Quickening 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
one-feels-quickening-pulse-when-one-crosses-border-barbara-grizzuti-harrison
no-eternal-learning-can-take-place-without-that-quickening-spirit-from-heaven-jeffrey-r-holland
books-are-the-bees-which-carry-the-quickening-pollen-from-one-to-another-mind
having-purpose-is-one-thing-but-quickening-is-total-animation-passion-bryant-mcgill
as-we-move-into-21st-century-theres-what-bible-calls-quickening-spirit-neale-donald-walsch
there-was-no-thunderbolt-no-quickening-heart-but-there-was-sense-recognitiona-familiarity-about-his-face-judith-kinghorn
by-religion-i-mean-perfected-manhood-quickening-soul-by-influence-divine-spirit-henry-ward-beecher
there-is-no-greater-sensation-consciousness-than-to-expend-yourself-completely-through-quickening-fires-passion-bryant-mcgill
and-none-will-hear-postmans-knock-without-quickening-heart-for-who-can-bear-to-feel-himself-forgotten-w-h-auden
inspiration-is-an-awakening-a-quickening-of-all-mans-faculties-and-it-is-manifested-in-all-high-artistic-achievements
a-new-speculative-idea-which-although-it-may-seem-trivial-almost-laughable-is-nonetheless-great-value-in-quickening-spirit-invention-michael-j-gelb
alexia-gave-in-to-his-demanding-touch-but-only-course-because-he-sounded-pathetic-it-had-nothing-whatsoever-to-do-with-her-own-quickening-heartbeat-gail-carriger
inspiration-is-awakening-quickening-all-mans-faculties-it-is-manifested-in-all-high-artistic-achievements-giacomo-puccini
there-is-vitality-life-force-energy-quickening-that-is-translated-through-you-into-action-because-there-is-only-one-you-in-all-time-this-expression-is-unique-martha-graham
shakespeare-rembrandt-have-in-common-faculty-quickening-speculation-compelling-minds-men-to-combat-discussion-william-ernest-henley
we-can-no-more-assist-holy-spirit-in-quickening-our-souls-to-spiritual-life-than-lazarus-could-help-jesus-raise-him-from-dead-rc-sproul
but-water-doesnt-care-for-human-sorrows-it-flows-without-slowing-quickening-its-pace-in-darkness-earth-where-only-stones-will-hear-emmi-iteranta
blue-was-perfectly-aware-that-it-was-possible-to-have-friendship-that-wasnt-allencompassing-that-wasnt-blinding-deafening-maddening-quickening-it-was-just-that-now-that-shed-had-
in-all-religions-quickening-spirit-has-been-symbolically-represented-as-bird-at-baptism-when-jesus-body-was-in-water-spirit-christ-descended-into-it-as-dove
in-all-religions-quickening-spirit-has-been-symbolically-represented-as-bird-at-baptism-when-jesus-body-was-in-water-spirit-christ-descended-max-heindel
and-so-it-is-written-the-first-man-adam-was-made-a-living-soul-the-last-adam-was-made-a-quickening-spirit
a-wind-rose-quickening-it-seemed-at-same-instant-invade-my-nostrils-vibrate-my-gut-no-ive-gone-through-this-million-times-beauty-is-not-hoax-come-on-i-say-to-creek-surprise-me-it
Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies. It is the glimpse of oneself in a storefront window, the unbidden awareness of reactions on the faces of other people- the novelist's world, not the poet's. I've lived there. I remember what the city has to offer; human companionship, major league baseball, and a clatter of quickening stimulus like a rush from strong drugs that leaves you drained. I remember how you bide your time in the city, and think, if you stop to think, 'next year, I'll start living... next year I'll start my life.' Innocence is a better world. Innocence sees that this is it, and finds it world enough, and time. Innocence is not the prerogative of infants and puppies, and far less of mountains and fixed stars, which have no prerogatives at all. It is not lost to us; the world is a better place than that. Like any other of the spirit's good gifts, it is there if you want it, free for the asking, as has been stressed by stronger words than mine. It is possible to pursue innocence as hounds pursue hares; singlemindledly, driven by a kind of love, crashing over creeks, keening and lost in fields and forests, circling, vaulting over hedges and hills wide-eyed, giving loud tongue all unawares to the deepest, most incomprehensible longing, a root-flame in the heart, and that warbling chorus resounding back from the mountains, hurling itself from ridge to ridge over the valley, now faint, now clear ringing the air through which the hounds tear, open-mouthed, the echoes of their own wails dimly knocking in their lungs. What I call innocence is the spirit's unselfconscious state at any moment of pure devotion to any object. It is at once a receptiveness and total concentration. One needn't be, shouldn't be reduced to a puppy. If you wish to tell me that the city offers galleries, I'll pour you a drink and enjoy your company while it lasts; but I'll bear with me to my grave those pure moments at the Tate (was it the Tate?) where I stood planted, open-mouthed, born, before that one particular canvas, that river, up to my neck, gasping, lost, receding into watercolor depth and depth to the vanishing point, buoyant, awed, and had to be literally hauled away. These are our few live seasons. Let us live them as purely as we can, in the present.

Annie Dillard
selfconsciousness-is-curse-city-all-that-sophistication-implies-it-is-glimpse-oneself-in-storefront-window-unbidden-awareness-reactions-on-faces-other-people-novelists-world-not-
One night he sits up. In cots around him are a few dozen sick or wounded. A warm September wind pours across the countryside and sets the walls of the tent rippling. Werner's head swivels lightly on his neck. The wind is strong and gusting stronger, and the corners of the tent strain against their guy ropes, and where the flaps at the two ends come up, he can see trees buck and sway. Everything rustles. Werner zips his old notebook and the little house into his duffel and the man beside him murmurs questions to himself and the rest of the ruined company sleeps. Even Werner's thirst has faded. He feels only the raw, impassive surge of the moonlight as it strikes the tent above him and scatters. Out there, through the open flaps of the tent, clouds hurtle above treetops. Toward Germany, toward home. Silver and blue, blue and silver. Sheets of paper tumble down the rows of cots, and in Werner's chest comes a quickening. He sees Frau Elena kneel beside the coal stove and bank up the fire. Children in their beds. Baby Jutta sleeps in her cradle. His father lights a lamp, steps into an elevator, and disappears. The voice of Volkheimer: What you could be. Werner's body seems to have gone weightless under his blanket, and beyond the flapping tent doors, the trees dance and the clouds keep up their huge billowing march, and he swings first one leg and then the other off the edge of the bed. 'Ernst, ' says the man beside him. 'Ernst.' But there is no Ernst; the men in the cots do not reply; the American soldier at the door of the tent sleeps. Werner walks past him into the grass. The wind moves through his undershirt. He is a kite, a balloon. Once, he and Jutta built a little sailboat from scraps of wood and carried it to the river. Jutta painted the vessel in ecstatic purples and greens, and she set it on the water with great formality. But the boat sagged as soon as the current got hold of it. It floated downstream, out of reach, and the flat black water swallowed it. Jutta blinked at Werner with wet eyes, pulling at the battered loops of yarn in her sweater. 'It's all right, ' he told her. 'Things hardly ever work on the first try. We'll make another, a better one.' Did they? He hopes they did. He seems to remember a little boat-a more seaworthy one-gliding down a river. It sailed around a bend and left them behind. Didn't it? The moonlight shines and billows; the broken clouds scud above the trees. Leaves fly everywhere. But the moonlight stays unmoved by the wind, passing through clouds, through air, in what seems to Werner like impossibly slow, imperturbable rays. They hang across the buckling grass. Why doesn't the wind move the light? Across the field, an American watches a boy leave the sick tent and move against the background of the trees. He sits up. He raises his hand. 'Stop, ' he calls. 'Halt, ' he calls. But Werner has crossed the edge of the field, where he steps on a trigger land mine set there by his own army three months before, and disappears in a fountain of earth.

Anthony Doerr
one-night-he-sits-up-in-cots-around-him-are-few-dozen-sick-wounded-a-warm-september-wind-pours-across-countryside-sets-walls-tent-rippling-werners-head-swivels-lightly-on-his-nec
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