung a leak. You fell apart in rough weather or were smashed on devouring rocks. But then, as now, in the teeth of a storm, when it seemed like all was lost, the timber swelled, the leak sealed up, and you found that your craft was, after all, sea-kindly.

Ayelet Waldman
that-was-true-iris-would-sometimes-think-about-marriage-it-was-only-boat-too-a-wooden-boat-difficult-to-build-even-more-difficult-to-maintain-whose-beauty-derived-at-least-in-par
The novel, then, provides a reduction of the world different from that of the treatise. It has to lie. Words, thoughts, patterns of word and thought, are enemies of truth, if you identify that with what may be had by phenomenological reductions. Sartre was always, as he explains in his autobiography, aware of their being at variance with reality. One remembers the comic account of this antipathy in Iris Murdoch Under the Net, one of the few truly philosophical novels in English; truth would be found only in a silent poem or a silent novel. As soon as it speaks, begins to be a novel, it imposes causality and concordance, development, character, a past which matters and a future within certain broad limits determined by the project of the author rather than that of the characters. They have their choices, but the novel has its end. ____________________ There is a remarkable passage in Ortega y Gasset London essay ' History as a System' (in Philosophy and History, ed. Klibansky and Paton, 1936) which very clearly states the issues more notoriously formulated by Sartre. Ortega is discussing man's duty to make himself. 'I invent projects of being and doing in the light of circumstance. This alone I come upon, this alone is given me: circumstance. It is too often forgotten that man is impossible without imagination, without the capacity to invent for himself a conception of life, to "ideate" the character he is going to be. Whether he be original or a plagiarist, man is the novelist of himself... Among... possibilities I must choose. Hence, I am free. But, be it well understood, I am free by compulsion, whether I wish to be or not... To be free means to be lacking in constitutive identity, not to have subscribed to a determined being, to be able to be other than what one was... ' This 'constitutive instability' is the human property lacking in the novels condemned by Sartre and Murdoch. Ortega differs from Sartre on the use of the past; but when he says that his free man is, willy-nilly, 'a second-hand God, ' creating his own entity, he is very close to Sartre, who says that to be is to be like the hero in a novel. In one instance the eidetic image is of God, in the other of the Hero.

Frank Kermode
the-novel-then-provides-reduction-world-different-from-that-treatise-it-has-to-lie-words-thoughts-patterns-word-thought-are-enemies-truth-if-you-identify-that-with-what-may-be-ha
It happens that in our phase of civility, the novel is the central form of literary art. It lends itself to explanations borrowed from any intellectual system of the universe which seems at the time satisfactory. Its history is an attempt to evade the laws of what Scott called 'the land of fiction'-the stereotypes which ignore reality, and whose remoteness from it we identify as absurd. From Cervantes forward it has been, when it has satisfied us, the poetry which is 'capable, ' in the words of Ortega, 'of coping with present reality.' But it is a 'realistic poetry' and its theme is, bluntly, 'the collapse of the poetic' because it has to do with 'the barbarous, brutal, mute, meaningless reality of things.' It cannot work with the old hero, or with the old laws of the land of romance; moreover, such new laws and customs as it creates have themselves to be repeatedly broken under the demands of a changed and no less brutal reality. 'Reality has such a violent temper that it does not tolerate the ideal even when reality itself is idealized.' Nevertheless, the effort continues to be made. The extremest revolt against the customs or laws of fiction-the antinovels of Fielding or Jane Austen or Flaubert or Natalie Sarraute-creates its new laws, in their turn to be broken. Even when there is a profession of complete narrative anarchy, as in some of the works I discussed last week, or in a poem such as Paterson, which rejects as spurious whatever most of us understand as form, it seems that time will always reveal some congruence with a paradigm-provided always that there is in the work that necessary element of the customary which enables it to communicate at all. I shall not spend much time on matters so familiar to you. Whether, with Luke¡cs, you think of the novel as peculiarly the resolution of the problem of the individual in an open society-or as relating to that problem in respect of an utterly contingent world; or express this in terms of the modern French theorists and call its progress a necessary and 'unceasing movement from the known to the unknown'; or simply see the novel as resembling the other arts in that it cannot avoid creating new possibilities for its own future-however you put it, the history of the novel is the history of forms rejected or modified, by parody, manifesto, neglect, as absurd. Nowhere else, perhaps, are we so conscious of the dissidence between inherited forms and our own reality. There is at present some good discussion of the issue not only in French but in English. Here I have in mind Iris Murdoch, a writer whose persistent and radical thinking about the form has not as yet been fully reflected in her own fiction. She contrasts what she calls 'crystalline form' with narrative of the shapeless, quasi-documentary kind, rejecting the first as uncharacteristic of the novel because it does not contain free characters, and the second because it cannot satisfy that need of form which it is easier to assert than to describe; we are at least sure that it exists, and that it is not always illicit. Her argument is important and subtle, and this is not an attempt to restate it; it is enough to say that Miss Murdoch, as a novelist, finds much difficulty in resisting what she calls 'the consolations of form' and in that degree damages the 'opacity, ' as she calls it, of character. A novel has this (and more) in common with love, that it is, so to speak, delighted with its own inventions of character, but must respect their uniqueness and their freedom. It must do so without losing the formal qualities that make it a novel. But the truly imaginative novelist has an unshakable 'respect for the contingent'; without it he sinks into fantasy, which is a way of deforming reality. 'Since reality is incomplete, art must not be too afraid of incompleteness, ' says Miss Murdoch. We must not falsify it with patterns too neat, too inclusive; there must be dissonance.

Frank Kermode
it-happens-that-in-our-phase-civility-novel-is-central-form-literary-art-it-lends-itself-to-explanations-borrowed-from-any-intellectual-system-universe-which-seems-at-time-satisf
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