Pore 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
in-sum-every-pore-his-being-oozed-one-thing-okay-fine-every-pore-oozed-two-things-the-first-was-irrelevant-the-second-was-dangerous-gs-jennsen
i-need-you-every-pore-my-being-is-begging-this-is-what-we-do-el-james
this-pore-yongling-for-whom-we-singe
im-pore-im-black-i-may-be-ugly-cant-cook-voice-say-to-everything-listening-but-im-here-alice-walker
what-i-said-was-nsa-does-not-voyeuristically-pore-through-us-citizens-e-mails-i-stand-by-that
we-are-now-in-mountains-they-are-in-us-kindling-enthusiasm-making-every-nerve-quiver-filling-every-pore-cell-us-john-muir
mistresses-are-like-books-if-you-pore-upon-them-too-much-they-doze-you-make-you-unfit-for-company-but-if-used-discreetly-you-are-fitter-for-william-wycherley
i-hate-smell-success-because-most-time-it-smells-like-sweat-maybe-thats-why-im-poor-because-every-pore-on-my-body-is-dry-jarod-kintz
he-that-has-eyes-to-see-ears-to-hear-may-convince-himself-that-no-mortal-can-keep-secret-if-his-lips-are-silent-he-chatters-with-his-fingertips-betrayal-oozes-out-him-at-every-po
every-pore-you-is-crying-you-dont-even-understand-why-what-i-actually-kind-died-got-born-again-as-result-taking-meds-having-chance-to-you-sinead-oconnor
he-puts-his-arm-around-me-lights-dancing-on-his-dark-skin-constantly-skipping-across-to-mine-planting-myriad-emotions-into-each-pore-as-if-preparing-my-heart-for-tilling-poppet
olga-was-better-in-sun-where-he-could-see-every-pore-in-her-skin-get-closer-feel-her-next-to-him-it-was-all-he-wanted-in-world-it-was-last-thing-in-world-that-he-could-do-graham-
a-person-does-not-hear-sound-only-through-ears-he-hears-sound-through-every-pore-his-body-it-permeates-entire-being-hazrat-inayat-khan
i-loved-to-dance-in-studios-but-not-necessarily-on-stage-what-i-loved-was-to-sweat-to-feel-every-single-pore-open-up-peter-martins
nearly-every-tribe-nearly-every-human-being-has-gods-belief-in-gods-is-all-over-place-its-universal-it-squeaks-squoozes-from-every-pore-humanity
sick-it-whatever-its-called-sick-names-i-dedicate-every-pore-to-whats-here-ikkyu
in-air-we-breathe-in-water-we-drink-in-earth-we-tread-on-life-is-every-where-nature-lives-every-pore-is-bursting-with-life-every-death-is-only-george-henry-lewes
with-sharpend-sight-pale-antiquaries-pore-th-inscription-value-but-rust-adore-this-blue-varnish-that-green-endears-the-sacred-rust-twice-ten-alexander-pope
To His Coy Mistress Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's winge¨d chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Andrew Marvell
to-his-coy-mistress-had-we-but-world-enough-time-this-coyness-lady-were-no-crime-we-would-sit-down-think-which-way-to-walk-pass-our-long-loves-day-thou-by-indian-ganges-side-shou
We came back [from Mars], " Pris said, "because nobody should have to live there. It wasn't conceived for habitation, at least not within the last billion years. It's so old. You feel it in the stones, the terrible old age. Anyhow, at first I got drugs from Roy; I lived for that new synthetic pain-killer, that silenizine. And then I met Horst Hartman, who at that time ran a stamp store, rare postage stamps; there's so much time on your hands that you've got to have a hobby, something you can pore over endlessly. And Horst got me interested in pre-colonial fiction." "You mean old books?" "Stories written before space travel but about space travel." "How could there have been stories about space travel before - " "The writers, " Pris said, "made it up." "Based on what?" "On imagination. A lot of times they turned out wrong [... ] Anyhow, there's a fortune to be made in smuggling pre-colonial fiction, the old magazines and books and films, to Mars. Nothing is as exciting. To read about cities and huge industrial enterprises, and really successful colonization. You can imagine what it might have been like. What Mars ought to be like. Canals." "Canals?" Dimly, he remembered reading about that; in the olden days they had believed in canals on Mars. "Crisscrossing the planet, " Pris said. "And beings from other stars. With infinite wisdom. And stories about Earth, set in our time and even later. Where there's no radioactive dust." [... ] "Did you bring any of that pre-colonial reading material back with you?" It occurred to him that he ought to try some. "It's worthless, here, because here on Earth the craze never caught on. Anyhow there's plenty here, in the libraries; that's where we get all of ours - stolen from libraries here on Earth and shot by autorocket to Mars. You're out at night humbling across the open space, and all of a sudden you see a flare, and there's a rocket, cracked open, with old pre-colonial fiction magazines spilling out everywhere. A fortune. But of course you read them before you sell them." She warmed to her topic. "Of all -

Philip K. Dick
we-came-back-from-mars-pris-said-because-nobody-should-have-to-live-there-it-wasnt-conceived-for-habitation-at-least-not-within-last-billion-years-its-old-you-feel-it-in-stones-t
And finally I saw that the very land itself had risen, that the sunbaked land had taken form as something vast and alive, and was in motion. The land walked as multitudes, their strides so utterly of the earth that they seemed the source of the very dust. The cloud they raised engulfed us, seeped into every pore, coated our teeth, seeped into our minds. Both flesh and metaphor. That big. And you could see their heads, like warriors' shields. Their great breaths, gushing in and out, resonant in the halls of their lungs. The skin as they moved, wrinkled with time and wear, batiked with the walk of ages, as if they lived within the creased maps of the lives they've traveled. Travelers across landscapes, and through timescapes. The skin moving like swishing corduroy, textured and rough but sensitive to the slightest touch. The grind of their cobblestone molars as, sheaf by sheaf and mouthful by mouthful, they acquire the world. All the while uttering the contented purring of mounds of memories. Their rumbles rolling through the air like distant thunder approaching, vibrating through the undulating ground and the roots of trees, rallying families and friends from the hills and rivers, sending among themselves greetings and recognitions and news of where they have been; sending to us a sign of something coming. A mind moves a mountainous mass of muscle and bone, the brown eyes light a landscape, and one elephant rumbles in. See her squared brow, trace the tracks of snake-size blood vessels. Heralded by her own trumpet, applauded by her own clapping ears, she strikes us as timeless and a bit sublime, aware and deliberative, peaceful and nurturing and deadly dangerous as needs arise. Wise only within the confines of her capabilities, like us. Vulnerable. As we all are. 'Delicate and mighty, awesome and enchanted, ' wrote Peter Matthiessen of them in The Tree Where Man Was Born, 'commanding the silence ordinarily reserved for mountain peaks, great fires, and the sea.' Silence. Watch. Simply listen. They will not speak to us, but to each other they say much. Some of it, we hear. The rest is beyond words.

Carl Safina
and-finally-i-saw-that-land-itself-had-risen-that-sunbaked-land-had-taken-form-as-something-vast-alive-was-in-motion-the-land-walked-as-multitudes-their-strides-utterly-earth-tha
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