Muted 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
muted-we-should-all-be-in-love-muted-any-words-mariana-fulger
i-like-muted-sounds-shroud-grey-silence-that-comes-with-fog
its-shocking-to-think-universe-now-without-robin-williams-energy-even-muted
the-soul-artist-cannot-be-muted-indefinitely-it-must-either-be-expressed-it-will-consume-host-gerard-de-marigny
paris-is-world-meant-for-walker-alone-for-only-pace-strolling-can-take-in-all-rich-if-muted-detail-edmund-white
my-natural-gravitation-is-toward-gray-black-white-burgundy-sort-muted-cool-colors
it-is-shaming-sometimes-how-body-will-not-cannot-lie-about-emotions-who-for-decorums-sake-has-ever-slowed-his-heart-muted-blush-ian-mcewan
i-am-omniscient-omnipresent-i-am-invisible-yet-seen-by-billions-muted-murmur-from-edge-screaming-siren-in-your-bed-ken-poirot
we-are-born-crying-for-good-reason-he-reflected-and-rest-our-lives-is-bound-to-be-muted-reiteration-that-cry-franeoise-sagan
i-never-dreamed-id-like-any-city-as-well-as-london-san-francisco-is-exciting-moody-exhilarating-i-even-love-muted-fogs-julie-christie
i-wonder-if-there-are-softspoken-voices-who-deliver-assignments-to-all-us-in-various-times-it-is-nice-to-think-i-have-companythat-others-dance-to-muted-music-i-hear-wp-kinsella
coming-to-new-york-from-muted-mistiness-london-as-i-regularly-do-is-like-travelling-from-monochrome-antique-shop-to-technicolor-bazaar-kenneth-tynan
i-like-to-look-put-together-without-trying-too-hard-i-dont-want-to-look-as-if-gods-made-another-rainbow-i-prefer-muted-autumnal-colours-like-most-fading-redheads
however-muted-its-present-appearance-may-be-sexual-dominion-obtains-nevertheless-as-perhaps-most-pervasive-ideology-our-culture-provides-its-most-fundamental-concept-power
making-love-without-noise-is-like-playing-muted-pianofine-for-practice-but-you-cheat-yourself-out-hearing-glorious-results-david-levithan
when-in-third-book-we-do-learn-identity-blue-rose-murderer-information-comes-in-muted-nearly-offhand-manner-man-has-died-long-before-peter-straub
this-womens-orchestra-made-demure-picture-in-their-muted-dove-grays-alright-but-they-played-like-they-were-gowned-in-scarlet-gold-bailey-bristol
i-hate-thought-her-being-forced-into-box-that-doesnt-fit-her-of-having-her-wings-cut-off-her-sight-blinded-her-hearing-muted-her-voice-stilled-charles-de-lint
his-beauty-did-not-blaze-like-wills-did-in-fierce-colors-repressed-fire-but-it-had-its-own-muted-perfection-loveliness-snow-falling-against-silver-cassandra-clare
the-silence-was-pregnant-with-noise-with-muted-fury-with-questions-father-found-too-disgusting-to-frame-with-answers-to-which-son-was-incapable-giving-voice-johnny-rich
the-tatters-old-stories-are-tangled-weathered-muted-by-longheld-silences-that-succeeded-loud-feuds-sometimes-no-doubt-redyed-more-flattering-color-sonia-sotomayor
fall-colors-are-funny-theyre-bright-intense-beautiful-its-like-nature-is-trying-to-fill-you-up-with-color-to-saturate-you-you-can-stockpile-it-before-winter-turns-everything-mute
the-free-market-is-at-its-best-when-everybody-works-in-fish-bowl-tells-you-their-point-view-the-hedge-funds-portfolio-managers-have-right-to-do-this-weve-muted-analysts-their-pre
comfort-is-beauty-muted-by-heroin-sadness-is-beauty-drained-by-lack-it-luke-davies
you-could-shove-it-up-your-ass-pretend-youre-corn-dog-courtesy-violationresponse-mutedviolation-logged-ernest-cline
womens-minds-have-been-mutilated-muted-to-such-state-that-free-spirit-has-been-branded-into-them-as-brand-name-for-girdles-bras-rather-than-as-name-our-verb-ing-be-ing-selves
love-is-colour-spring-sunshine-muted-through-old-windows-love-has-taste-texture-dark-chocolate-with-pistachios-sound-wind-chimes-echoing-from-distant-hill-rhythm-tango-obviously-
even-colors-were-important-to-me-if-it-was-somber-scene-colors-were-muted-dark-if-it-was-happy-seductive-scene-colors-were-brighter-donna-mills
you-stand-in-way-youre-next-one-down-call-it-like-you-see-it-no-muted-witness-you-stand-in-way-youre-next-one-down-it-just-might-break-it-just-quicksand
you-stand-in-way-youre-next-one-down-call-it-like-you-see-it-no-muted-witness-you-stand-in-way-youre-next-one-down-it-just-might-break-break-break-quicksand
Silence is another element we find in classic fairy tales - girls muted by magic or sworn to silence in order to break enchantment. In "The Wild Swans, " a princess is imprisoned by her stepmother, rolled in filth, then banished from home (as her older brothers had been before her). She goes in search of her missing brothers, discovers that they've been turned into swans, whereupon the young girl vows to find a way to break the spell. A mysterious woman comes to her in a dream and tells her what to do: 'Pick the nettles that grow in graveyards, crush and spin them into thread, then weave them into coats and throw them over your brothers' backs.' The nettles burn and blister, yet she never falters: picking, spinning, weaving, working with wounded, crippled hands, determined to save her brothers. All this time she's silent. 'You must not speak, ' the dream woman has warned, 'for a single world will be like a knife plunged into your brothers' hearts.' You must not speak. That's what my stepfather said: don't speak, don't cry, don't tell. That's what my mother said as well, as we sat in hospital waiting rooms - and I obeyed, as did my brothers. We sat as still and silent as stone while my mother spun false tales to explain each break and bruise and burn. Our family moved just often enough that her stories were fresh and plausible; each new doctor believed her, and chided us children to be more careful. I never contradicted those tales. I wouldn't have dared, or wanted to. They'd send me into foster care. They'd send my young brothers away. And so we sat, and the unspoken truth was as sharp as the point of a knife.

Terri Windling
silence-is-another-element-we-find-in-classic-fairy-tales-girls-muted-by-magic-sworn-to-silence-in-order-to-break-enchantment-in-the-wild-swans-princess-is-imprisoned-by-her-step
And it was in that moment of distress and confusion that the whip of terror laid its most nicely calculated lash about his heart. It dropped with deadly effect upon the sorest spot of all, completely unnerving him. He had been secretly dreading all the time that it would come - and come it did. Far overhead, muted by great height and distance, strangely thinned and wailing, he heard the crying voice of Defago, the guide. The sound dropped upon him out of that still, wintry sky with an effect of dismay and terror unsurpassed. The rifle fell to his feet. He stood motionless an instant, listening as it were with his whole body, then staggered back against the nearest tree for support, disorganized hopelessly in mind and spirit. To him, in that moment, it seemed the most shattering and dislocating experience he had ever known, so that his heart emptied itself of all feeling whatsoever as by a sudden draught. 'Oh! oh! This fiery height! Oh, my feet of fire! My burning feet of fire... ' ran in far, beseeching accents of indescribable appeal this voice of anguish down the sky. Once it called - then silence through all the listening wilderness of trees. And Simpson, scarcely knowing what he did, presently found himself running wildly to and fro, searching, calling, tripping over roots and boulders, and flinging himself in a frenzy of undirected pursuit after the Caller. Behind the screen of memory and emotion with which experience veils events, he plunged, distracted and half-deranged, picking up false lights like a ship at sea, terror in his eyes and heart and soul. For the Panic of the Wilderness had called to him in that far voice - the Power of untamed Distance - the Enticement of the Desolation that destroys. He knew in that moment all the pains of someone hopelessly and irretrievably lost, suffering the lust and travail of a soul in the final Loneliness. A vision of Defago, eternally hunted, driven and pursued across the skyey vastness of those ancient forests fled like a flame across the dark ruin of his thoughts... It seemed ages before he could find anything in the chaos of his disorganized sensations to which he could anchor himself steady for a moment, and think... The cry was not repeated; his own hoarse calling brought no response; the inscrutable forces of the Wild had summoned their victim beyond recall - and held him fast. ("The Wendigo")

Algernon Blackwood
and-it-was-in-that-moment-distress-confusion-that-whip-terror-laid-its-most-nicely-calculated-lash-about-his-heart-it-dropped-with-deadly-effect-upon-sorest-spot-all-completely-u
LITTLE BOY WAR He stands alone On a vacant road, Hands shaking from the cold. His heart is aching from the untold. Under his right arm Is a tattered bag, Which he holds tightly As if it were filled with gold. He's just six, Going on seven. And it's past ten, Going on eleven. He takes another toke From his cowboy smoke, And wishes he too Could have died with his brother And taken the ride to Heaven. His tummy rumbles and grumbles. He feels faint and tries hard not to stumble. His eyes scream with muted cries, Too loud for his tired soul to conjure enough energy To even mumble. Little kid scared, Alone in the middle of a war zone somewhere, Past curfew and without a clue As to what to do or to go where. He is just standing there with A shark's glazed and Lifeless stare. And yet, His eyes reveal a whirlpool of disaster, Just another tragic kid Who can't help growing up any faster. The streets are dark and it's just him, Standing in the shadow of a blinking ATM. He now thinks of his worn mother, And how she once took his torn shirt And lovingly sewn its hem back together. He never understood Why she had always told him: 'Buckle your sandals!' She used to call, 'Buckle them good So you walk right and Stand taller than them all!' So why did he feel so small? And why does he feel like he's about to fall? He kicks his little sandals At the sand Trying to understand What Uncle Sam And his freedom plan Had done to his once beautiful land. Babylon is crashing. In front of him, memories are flashing - Rubble, ash, blood, and dust, An empire once fueled with beauty and gust Now buried under artillery, bones, and rust. In the corner of his eye, He sees a tank suddenly appear He tries to focus on its lights Like a lost and rampant deer Then that chilling electric sound Cuts and pierces through his ears The tank stops. A lady emerges from its top, And examines the boy and sneers. She asks him what he is doing outside by himself And warns him that there are now new rules That all must adhere. But Little Boy War Glares without A drip of fear. He swings his precious bag high up in the air And cries: 'I'm not alone! Look! My mother is in here!' I watched from a distance Then turn away to disappear My heart felt like a cold rock And I couldn't control my tears. Behind my back And in my mind The little boy's Words echo forever So loud And clear: 'In here and always near. Her hands and heart are right here!

Suzy Kassem
little-boy-war-he-stands-alone-on-vacant-road-hands-shaking-from-cold-his-heart-is-aching-from-untold-under-his-right-arm-is-tattered-bag-which-he-holds-tightly-as-if-it-were-fil
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