Ledge 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
around-inside-each-four-courts-was-ledge-stone-with-places-for-fire-built-all-around-under-ledge-ezekiel-4623
from-gutter-on-ground-up-to-lower-ledge-it-is-two-cubits-high-cubit-wide-from-smaller-ledge-up-to-larger-ledge-it-is-four-cubits-high-cubit-ezekiel-4314
the-key-to-life-is-balance-especially-if-you-are-on-ledge-demetri-martin
i-could-serve-coffee-using-my-rear-as-ledge-jennifer-lopez
she-stood-on-ledge-his-smile-looked-over-edge-maggie-stiefvater
with-meditation-i-found-ledge-above-waterfall-my-thoughts-mary-pipher
maybe-all-you-need-to-pull-you-back-form-ledge-is-to-know-someone-would-miss-you-if-you-fell-leah-raeder
standing-on-ledge-again-everyone-laughs-at-dancing-monkey-with-typewriter-not-for-long-though-neil-simon
i-just-cant-fathom-why-anyone-would-stand-on-ledge-when-theres-respectable-amount-walking-space-right-next-to-it-stephanie-perkins
i-dont-care-if-we-have-our-house-cliff-ledge-cardboard-box-home-is-wherever-we-all-are-together-james-patterson
our-skin-is-thin-it-doesnt-take-much-for-us-to-jump-off-ledge-to-kill-one-another-it-can-happen-quickly
growing-old-is-not-gradual-decline-but-series-drops-full-sorrow-from-one-ledge-to-another-below-it-logan-pearsall-smith
she-saw-deepness-that-was-at-edge-france-it-made-beach-under-her-feel-like-ledge-on-cliff-jm-ledgard
and-now-platos-words-mock-me-in-shadows-on-ledge-behind-flames-men-cave-would-say-him-that-up-he-went-down-he-came-without-his-eyes-daniel-keyes
life-balances-itself-on-precarious-ledge-we-can-stay-safe-up-high-propel-off-edge-tarryn-fisher
cats-sleep-anywhere-any-table-any-chair-top-piano-windowledge-in-middle-on-edge-eleanor-farjeon
before-my-eyes-neon-skyline-another-trip-beyond-mind-senses-swirling-in-my-head-stop-the-thoughts-upon-ledge-hawkwind
i-put-carpetbag-on-ledge-then-hanging-upside-down-by-my-razorclawed-feet-slept-until-sunset-a-first-for-me-actually-quite-comfortable-lord-help-me-jr-rain
kids-never-jumped-head-first-from-top-ledge-never-it-seemed-forever-before-stoney-came-back-to-surface-most-white-bubbles-had-already-disappeared-cole-alpaugh
theres-man-upon-that-ledge-hes-only-cleaning-windows-what-shame-for-pain-were-missing-gonna-lean-back-on-my-wall-pray-for-him-to-fall-pete-townshend
he-talks-softly-patiently-as-i-sit-on-window-ledge-watch-boats-with-colorful-triangles-for-sails-scratch-ocean-lauren-destefano
love-is-like-taking-leap-darragh-you-dont-know-when-you-step-off-ledge-if-drop-is-six-inches-six-thousand-feet-what-matters-is-you-jump-inda-herwood
i-tried-to-walk-quickly-past-waters-edge-didnt-wanna-see-my-own-reflection-but-i-just-stepped-off-highest-ledge-and-fell-into-sea-imperfection-point-of-grace
i-took-day-to-search-for-god-and-found-him-not-but-as-i-trod-by-rocky-ledge-through-woods-untamed-just-where-one-scarlet-lily-flamed-i-saw-his-foot-bliss-carman
they-made-grating-for-altar-bronze-network-to-be-under-its-ledge-halfway-up-altar-exodus-384
the-other-day-i-was-walking-my-dog-around-my-building-on-ledge-some-people-are-afraid-heights-not-me-im-afraid-widths-steven-wright
like-space-soul-is-not-expression-eternal-constancy-but-constant-change-this-motion-has-but-one-purpose-to-continue-forward-on-narrow-ledge-in-absurd-hope-that-you-can-escape-dar
i-know-what-my-heart-is-like-since-your-love-died-it-is-like-hollow-ledge-holding-little-pool-left-there-by-tide-a-little-tepid-pool-drying-inward-edna-st-vincent-millay
ebb-i-know-what-my-heart-is-like-since-your-love-died-it-is-like-hollow-ledge-holding-little-pool-left-there-by-tide-a-little-tepid-pool-drying-inward-from-edge-edna-st-vincent-m
put-it-under-ledge-altar-that-it-is-halfway-up-altar-exodus-275
nudge-threw-her-arms-around-my-neck-i-love-you-max-i-love-all-us-too-yeah-me-too-said-gasman-i-dont-care-if-we-have-our-house-cliff-ledge-cardboard-box-home-is-wherever-we-all-ar
a-good-crowd-had-formed-along-sidewalk-concrete-ledge-that-bordered-louis-armstrong-park-the-anticipation-was-dizzying-new-orleans-had-bigboy-parades-jackson-billy-couldnt-wait-t
its-perfect-wave-when-small-most-beautiful-scary-wave-on-earth-when-its-big-as-swell-from-deep-water-hits-shallow-reef-ledge-a-ten-foot-high-wave-30-footer-break-in-same-depth-wa
Of the not very many ways known of shedding one's body, falling, falling, falling is the supreme method, but you have to select your sill or ledge very carefully so as not to hurt yourself or others. Jumping from a high bridge is not recommended even if you cannot swim, for wind and water abound in weird contingencies, and tragedy ought not to culminate in a record dive or a policeman's promotion. If you rent a cell in the luminous waffle, room 1915 or 1959, in a tall business centre hotel browing the star dust, and pull up the window, and gently - not fall, not jump - but roll out as you should for air comfort, there is always the chance of knocking clean through into your own hell a pacific noctambulator walking his dog; in this respect a back room might be safer, especially if giving on the roof of an old tenacious normal house far below where a cat may be trusted to flash out of the way. Another popular take-off is a mountaintop with a sheer drop of say 500 meters but you must find it, because you will be surprised how easy it is to miscalculate your deflection offset, and have some hidden projection, some fool of a crag, rush forth to catch you, causing you to bounce off it into the brush, thwarted, mangled and unnecessarily alive. The ideal drop is from an aircraft, your muscles relaxed, your pilot puzzled, your packed parachute shuffled off, cast off, shrugged off - farewell, shootka (little chute)! Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth's green seesaw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord.

Vladimir Nabokov
of-not-many-ways-known-shedding-ones-body-falling-falling-falling-is-supreme-method-but-you-have-to-select-your-sill-ledge-carefully-as-not-to-hurt-yourself-others-jumping-from-h
She wanted to touch him, to throw her arms around him - but something held her back. Maybe it was the fear that her arms would pass right through him, that she would have come all this way only to find a ghost after all. As though he'd been able to read her thoughts, he slowly angled toward her. He raised his hands and held his palms out to her. Isobel lifted her own hands to mirror his. He pressed their palms together, his fingers folding down to lace through hers. She felt a rush of warmth course through her, a relief as pure and sweet as spring rain. He was real. This was real. She had found him. She could touch him. She could feel him. Finally they were together. Finally, finally, they could forget this wasted world and go home. "I knew it wasn't true, " she whispered. "I knew you wouldn't stop believing." He drew her close. Leaning into him, she felt him press his lips to her forehead in a kiss. As he spoke, the cool metal of his lip ring grazed her skin, causing a shudder to ripple through her. "You... " His voice, low and breathy, reverberated through her, down to the thin soles of her slippers. "You think you're different, " he said. She felt his hands tighten around hers, gripping hard, too hard. A streak of violet lightning split the sky, striking close behind them. The house, Isobel thought. It had been struck. She could hear it cracking apart. She looked for only a brief moment, long enough to watch it split open. "But you're not, " Varen said, calling her attention back to him. Isobel winced, her own hands surrendering under the suddenly crushing pressure of his hold. A face she did not recognize stared down at her, one twisted with anger - with hate. "You, " he scarcely more than breathed, "are just like every. Body. Else." He moved so fast. Before she could register his words or the fact that she had once spoken them to him herself, he jerked her to one side. Isobel felt her feet part from the rocks. Weightlessness took hold of her as she swung out and over the ledge of the cliff. As he let her go. The wind whistled its high and lonely song in her ears. She fell away into the oblivion of the storm until she could no longer see the cliff - could no longer see him. Only the slip of the pink ribbon as it unraveled from her wrist, floating up and away from her and out of sight forever.

Kelly Creagh
she-wanted-to-touch-him-to-throw-her-arms-around-him-but-something-held-her-back-maybe-it-was-fear-that-her-arms-would-pass-right-through-him-that-she-would-have-come-all-this-wa
If we are inclined to forget how much there is in the world besides that which we anticipate, then works of art are perhaps a little to blame, for in them we find at work the same process of simplification or selection as in the imagination. Artistic accounts include severe abbreviations of what reality will force upon us. A travel book may tell us, for example, that the narrator journeyed through the afternoon to reach the hill town of X and after a night in its medieval monastery awoke to a misty dawn. But we never simply 'journey through an afternoon'. We sit in a train. Lunch digests awkwardly within us. The seat cloth is grey. We look out the window at a field. We look back inside. A drum of anxieties resolves in our consciousness. We notice a luggage label affixed to a suitcase in a rack above the seats opposite. We tap a finger on the window ledge. A broken nail on an index finger catches a thread. It starts to rain. A drop wends a muddy path down the dust-coated window. We wonder where our ticket might be. We look back at the field. It continues to rain. At last, the train starts to move. It passes an iron bridge, after which it inexplicably stops. A fly lands on the window And still we may have reached the end only of the first minute of a comprehensive account of the events lurking within the deceptive sentence 'He journeyed through the afternoon'. A storyteller who provides us with such a profusion of details would rapidly grow maddening. Unfortunately, life itself often subscribes to this mode of storytelling, wearking us out with repetitions, misleading emphases[, ] and inconsequential plot lines. It insists on showing us Burdak Electronics, the safety handle in the car, a stray dog, a Christmas card[, ] and a fly that lands first on the rim and then the centre of a laden ashtray. Which explains the curious phenomenon whereby valuable elements may be easier to experience in art and in anticipation than in reality. The anticipatory and artistic imaginations omit and compress; they cut away the periods of boredom and direct our attention to critical moments, and thus, without either lying or embellishing, they lend to life a vividness and a coherence that it may lack in the distracting woolliness of the present.

Alain de Botton
if-we-are-inclined-to-forget-how-much-there-is-in-world-besides-that-which-we-anticipate-then-works-art-are-perhaps-little-to-blame-for-in-them-we-find-at-work-same-process-simpl
The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows - minor actors almost invisible from the street - made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the eŽle Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers' stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch's spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn't at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: 'Monsieur Bouvet!

Georges Simenon
the-street-sprinkler-went-past-as-its-rasping-rotary-broom-spread-water-over-tarmac-half-pavement-looked-as-if-it-had-been-painted-with-dark-stain-a-big-yellow-dog-had-mounted-ti
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