Receding 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
and-glorify-him-during-night-at-receding-stars-attur-49
im-wave-pushed-by-wind-always-receding-before-reaching-shore-hu
our-knowledge-is-a-receding-mirage-in-an-expanding-desert-of-ignorance
the-possibility-bringing-whitecollar-criminals-to-justice-is-ever-receding-over-horizon-sara-paretsky
driving-around-with-receding-hairline-two-kids-in-prius-feels-bit-boring-for-me-greg-fitzsimmons
you-have-lost-your-mind-jamie-said-coldly-shock-receding-slightly-or-i-should-think-you-had-if-ye-had-one-to-lose-diana-gabaldon
talent-is-its-own-expectation-jim-you-either-live-up-to-it-it-waves-hankie-receding-forever-david-foster-wallace
i-cant-but-say-it-is-awkward-sight-to-see-ones-native-land-receding-through-the-growing-waters-it-unmans-one-quite-especially-when-life-is-rather-new-lord-byron
raised-consciousness-means-lifelong-bumping-up-against-continually-receding-ceiling-i-mean-who-ever-graduates-robin-morgan
donald-trump-has-filed-many-bankruptcies-busted-many-companies-that-his-children-now-have-receding-heir-lines-michael-r-burch
actors-worry-about-bad-breath-weight-receding-hairlines-why-their-leading-lady-looks-like-their-daughter
after-all-memory-may-be-only-thing-on-earth-we-can-truly-manipulate-to-serve-us-we-dont-have-to-look-back-at-ourselves-in-receding-past-think-what-steve-toltz
like-culture-that-created-me-i-am-receding-into-past-at-rate-knots-soon-ill-need-whole-row-footnotes-if-anybody-under-thirtyfive-is-going-to-comprehend-least-thing-i-say-angela-c
mother-is-fading-for-him-her-face-receding-into-shadows-her-memory-diminishing-with-each-passing-day-leaking-like-sand-from-fist-khaled-hosseini
the-future-is-in-hands-those-who-explore-from-all-beauty-they-discover-while-crossing-perpetually-receding-frontiers-they-develop-for-nature-for-jacques-yves-cousteau
you-can-either-waltz-boldly-onto-stage-life-live-way-you-know-your-spirit-is-nudging-you-to-you-can-sit-quietly-by-wall-receding-into-shadows-oprah-winfrey
i-blew-love-trumpet-until-my-cheeks-were-blue-then-i-paid-34-bucks-for-taxicab-ride-home-i-could-admire-my-receding-hairline-in-mirror-jarod-kintz
it-really-costs-me-lot-emotionally-to-watch-myself-on-screen-i-think-myself-feel-like-im-quite-young-then-i-look-at-this-old-man-with-baggy-chins-tired-eyes-receding-hairline-all
i-didnt-see-painters-doing-paintings-glassware-glass-shelves-sand-dunes-receding-snow-fences-why-does-that-interest-photographers-not-artists-john-baldessari
the-beauty-myth-moves-for-men-as-mirage-its-power-lies-in-its-everreceding-nature-when-gap-is-closed-lover-embraces-only-his-own-disillusion-naomi-wolf
life-is-beautiful-like-beautiful-blue-wave-it-ebbs-flows-sometimes-gushing-forth-sometimes-receding-quietly-pooja-ruprell
what-is-feminism-simply-belief-that-women-should-be-as-free-as-men-however-nuts-dim-deluded-badly-dressed-fat-receding-lazy-smug-they-might-be-are-you-feminist-hahaha-of-course-y
since-my-trips-to-earth-ive-only-managed-to-assemble-few-basics-facts-about-humans-condensing-them-in-to-four-overall-points-kids-got-reeses-teens-got-recess-adults-got-recession
our-people-are-ebbing-away-like-rapidly-receding-tide-that-will-never-return-the-white-mans-god-cannot-love-our-people-he-would-protect-them
i-met-man-with-no-forehead-receding-eyebrows-he-had-ketchup-crusted-on-his-eyelids-i-cant-remember-what-we-talked-about-i-just-remember-him-smelling-like-chicken-feed-jarod-kintz
in-virtuous-action-i-properly-am-in-virtuous-act-i-add-to-world-i-plant-into-deserts-conquered-from-chaos-nothing-see-darkness-receding-on-ralph-waldo-emerson
the-history-of-astronomy-is-a-history-of-receding-horizons
the-older-i-got-more-i-appreciated-role-travel-as-stimulus-to-memories-way-in-which-journeys-even-to-new-places-were-somehow-always-awakening-memories-places-seen-in-everreceding
If you wear black, then kindly, irritating strangers will touch your arm consolingly and inform you that the world keeps on turning. They're right. It does. However much you beg it to stop. It turns and lets grenadine spill over the horizon, sends hard bars of gold through my window and I wake up and feel happy for three seconds and then I remember. It turns and tips people out of their beds and into their cars, their offices, an avalanche of tiny men and women tumbling through life... All trying not to think about what's waiting at the bottom. Sometimes it turns and sends us reeling into each other's arms. We cling tight, excited and laughing, strangers thrown together on a moving funhouse floor. Intoxicated by the motion we forget all the risks. And then the world turns... And somebody falls off... And oh God it's such a long way down. Numb with shock, we can only stand and watch as they fall away from us, gradually getting smaller... Receding in our memories until they're no longer visible. We gather in cemeteries, tense and silent as if for listening for the impact; the splash of a pebble dropped into a dark well, trying to measure its depth. Trying to measure how far we have to fall. No impact comes; no splash. The moment passes. The world turns and we turn away, getting on with our lives... Wrapping ourselves in comforting banalities to keep us warm against the cold. "Time's a great healer." "At least it was quick." "The world keeps turning." Oh Alec- Alec's dead.

Alan Moore
if-you-wear-black-then-kindly-irritating-strangers-will-touch-your-arm-consolingly-inform-you-that-world-keeps-on-turning-theyre-right-it-does-however-much-you-beg-it-to-stop-it-
The tavern keeper, a wiry man with a sharp-nosed face, round, prominent ears and a receding hairline that combined to give him a rodentlike look, glanced at him, absentmindedly wiping a tankard with a grubby cloth. Will raised an eyebrow as he looked at it. He'd be willing to bet the cloth was transferring more dirt to the tankard then it was removing. "Drink?" the tavern keeper asked. He set the tankard down on the bar, as if in preparation for filling it with whatever the stranger might order. "Not out of that, " Will said evenly, jerking a thumb at the tankard. Ratface shrugged, shoved it aside and produced another from a rack above the bar. "Suit yourself. Ale or ouisgeah?" Ousigeah, Will knew, was the strong malt spirit they distilled and drank in Hibernia. In a tavern like this, it might be more suitable for stripping runt than drinking. "I'd like coffee, " he said, noticing the battered pot by the fire at one end of the bar. "I've got ale or ouisgeah. Take your pick." Ratface was becoming more peremptory. Will gestured toward the coffeepot. The tavern keeper shook his head. "None made, " he said. "I'm not making a new pot just for you." "But he's drinking coffee, " Will said, nodding to one side. Inevitably the tavern keeper glanced that way, to see who he was talking about. The moment his eyes left Will, an iron grip seized the front of his shirt collar, twisting it into a knot that choked him and at the same time dragged him forward, off balance, over the bar, . The stranger's eyes were suddenly very close. He no longer looked boyish. The eyes were dark brown, almost black in this dim light, and the tavern keeper read danger there. A lot of danger. He heard a soft whisper of steel, and glancing down past the fist that held him so tightly, he glimpsed the heavy, gleaming blade of the saxe knife as the stranger laid it on the bar between them. He looked around for possible help. But there was nobody else at the bar, and none of the customers at the tables had noticed what was going on. "Aach... mach co'hee, " he choked. The tension on his collar eased and the stranger said softly, "What was that?" "I'll... make... coffee, " he repeated, gasping for breath. The stranger smiled. It was a pleasant smile, but the tavern keep noticed that it never reached those dark eyes. "That's wonderful. I'll wait here.

John Flanagan
the-tavern-keeper-wiry-man-with-sharpnosed-face-round-prominent-ears-receding-hairline-that-combined-to-give-him-rodentlike-look-glanced-at-him-absentmindedly-wiping-tankard-with
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-
What are the dead, anyway, but waves and energy? Light shining from a dead star? That, by the way, is a phrase of Julian's. I remember it from a lecture of his on the Iliad, when Patroklos appears to Achilles in a dream. There is a very moving passage where Achilles overjoyed at the sight of the apparition - tries to throw his arms around the ghost of his old friend, and it vanishes. The dead appear to us in dreams, said Julian, because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star... Which reminds me, by the way, of a dream I had a couple of weeks ago. I found myself in a strange deserted city - an old city, like London - underpopulated by war or disease. It was night; the streets were dark, bombed-out, abandoned. For a long time, I wandered aimlessly - past ruined parks, blasted statuary, vacant lots overgrown with weeds and collapsed apartment houses with rusted girders poking out of their sides like ribs. But here and there, interspersed among the desolate shells of the heavy old public buildings, I began to see new buildings, too, which were connected by futuristic walkways lit from beneath. Long, cool perspectives of modern architecture, rising phosphorescent and eerie from the rubble. I went inside one of these new buildings. It was like a laboratory, maybe, or a museum. My footsteps echoed on the tile floors.There was a cluster of men, all smoking pipes, gathered around an exhibit in a glass case that gleamed in the dim light and lit their faces ghoulishly from below. I drew nearer. In the case was a machine revolving slowly on a turntable, a machine with metal parts that slid in and out and collapsed in upon themselves to form new images. An Inca temple... click click click... the Pyramids... the Parthenon. History passing beneath my very eyes, changing every moment. 'I thought I'd find you here, ' said a voice at my elbow. It was Henry. His gaze was steady and impassive in the dim light. Above his ear, beneath the wire stem of his spectacles, I could just make out the powder burn and the dark hole in his right temple. I was glad to see him, though not exactly surprised. 'You know, ' I said to him, 'everybody is saying that you're dead.' He stared down at the machine. The Colosseum... click click click... the Pantheon. 'I'm not dead, ' he said. 'I'm only having a bit of trouble with my passport.' 'What?' He cleared his throat. 'My movements are restricted, ' he said. 'I no longer have the ability to travel as freely as I would like.' Hagia Sophia. St. Mark's, in Venice. 'What is this place?' I asked him. 'That information is classified, I'm afraid.' 1 looked around curiously. It seemed that I was the only visitor. 'Is it open to the public?' I said. 'Not generally, no.' I looked at him. There was so much I wanted to ask him, so much I wanted to say; but somehow I knew there wasn't time and even if there was, that it was all, somehow, beside the point. 'Are you happy here?' I said at last. He considered this for a moment. 'Not particularly, ' he said. 'But you're not very happy where you are, either.' St. Basil's, in Moscow. Chartres. Salisbury and Amiens. He glanced at his watch. 'I hope you'll excuse me, ' he said, 'but I'm late for an appointment.' He turned from me and walked away. I watched his back receding down the long, gleaming hall.

Donna Tartt
what-are-dead-anyway-but-waves-energy-light-shining-from-dead-star-that-by-way-is-phrase-julians-i-remember-it-from-lecture-his-on-iliad-when-patroklos-appears-to-achilles-in-dre
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