Nests 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
the-big-nest-was-in-afghanistan-thats-not-quite-cleared-then-there-are-nests-in-philippines-there-are-nests-in-indonesia-malaysians-are-clearing-up-lee-kuan-yew
never-look-for-birds-this-year-in-nests-last-miguel-de-cervantes
who-are-these-that-fly-along-like-clouds-like-doves-to-their-nests-isaiah-608
heavenly-bodies-are-nests-invisible-birds-dejan-stojanovic
there-birds-make-their-nests-stork-has-its-home-in-pine-trees-psalm-10417
where-the-birds-make-their-nests-as-for-the-stork-the-fir-trees-are-her-house
all-beasts-in-howling-forest-were-safe-in-their-caves-nests-burrows
we-toast-lisp-programmer-who-pens-his-thoughts-within-nests-parentheses
no-afghans-as-far-as-we-know-have-been-involved-in-terrorist-acts-against-our-country-we-shouldnt-be-swatting-at-hornets-nests-we-know-nothing-about
when-you-i-are-inclined-to-nestle-down-in-indolence-self-indulgence-god-stirs-up-our-nests-bids-us-fly-upward-theodore-l-cuyler
somehow-grief-had-seemed-easier-to-bear-when-skies-were-dark-cold-wind-kept-cats-prey-inside-their-nests-erin-hunter
birds-in-their-little-nests-agree-and-tis-shameful-sight-when-children-one-family-fall-out-chide-fight-isaac-watts
there-were-millions-such-families-anxious-only-for-peace-quiet-in-their-own-little-nests-these-were-mounting-blocks-by-which-criminals-climbed-to-power-kept-it-simon-wiesenthal
and-jesus-said-unto-him-foxes-have-holes-and-birds-of-the-air-have-nests-but-the-son-of-man-hath-not-where-to-lay-his-head
and-jesus-saith-unto-him-the-foxes-have-holes-and-the-birds-of-the-air-have-nests-but-the-son-of-man-hath-not-where-to-lay-his-head
that-birds-worry-care-fly-over-you-head-this-you-cannot-change-but-that-they-build-nests-in-your-hair-this-you-can-prevent-chinese-proverb-anonymous
we-must-especially-beware-that-small-group-selfish-men-who-would-clip-wings-american-eagle-in-order-to-feather-their-own-nests-franklin-d-roosevelt
early-summer-days-are-jubilee-time-for-birds-in-fields-around-house-in-barn-in-woods-in-swamp-everywhere-love-songs-nests-eggs-eb-white
over-land-freckled-with-snow-halfthawed-the-speculating-rooks-at-their-nests-cawed-and-saw-from-elm-tops-delicate-as-flower-grass-what-we-below-edward-thomas
you-cannot-prevent-the-birds-of-sorrow-from-flying-over-your-head-but-you-can-prevent-them-from-building-nests-in-your-hair
no-you-cannot-stop-birds-sorrow-from-flying-over-your-head-but-you-can-stop-them-from-building-nests-in-your-hair-db-patterson
until-when-they-came-upon-valley-ants-ant-said-o-ants-go-into-your-nests-lest-solomon-his-troops-crush-you-without-noticing-naml-18
there-was-old-man-with-beard-who-said-it-is-just-as-i-feared-two-owls-hen-four-larks-wren-have-all-built-their-nests-in-my-beard
hatred-gives-you-nothing-takes-nothing-from-you-but-destroys-everything-you-have-be-careful-ideas-hatred-that-comes-into-your-head-destroy-them-before-they-make-nests-in-your-min
dose-it-ever-amaze-delight-you-that-all-places-in-world-cold-grassy-nests-under-hedgerows-warm-patches-sun-on-carpet-cat-chooses-to-sit-on-nevada-barr
i-dont-believe-that-in-name-holiness-city-you-have-to-put-barbed-wires-machine-gun-nests-mine-pins-everything-that-in-name-holiness-yitzhak-rabin
we-thought-new-york-as-free-city-like-one-those-storied-prewar-tropical-nests-intrigue-licentiousness-where-exiles-lamsters-refugees-found-shelter-in-tangle-improbable-juxtaposit
think-your-woods-orchards-without-birds-of-empty-nests-that-cling-to-boughs-beams-as-in-idiots-brain-remembered-words-hang-empty-mid-cobwebs-his-dreams-henry-wadsworth-longfellow
whores-dont-live-in-company-poor-men-citizens-never-support-weak-company-birds-dont-build-nests-on-tree-that-doesnt-bear-fruits-chanakya
the-issue-world-environment-has-special-kind-urgency-the-issue-is-one-rich-peoples-poor-peoples-growing-gap-between-two-rich-fouling-their-gilbert-f-white
he-discovered-wonderful-stories-also-about-jewels-in-alphonsos-clericalis-disciplina-serpent-was-mentioned-with-eyes-real-jacinth-in-romantic-history-alexander-conqueror-emathia-
We cleave our way through the mountains until the interstate dips into a wide basin brimming with blue sky, broken by dusty roads and rocky saddles strung out along the southern horizon. This is our first real glimpse of the famous big-sky country to come, and I couldn't care less. For all its grandeur, the landscape does not move me. And why should it? The sky may be big, it may be blue and limitless and full of promise, but it's also really far away. Really, it's just an illusion. I've been wasting my time. We've all been wasting our time. What good is all this grandeur if it's impermanent, what good all of this promise if it's only fleeting? Who wants to live in a world where suffering is the only thing that lasts, a place where every single thing that ever meant the world to you can be stripped away in an instant? And it will be stripped away, so don't fool yourself. If you're lucky, your life will erode slowly with the ruinous effects of time or recede like the glaciers that carved this land, and you will be left alone to sift through the detritus. If you are unlucky, your world will be snatched out from beneath you like a rug, and you'll be left with nowhere to stand and nothing to stand on. Either way, you're screwed. So why bother? Why grunt and sweat and weep your way through the myriad obstacles, why love, dream, care, when you're only inviting disaster? I'm done answering the call of whippoorwills, the call of smiling faces and fireplaces and cozy rooms. You won't find me building any more nests among the rose blooms. Too many thorns.

Jonathan Evison
we-cleave-our-way-through-mountains-until-interstate-dips-into-wide-basin-brimming-with-blue-sky-broken-by-dusty-roads-rocky-saddles-strung-out-along-southern-horizon-this-is-our
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep black space high up among many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of the dots. At length, I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at the very moment with great emotion, in intricate detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which whole worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped, in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, 'that was a good time then, a good time to be living.' And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water... I saw may apples in forest, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided and apples grew striped and spotted in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves, and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wilds ducks flew, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remembered the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, 'Yes, that's how it was then, that part there we called 'France''. I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes.

Annie Dillard
last-year-i-had-unusual-experience-i-was-awake-with-my-eyes-closed-when-i-had-dream-it-was-small-dream-about-time-i-was-dead-i-guess-in-deep-black-space-high-up-among-many-white-
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, 'that was a good time then, a good time to be living.' And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, 'yes, that's how it was then, that part there was called France.' I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes. We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture's motion in time.

Annie Dillard
last-year-i-had-unusual-experience-i-was-awake-with-my-eyes-closed-when-i-had-dream-it-was-small-dream-about-time-i-was-dead-i-guess-in-deep-blank-space-high-up-above-many-white-
The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or, having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons, lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Margaret Atwood
the-loneliness-military-historian-confess-its-my-profession-that-alarms-you-this-is-why-few-people-ask-me-to-dinner-though-lord-knows-i-dont-go-out-my-way-to-be-scary-i-wear-dres
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