Plaster 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
his-agility-surprised-phoebe-ash-she-saw-plaster-cast-on-his-right-leg-funny-messages-in-inkgo-break-left-one-tigerhad-been-written-on-offwhite-plaster-ed-lynskey
all-you-need-to-build-house-is-blood-bricks-plaster-harriet-jones
then-they-are-to-take-other-stones-to-replace-these-take-new-clay-plaster-house-leviticus-1442
it-is-well-for-the-world-that-in-most-of-us-by-the-age-of-thirty-the-character-has-set-like-plaster-and-will-never-soften-again
it-must-be-torn-downits-stones-timbers-all-plaster-taken-out-town-to-unclean-place-leviticus-1445
separating-them-were-two-layers-brick-few-inches-plaster-nine-years-silence-paolo-giordano
but-memory-is-like-plaster-peel-it-back-you-just-might-find-completely-different-picture-jodi-picoult
it-is-well-for-the-world-that-in-most-of-us-by-the-age-of-thirty-the-character-has-been-set-like-plaster-and-will-never-soften-again
a-good-husband-be-best-sort-plaster-for-to-cure-young-womans-ailments-moliere
after-all-betty-was-ill-she-was-her-sister-she-wouldnt-be-able-to-shave-her-legs-for-weeks-because-plaster-eva-ibbotson
im-going-to-do-old-plaster-removal-technique-just-get-pain-over-with-in-one-go-lifes-too-short-isnt-funny-to-me
the-moon-is-essentially-gray-no-color-looks-like-plaster-paris-sort-grayish-beach-sand
and-when-you-have-crossed-jordan-set-up-these-stones-on-mount-ebal-as-i-command-you-today-coat-them-with-plaster-deuteronomy-274
when-you-have-crossed-jordan-into-land-lord-your-god-is-giving-you-set-up-some-large-stones-coat-them-with-plaster-deuteronomy-272
the-moon-is-essentially-gray-no-color-it-looks-like-plaster-paris-like-dirty-beach-sand-with-lots-footprints-in-it
i-always-drew-dresses-i-remember-loving-richard-avedons-early-versace-campaigns-i-used-to-plaster-my-whole-walls-with-them-when-i-was-kid-sarah-burton
the-thirtyplus-years-marriage-between-ceiling-cement-plaster-showed-signs-weakness-by-frequently-developing-cracks-holes-pawan-mishra
she-laughed-bit-louder-than-i-could-have-wished-in-my-frail-state-health-but-then-she-is-always-woman-who-tends-to-bring-plaster-falling-from-ceiling-when-amused-pg-wodehouse
just-build-classic-horseshoe-wood-plaster-fill-it-with-statuary-curtains-then-sit-back-savor-beautifully-blended-results-michael-a-walsh
we-dont-want-to-plaster-mumbai-with-pictures-will-smith-we-want-to-make-exchange-we-want-to-do-films-there-as-well-as-introduce-indian-actors-directors-to-united-states
there-was-profound-silence-abruptly-broken-by-enormously-loud-rumble-from-georges-stomach-plaster-didnt-actually-fall-from-ceiling-but-it-was-close-jonathan-stroud
one-beauties-b2b-is-that-there-is-finite-number-customers-so-marketing-costs-are-much-different-you-dont-have-to-take-out-super-bowl-ads-plaster-new-york-subway-system
hey-ill-have-you-know-that-with-recent-3d-imaging-ichthyosaurus-communis-is-more-alive-than-ever-talk-like-discovery-channel-all-you-want-but-book-fossils-tub-plaster-does-not-or
the-christosimageis-most-difficult-to-disentanglefrom-its-artcraft-junkshoppaintplaster-medieval-jumbleof-painworship-deathsymbol-hilda-doolittle
words-can-bruise-break-hearts-minds-as-well-there-are-no-black-blue-marks-no-broken-bones-to-put-in-plaster-casts-therefore-no-prison-bars-for-marlene-dietrich
the-moon-is-essentially-gray-no-color-looks-like-plaster-paris-soft-gray-sand-jim-lovell
the-truth-you-speak-doth-lack-some-gentleness-and-time-to-speak-it-in-you-rub-sore-when-you-should-bring-plaster-william-shakespeare
and-they-shall-take-other-stones-and-put-them-in-the-place-of-those-stones-and-he-shall-take-other-mortar-and-shall-plaster-the-house
kalist-is-in-his-office-with-door-shut-secretly-adding-final-touches-to-his-new-brichacek-doll-shes-got-rosy-plaster-cheeks-his-nose-hairs-for-pubes-although-he-thinks-he-might-d
i-have-lot-fake-food-in-my-apartment-but-im-picky-about-it-old-plaster-food-like-from-50s-is-really-nice-hollowed-out-papermache-food-from-old-amy-sedaris
suddenly-fingers-human-hand-appeared-wrote-on-plaster-wall-near-lampstand-in-royal-palace-the-king-watched-hand-as-it-wrote-daniel-55
the-plaster-sculpture-kissing-george-bush-george-bush-is-wildly-passionate-man-who-consumes-my-will-my-love-for-him-is-deep-frightening-the-more-he-hurts-me-more-i-love-him-danie
You are God. You want to make a forest, something to hold the soil, lock up energy, and give off oxygen. Wouldn't it be simpler just to rough in a slab of chemicals, a green acre of goo? You are a man, a retired railroad worker who makes replicas as a hobby. You decide to make a replica of one tree, the longleaf pine your great-grandfather planted- just a replica- it doesn't have to work. How are you going to do it? How long do you think you might live, how good is your glue? For one thing, you are going to have to dig a hole and stick your replica trunk halfway to China if you want the thing to stand up. Because you will have to work fairly big; if your replica is too small, you'll be unable to handle the slender, three-sided needles, affix them in clusters of three in fascicles, and attach those laden fascicles to flexible twigs. The twigs themselves must be covered by 'many silvery-white, fringed, long-spreading scales.' Are your pine cones' scales 'thin, flat, rounded at the apex?' When you loose the lashed copper wire trussing the limbs to the trunk, the whole tree collapses like an umbrella. You are a sculptor. You climb a great ladder; you pour grease all over a growing longleaf pine. Next, you build a hollow cylinder around the entire pine... and pour wet plaster over and inside the pine. Now open the walls, split the plaster, saw down the tree, remove it, discard, and your intricate sculpture is ready: this is the shape of part of the air. You are a chloroplast moving in water heaved one hundred feet above ground. Hydrogen, carbon, oxygen, nitrogen in a ring around magnesium... you are evolution; you have only begun to make trees. You are god- are you tired? Finished?

Annie Dillard
you-are-god-you-want-to-make-forest-something-to-hold-soil-lock-up-energy-give-off-oxygen-wouldnt-it-be-simpler-just-to-rough-in-slab-chemicals-green-acre-goo-you-are-man-retired
March 1898 What a strange dream I had last night! I wandered in the warm streets of a port, in the low quarter of some Barcelona or Marseille. The streets were noisome, with their freshly-heaped piles of ordure outside the doors, in the blue shadows of their high roofs. They all led down towards the sea. The gold-spangled sea, seeming as if it had been polished by the sun, could be seen at the end of each thoroughfare, bristling with yard-arms and luminous masts. The implacable blue of the sky shone brilliantly overhead as I wandered through the long, cool and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned by seamen and foreigners. I was alone, subjected to the stares of prostitutes seated at their windows or in the doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. Leaning on the sides of tall bay-windows or huddled in doorways, they were silent. Their breasts and arms were bare, bizarrely made up in pink, their eyebrows were darkened, they wore their hair in corkscrew-curls, decorated with paper flowers and metal birds. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, or tall mannequin dolls left behind in panic - for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic brought from the Orient by sailors, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of love, abandoned by the men on the doorsteps of the brothels. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these girls were dead, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their carmine plaster masks... and my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask... and the girl in the next doorway was also masked... and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude colouring... I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, worse than the masks... when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead women were alive. Their vitreous eyes were looking at me... I woke up with a cry, for in that moment I had recognised all the women. They all had the eyes of Kranile and Willie, of Willie the mime and Kranile the dancer. Every one of the dead women had Kranile's left eye and Willie's right eye... so that every one of them appeared to be squinting. Am I to be haunted by masks now?

Jean Lorrain
march-1898-what-strange-dream-i-had-last-night-i-wandered-in-warm-streets-port-in-low-quarter-some-barcelona-marseille-the-streets-were-noisome-with-their-freshlyheaped-piles-ord
my-lack-faith-in-god-is-not-dilapidated-house-it-does-not-need-to-be-razed-to-ground-burned-down-to-cinders-i-refuse-to-be-wounded-woman-on-cross-that-you-crucify-with-your-disap
above-all-he-encourages-her-to-paint-nodding-with-approval-at-even-her-most-unusual-experiments-with-color-light-rough-brushwork-she-explains-to-him-that-she-believes-painting-sh
Inching into the room, it's clear something is wrong here. There's a tingling sensation up my legs and back before I can even really focus on the parlor's details. There are silhouettes of people, but I can see through them. It's like shadows were cast and left behind to do as they please. Lost in the surreal sight of them for a moment, I inch further into the room without noticing that some were now moving behind me. There is no warning. I'm suddenly in the air, and moving backward rapidly toward the wall. It's almost a full second before my body registers the actual pain of the blow my stomach just took. Being hit by a car doesn't even compare to this, and I didn't even see it coming. 'For a shadow, you hit like a sledgehammer!' The words barely escape before something else slams into the base of my skull embedding most of my upper body in the wall and all but removing my head. These things are like Lucy; the disembodied dead who haven't moved on. I've never met others that can actually touch things physically, they must be fairly potent. I pull my face out of the hole it had been planted in, letting plaster dust fall, coating my chest and legs like snow. Looking around quickly I try to gauge my surroundings. I can't see them, but I know they're there. Is one easy night, without a huge dry-cleaning bill, too much to ask for these days? I only have time to dwell on it a moment before my head is bouncing off the hardwood floor; once, twice, and then a third time in quick succession. Now 'pick splinters out of my forehead' can be added to my Saturday night to-do list. Damn it, this is not going as planned.

Dennis Sharpe
inching-into-room-its-clear-something-is-wrong-here-theres-tingling-sensation-up-my-legs-back-before-i-can-even-really-focus-on-parlors-details-there-are-silhouettes-people-but-i
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago-never mind how long precisely-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off-then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs-commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?-Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster-tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand-miles of them-leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues-north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? Once more. Say you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries-stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

Herman Melville
call-me-ishmael-some-years-agonever-mind-how-long-preciselyhaving-little-no-money-in-my-purse-nothing-particular-to-interest-me-on-shore-i-thought-i-would-sail-about-little-see-w
The studio was immense and gloomy, the sole light within it proceeding from a stove, around which the three were seated. Although they were bold, and of the age when men are most jovial, the conversation had taken, in spite of their efforts to the contrary, a reflection from the dull weather without, and their jokes and frivolity were soon exhausted. In addition to the light which issued from the crannies in the stove, there was another emitted from a bowl of spirits, which was ceaselessly stirred by one of the young men, as he poured from an antique silver ladle some of the flaming spirit into the quaint old glasses from which the students drank. The blue flame of the spirit lighted up in a wild and fantastic manner the surrounding objects in the room, so that the heads of old prophets, of satyrs, or Madonnas, clothed in the same ghastly hue, seemed to move and to dance along the walls like a fantastic procession of the dead; and the vast room, which in the day time sparkled with the creations of genius, seemed now, in its alternate darkness and sulphuric light, to be peopled with its dreams. Each time also that the silver spoon agitated the liquid, strange shadows traced themselves along the walls, hideous and of fantastic form. Unearthly tints spread also upon the hangings of the studio, from the old bearded prophet of Michael Angelo to those eccentric caricatures which the artist had scrawled upon his walls, and which resembled an army of demons that one sees in a dream, or such as Goya has painted; whilst the lull and rise of the tempest without but added to the fantastic and nervous feeling which pervaded those within. Besides this, to add to the terror which was creeping over the three occupants of the room, each time that they looked at each other they appeared with faces of a blue tone, with eyes fixed and glittering like live embers, and with pale lips and sunken cheeks; but the most fearful object of all was that of a plaster mask taken from the face of an intimate friend but lately dead, which, hanging near the window, let the light from the spirit fall upon its face, turned three parts towards them, which gave it a strange, vivid, and mocking expression. All people have felt the influence of large and dark rooms, such as Hoffmann has portrayed and Rembrandt has painted; and all the world has experienced those wild and unaccountable terrors - panics without a cause - which seize on one like a spontaneous fever, at the sight of objects to which a stray glimpse of the moon or a feeble ray from a lamp gives a mysterious form; nay, all, we should imagine, have at some period of their lives found themselves by the side of a friend, in a dark and dismal chamber, listening to some wild story, which so enchains them, that although the mere lighting of a candle could put an end to their terror, they would not do so; so much need has the human heart of emotions, whether they be true or false. So it was upon the evening mentioned. The conversation of the three companions never took a direct line, but followed all the phases of their thoughts; sometimes it was light as the smoke which curled from their cigars, then for a moment fantastic as the flame of the burning spirit, and then again dark, lurid, and sombre as the smile which lit up the mask from their dead friend's face. At last the conversation ceased altogether, and the respiration of the smokers was the only sound heard; and their cigars glowed in the dark, like Will-of-the-wisps brooding o'er a stagnant pool. It was evident to them all, that the first who should break the silence, even if he spoke in jest, would cause in the hearts of the others a start and tremor, for each felt that he had almost unwittingly plunged into a ghastly reverie. ("The Dead Man's Story")

James Hain Friswell
the-studio-was-immense-gloomy-sole-light-within-it-proceeding-from-stove-around-which-three-were-seated-although-they-were-bold-age-when-men-are-most-jovial-conversation-had-take
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...