Shapeless 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
wearing-that-wouldnt-you-fancy-shapeless-cardigan-instead-you-rock-shapeless-cardigan-honey-sarah-rees-brennan
oh-my-godthe-water039s-cold-and-shapeless
love-is-shapeless-colorless-tasteless-odorless-but-is-god-how-can-you-believe-in-one-not-other-jarod-kintz
my-ideas-are-shapeless-mass-that-my-writing-molds-into-beauty-rob-bignell
why-are-you-interested-in-amoebas-oh-theyre-immortal-he-said-sort-shapeless-flexible-being-person-is-getting-too-complicated-margaret-atwood
human-suffering-while-it-is-asleep-is-shapeless-if-it-is-wakened-it-takes-form-waker-antonio-porchia
we-are-all-patchwork-shapeless-diverse-in-composition-that-each-bit-each-moment-plays-its-own-game-michel-de-montaigne
i-think-love-is-greatest-force-in-universe-its-shapeless-like-water-it-only-takes-shape-things-it-becomes
no-battle-was-hard-no-decision-was-dangerous-where-there-was-no-soggy-uncertainty-no-shapeless-evasion-to-encounter-ayn-rand
we-are-all-patchwork-shapeless-diverse-in-composition-that-each-bit-each-moment-plays-its-own-game-and-there-is-as-much-difference-between-us-pascal-mercier
grief-first-take-on-shape-what-is-shapeless-causes-fear-torment-but-when-enemy-materializes-half-victory-is-won-franz-grillparzer
fantasy-is-like-jam-you-have-to-spread-it-on-solid-piece-bread-if-not-it-remains-shapeless-thing-out-which-you-cant-make-anything-italo-calvino
one-can-descend-by-imperceptible-degree-from-most-perfect-creature-to-most-shapeless-matter-from-bestorganised-animal-to-roughest-mineral-georgeslouis-leclerc
indeed-best-way-to-think-willpower-is-not-as-some-shapeless-behavioral-trait-but-as-sort-psychic-muscle-one-that-can-atrophy-grow-stronger-depending-on-how-its-used
it-seems-to-me-worst-all-plagues-is-slug-snail-without-shell-he-is-beyond-description-repulsive-mass-sooty-shapeless-slime-he-devours-celia-thaxter
twice-thrice-had-i-loved-thee-before-i-knew-thy-face-name-so-in-voice-in-shapeless-flame-angels-affect-us-oft-worshipped-be-john-donne
the-trouble-with-being-too-careful-about-your-wishes-though-was-that-you-could-end-up-with-wish-shapeless-that-it-could-come-true-you-wouldnt-even-know-it-it-wouldnt-matter-lynne
without-time-you-have-only-bottomless-shapeless-mire-eternity-time-is-what-gives-life-significance-jr-ward
so-many-women-buy-these-boxy-shapeless-jackets-i-always-tell-them-to-buy-jacket-one-size-too-small-to-get-right-fit
sexiness-should-not-be-overt-something-shapeless-that-drapes-across-your-hip-hangs-off-shoulder-something-that-cowls-in-front-drapes-low-in-back-rachel-zoe
alex-had-cooked-coaxed-helped-mark-form-borders-around-shapeless-days-alex-had-given-meaning-to-word-servant-davis-bunn
written-truth-is-fourdimensional-if-we-consult-it-at-wrong-time-read-it-at-wrong-place-it-is-as-empty-shapeless-as-dress-on-hook-robert-grudin
many-were-steps-taken-in-doubt-that-saw-their-shapeless-ends-in-no-time-those-who-travail-in-faith-today-will-truimph-in-joy-tomorrow-let-faith-lead-way-israelmore-ayivor
traveling-you-realize-that-differences-are-lost-each-city-takes-to-resembling-all-cities-places-exchange-their-form-order-distances-shapeless-dust-italo-calvino
i-am-fulfilled-in-my-home-life-what-films-do-for-me-is-to-create-ironclad-structure-that-in-my-life-as-mom-does-not-exist-it-is-shapeless-blob-julia-roberts
i-rather-would-entreat-thy-company-to-see-wonders-world-abroad-than-living-dully-sluggardized-at-home-wear-out-thy-youth-with-shapeless-idleness-william-shakespeare
in-dark-with-windows-lit-rows-books-glittering-library-is-closed-space-universe-selfserving-rules-that-pretend-to-replace-translate-those-shapeless-universe-beyond-alberto-mangue
he-is-deformed-crooked-old-sere-illfaced-worse-bodied-shapeless-everywhere-vicious-ungentle-foolish-blunt-unkind-stigmatical-in-making-worse-in-mind-william-shakespeare
the-road-passed-through-curtain-pine-forest-came-out-on-flat-rolling-snow-field-in-this-field-sprawled-bunched-bodies-germans-lay-thick-like-some-dark-shapeless-vegetable
without-time-angel-said-you-have-only-bottomless-shapeless-mire-eternity-fyi-philosophy-bores-me-not-philosophy-reality-time-is-what-gives-life-jr-ward
Wait." Walter went to the basket, taking what was a gray sleeve, drawing it out fro the middle of the heap. "Oh, " He said. He held the shapeless wool sweater to his chest. Joyce had knit for months the year Daniel died, and here was the result, her handiwork, the garment that would fit a giant. It was nothing more than twelve skeins of yarn and thousands of loops, but it had the power to bring back in a flash the green-tiled walls of the hospital, the sound of an ambulance trying to cut through city traffic in the distance, the breathing of the dying boy, his father staring at the ceiling, the full greasy bucket of fried chicken on he bed table. "I'll take this one, " Walter said, balling up the sweater as best he could, stuffing it into a shopping bag that was half full of the books he was taking home, that he was borrowing. "Oh, honey, " Joyce said. "You don't want that old scrap." "You made it. I remember your making it." Keep it light, he said to himself, that's a boy. "There's a use for it. Don't you think so, Aunt Jeannie? No offense, Mom, but I could invade the Huns with it or strap the sleeves to my car tires in a blizzard, for traction, or protect our nation with it out in space, a shield against nuclear attack." Jeannie tittered in her usual way in spite of herself. "You always did have that sense of humor, " she said as she went upstairs. When she was out of range, Joyce went to Walter's bag and retrieved the sweater. She laid it on the card table, the long arms hanging down, and she fingered the stitches. "Will you look at the mass of it, " she exclaimed. "I don't even recall making it." ""'Memory - that strange deceiver, '" Walter quoted.

Jane Hamilton
wait-walter-went-to-basket-taking-what-was-gray-sleeve-drawing-it-out-fro-middle-heap-oh-he-said-he-held-shapeless-wool-sweater-to-his-chest-joyce-had-knit-for-months-year-daniel
the presence of others has become even more intolerable to me, their conversation most of all. Oh, how it all annoys and exasperates me: their attitudes, their manners, their whole way of being! The people of my world, all my unhappy peers, have come to irritate, oppress and sadden me with their noisy and empty chatter, their monstrous and boundless vanity, their even more monstrous egotism, their club gossip... the endless repetition of opinions already formed and judgments already made; the automatic vomiting forth of articles read in those morning papers which are the recognised outlet of the hopeless wilderness of their ideas; the eternal daily meal of overfamiliar cliches concerning racing stables and the stalls of fillies of the human variety... the hutches of the 'petites femmes' - another worn out phrase in the dirty usury of shapeless expression! Oh my contemporaries, my dear contemporaries... Their idiotic self-satisfaction; their fat and full-blown self-sufficiency: the stupid display of their good fortune; the clink of fifty- and a hundred-franc coins forever sounding out their financial prowess, according their own reckoning; their hen-like clucking and their pig-like grunting, as they pronounce the names of certain women; the obesity of their minds, the obscenity of their eyes, and the toneless-ness of their laughter! They are, in truth, handsome puppets of amour, with all the exhausted despondency of their gestures and the slackness of their chic... Chic! A hideous word, which fits their manner like a new glove: as dejected as undertakers' mutes, as full-blown as Falstaff... Oh my contemporaries: the ceusses of my circle, to put it in their own ignoble argot. They have all welcomed the moneylenders into their homes, and have been recruited as their clients, and they have likewise played host to the fat journalists who milk their conversations for the society columns. How I hate them; how I execrate them; how I would love to devour them liver and lights - and how well I understand the Anarchists and their bombs!

Jean Lorrain
presence-others-has-become-even-more-intolerable-to-me-their-conversation-most-all-oh-how-it-all-annoys-exasperates-me-their-attitudes-their-manners-their-whole-way-being-the-peo
It had all begun on the elevated. There was a particular little sea of roots he had grown into the habit of glancing at just as the packed car carrying him homeward lurched around a turn. A dingy, melancholy little world of tar paper, tarred gravel, and smoky brick. Rusty tin chimneys with odd conical hats suggested abandoned listening posts. There was a washed-out advertisement of some ancient patent medicine on the nearest wall. Superficially it was like ten thousand other drab city roofs. But he always saw it around dusk, either in the normal, smoky half-light, or tinged with red by the flat rays of a dirty sunset, or covered by ghostly windblown white sheets of rain-splash, or patched with blackish snow; and it seemed unusually bleak and suggestive, almost beautifully ugly, though in no sense picturesque; dreary but meaningful. Unconsciously it came to symbolize for Catesby Wran certain disagreeable aspects of the frustrated, frightened century in which he lived, the jangled century of hate and heavy industry and Fascist wars. The quick, daily glance into the half darkness became an integral part of his life. Oddly, he never saw it in the morning, for it was then his habit to sit on the other side of the car, his head buried in the paper. One evening toward winter he noticed what seemed to be a shapeless black sack lying on the third roof from the tracks. He did not think about it. It merely registered as an addition to the well-known scene and his memory stored away the impression for further reference. Next evening, however, he decided he had been mistaken in one detail. The object was a roof nearer than he had thought. Its color and texture, and the grimy stains around it, suggested that it was filled with coal dust, which was hardly reasonable. Then, too, the following evening it seemed to have been blown against a rusty ventilator by the wind, which could hardly have happened if it were at all heavy. ("Smoke Ghost")

Fritz Leiber
it-had-all-begun-on-elevated-there-was-particular-little-sea-roots-he-had-grown-into-habit-glancing-at-just-as-packed-car-carrying-him-homeward-lurched-around-turn-a-dingy-melanc
The last time I saw Collin was in 1917, at the foot of Mort-Homme. Before the great slaughter, Collin'd been an avid angler. On that day, he was standing at the hole, watching maggots swarm among blow flies on two boys that we couldn't retrieve for burial without putting our own lives at risk. And there, at the loop hole, he thought of his bamboo rods, his flies and the new reel he hadn't even tried out yet. Collin was imaging himself on the riverbank, wine cooling in the current his stash of worms in a little metal box and a maggot on his hook, writhing like... Holy shit. Were the corpses getting to him? Collin. The poor guy didn't even have time to sort out his thoughts. In that split second, he was turned into a slab of bloody meat. A white hot hook drilled right through him and churned through his guts, which spilled out of a hole in his belly. He was cleared out of the first aid station. The major did triage. Stomach wounds weren't worth the trouble. There were all going to die anyway, and besides, he wasn't equipped to deal with them. Behind the aid station, next to a pile of wood crosses, there was a heap of body parts and shapeless, oozing human debris laid out on stretchers, stirred only be passing rats and clusters of large white maggots. But on their last run, the stretcher bearers carried him out after all... Old Collin was still alive. From the aid station to the ambulance and from the ambulance to the hospital, all he could remember was his fall into that pit, with maggots swarming over the open wound he had become from head to toe... Come to think of it, where was his head? And what about his feet? In the ambulance, the bumps were so awful and the pain so intense that it would have been a relief to pass out. But he didn't. He was still alive, writhing on his hook. They carved up old Collin good. They fixed him as best they could, but his hands and legs were gone. So much for fishing. Later, they pinned a medal on him, right there in that putrid recovery room. And later still, they explained to him about gangrene and bandages packed with larvae that feed on death tissue. He owed them his life. From one amputation and operation to the next - thirty-eight in all - the docs finally got him 'back on his feet'. But by then, the war was long over.

Jacques Tardi
the-last-time-i-saw-collin-was-in-1917-at-foot-morthomme-before-great-slaughter-collind-been-avid-angler-on-that-day-he-was-standing-at-hole-watching-maggots-swarm-among-blow-fli
I did say that to deny the existence of evil spirits, or to deny the existence of the devil, is to deny the truth of the New Testament; and that to deny the existence of these imps of darkness is to contradict the words of Jesus Christ. I did say that if we give up the belief in devils we must give up the inspiration of the Old and New Testaments, and we must give up the divinity of Christ. Upon that declaration I stand, because if devils do not exist, then Jesus Christ was mistaken, or we have not in the New Testament a true account of what he said and of what he pretended to do. If the New Testament gives a true account of his words and pretended actions, then he did claim to cast out devils. That was his principal business. That was his certificate of divinity, casting out devils. That authenticated his mission and proved that he was superior to the hosts of darkness. Now, take the devil out of the New Testament, and you also take the veracity of Christ; with that veracity you take the divinity; with that divinity you take the atonement, and when you take the atonement, the great fabric known as Christianity becomes a shapeless ruin. The Christians now claim that Jesus was God. If he was God, of course the devil knew that fact, and yet, according to this account, the devil took the omnipotent God and placed him upon a pinnacle of the temple, and endeavored to induce him to dash himself against the earth... Think of it! The devil - the prince of sharpers - the king of cunning - the master of finesse, trying to bribe God with a grain of sand that belonged to God! Casting out devils was a certificate of divinity. Is there in all the religious literature of the world anything more grossly absurd than this? These devils, according to the Bible, were of various kinds - some could speak and hear, others were deaf and dumb. All could not be cast out in the same way. The deaf and dumb spirits were quite difficult to deal with. St. Mark tells of a gentleman who brought his son to Christ. The boy, it seems, was possessed of a dumb spirit, over which the disciples had no control. 'Jesus said unto the spirit: 'Thou dumb and deaf spirit, I charge thee come out of him, and enter no more into him.'' Whereupon, the deaf spirit (having heard what was said) cried out (being dumb) and immediately vacated the premises. The ease with which Christ controlled this deaf and dumb spirit excited the wonder of his disciples, and they asked him privately why they could not cast that spirit out. To whom he replied: 'This kind can come forth by nothing but prayer and fasting.' Is there a Christian in the whole world who would believe such a story if found in any other book? The trouble is, these pious people shut up their reason, and then open their Bible.

Robert G. Ingersoll
i-did-say-that-to-deny-existence-evil-spirits-to-deny-existence-devil-is-to-deny-truth-new-testament-that-to-deny-existence-these-imps-darkness-is-to-contradict-words-jesus-chris
It happens that in our phase of civility, the novel is the central form of literary art. It lends itself to explanations borrowed from any intellectual system of the universe which seems at the time satisfactory. Its history is an attempt to evade the laws of what Scott called 'the land of fiction'-the stereotypes which ignore reality, and whose remoteness from it we identify as absurd. From Cervantes forward it has been, when it has satisfied us, the poetry which is 'capable, ' in the words of Ortega, 'of coping with present reality.' But it is a 'realistic poetry' and its theme is, bluntly, 'the collapse of the poetic' because it has to do with 'the barbarous, brutal, mute, meaningless reality of things.' It cannot work with the old hero, or with the old laws of the land of romance; moreover, such new laws and customs as it creates have themselves to be repeatedly broken under the demands of a changed and no less brutal reality. 'Reality has such a violent temper that it does not tolerate the ideal even when reality itself is idealized.' Nevertheless, the effort continues to be made. The extremest revolt against the customs or laws of fiction-the antinovels of Fielding or Jane Austen or Flaubert or Natalie Sarraute-creates its new laws, in their turn to be broken. Even when there is a profession of complete narrative anarchy, as in some of the works I discussed last week, or in a poem such as Paterson, which rejects as spurious whatever most of us understand as form, it seems that time will always reveal some congruence with a paradigm-provided always that there is in the work that necessary element of the customary which enables it to communicate at all. I shall not spend much time on matters so familiar to you. Whether, with Luke¡cs, you think of the novel as peculiarly the resolution of the problem of the individual in an open society-or as relating to that problem in respect of an utterly contingent world; or express this in terms of the modern French theorists and call its progress a necessary and 'unceasing movement from the known to the unknown'; or simply see the novel as resembling the other arts in that it cannot avoid creating new possibilities for its own future-however you put it, the history of the novel is the history of forms rejected or modified, by parody, manifesto, neglect, as absurd. Nowhere else, perhaps, are we so conscious of the dissidence between inherited forms and our own reality. There is at present some good discussion of the issue not only in French but in English. Here I have in mind Iris Murdoch, a writer whose persistent and radical thinking about the form has not as yet been fully reflected in her own fiction. She contrasts what she calls 'crystalline form' with narrative of the shapeless, quasi-documentary kind, rejecting the first as uncharacteristic of the novel because it does not contain free characters, and the second because it cannot satisfy that need of form which it is easier to assert than to describe; we are at least sure that it exists, and that it is not always illicit. Her argument is important and subtle, and this is not an attempt to restate it; it is enough to say that Miss Murdoch, as a novelist, finds much difficulty in resisting what she calls 'the consolations of form' and in that degree damages the 'opacity, ' as she calls it, of character. A novel has this (and more) in common with love, that it is, so to speak, delighted with its own inventions of character, but must respect their uniqueness and their freedom. It must do so without losing the formal qualities that make it a novel. But the truly imaginative novelist has an unshakable 'respect for the contingent'; without it he sinks into fantasy, which is a way of deforming reality. 'Since reality is incomplete, art must not be too afraid of incompleteness, ' says Miss Murdoch. We must not falsify it with patterns too neat, too inclusive; there must be dissonance.

Frank Kermode
it-happens-that-in-our-phase-civility-novel-is-central-form-literary-art-it-lends-itself-to-explanations-borrowed-from-any-intellectual-system-universe-which-seems-at-time-satisf
Have you ever wondered What happens to all the poems people write? The poems they never let anyone else read? Perhaps they are Too private and personal Perhaps they are just not good enough. Perhaps the prospect of such a heartfelt expression being seen as clumsy shallow silly pretentious saccharine unoriginal sentimental trite boring overwrought obscure stupid pointless or simply embarrassing is enough to give any aspiring poet good reason to hide their work from public view. forever. Naturally many poems are IMMEDIATELY DESTROYED. Burnt shredded flushed away Occasionally they are folded Into little squares And wedged under the corner of An unstable piece of furniture (So actually quite useful) Others are hidden behind a loose brick or drainpipe or sealed into the back of an old alarm clock or put between the pages of AN OBSCURE BOOK that is unlikely to ever be opened. someone might find them one day, BUT PROBABLY NOT The truth is that unread poetry Will almost always be just that. DOOMED to join a vast invisible river of waste that flows out of suburbia. well Almost always. On rare occasions, Some especially insistent pieces of writing will escape into a backyard or a laneway be blown along a roadside embankment and finally come to rest in a shopping center parking lot as so many things do It is here that something quite Remarkable takes place two or more pieces of poetry drift toward each other through a strange force of attraction unknown to science and ever so slowly cling together to form a tiny, shapeless ball. Left undisturbed, this ball gradually becomes larger and rounder as other free verses confessions secrets stray musings wishes and unsent love letters attach themselves one by one. Such a ball creeps through the streets Like a tumbleweed for months even years If it comes out only at night it has a good Chance of surviving traffic and children and through a slow rolling motion AVOIDS SNAILS (its number one predator) At a certain size, it instinctively shelters from bad weather, unnoticed but otherwise roams the streets searching for scraps of forgotten thought and feeling. Given time and luck the poetry ball becomes large HUGE ENORMOUS: A vast accumulation of papery bits That ultimately take to the air, levitating by The sheer force of so much unspoken emotion. It floats gently above suburban rooftops when everybody is asleep inspiring lonely dogs to bark in the middle of the night. Sadly a big ball of paper not matter how large and buoyant, is still a fragile thing. Sooner or LATER it will be surprised by a sudden gust of wind Beaten by driving rain and REDUCED in a matter of minutes to a billion soggy shreds. One morning everyone will wake up to find a pulpy mess covering front lawns clogging up gutters and plastering car windscreens. Traffic will be delayed children delighted adults baffled unable to figure out where it all came from Stranger still Will be the Discovery that Every lump of Wet paper Contains various faded words pressed into accidental verse. Barely visible but undeniably present To each reader they will whisper something different something joyful something sad truthful absurd hilarious profound and perfect No one will be able to explain the Strange feeling of weightlessness or the private smile that remains Long after the street sweepers have come and gone.

Shaun Tan
have-you-ever-wondered-what-happens-to-all-poems-people-write-the-poems-they-never-let-anyone-else-read-perhaps-they-are-too-private-personal-perhaps-they-are-just-not-good-enoug
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