Membrane 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
i-think-membrane-i-say-that-membrane-between-life-death-is-perilously-thin-and-i-do-think-story-jesus-this-great-mythical-story-can-have-transforming-value-in-our-lives
life-needs-membrane-to-contain-itself-it-can-replicate-mutate
help-he-yelled-he-lifted-one-leg-trying-to-run-but-you-cant-outrun-membrane-he-was-soon-gone-carol-moreira
a-cell-is-complex-structure-with-its-investing-membrane-nucleus-nucleolus-charles-darwin
he-needed-some-sort-membrane-between-himself-experience-which-for-him-became-languagejeanette-winterson-on-tseliot-jeanette-winterson
skin-has-become-inadequate-in-interfacing-with-reality-technology-has-become-the-bodys-new-membrane-of-existence
there-is-porous-membrane-between-documentary-that-doesnt-use-interviews-what-you-would-call-neorealist-hybrid-film
for-some-people-getting-pregnant-is-as-easy-as-catching-cold-and-there-certainly-was-analogy-there-colds-babies-were-both-caused-by-germs-which-kurt-vonnegut
but-what-little-i-can-get-down-into-my-pen-what-is-vivid-to-my-eyes-not-only-to-my-eyes-also-to-some-nervous-fibre-fanlike-membrane-in-my-species-virginia-woolf
i-find-theres-thin-permeable-membrane-between-journalism-history-though-some-academic-historians-take-dim-view-it-i-gather-lot-strength-professional-inspiration-from-passing-back
changes-in-relative-ionic-concentration-across-postsynaptic-membrane-are-readily-effected-by-altering-ionic-composition-external-medium
carbon-has-this-genius-making-chemically-stable-two-dimensional-one-atom-thick-membrane-in-three-dimensional-world-and-that-i-believe-is-going-to-be-important-in-future-chemistry
skin-is-not-only-envelope-protecting-inner-body-membrane-that-allows-exchange-between-exterior-interior-body-it-also-serves-as-mingling-point-between-outer-world-inner-self-betwe
Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky's light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky's breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world's flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved. Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain's temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas - sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not - the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep. Mr. Lecky's beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid - straw, amber, topaz - threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women. Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms - transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched. Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.

James Gould Cozzens
moving-on-while-he-wondered-dark-through-which-mr-leckys-light-cut-grew-more-beautiful-with-scents-particles-solid-matter-minute-gases-subtle-that-they-filtered-through-stopping-
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon's daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Bob Thurber
despite-icy-northeast-wind-huffing-across-bay-i-sneak-out-after-dark-after-my-mother-falls-asleep-clutching-her-leather-bible-i-hike-up-rutted-road-to-frosted-meadow-to-stand-in-
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