Shawl 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
tea-would-arrive-cakes-squatting-on-cushions-cream-toast-in-melting-shawl-butter-cups-agleam-faint-wisp-steam-rising-from-teapot-shawl-gerald-durrell
weve-been-blessed-with-this-opportunity-to-share-our-love-concern-for-others-in-our-community-through-something-tangible-prayer-shawl-diane-plotzke
a-half-finished-shawl-left-on-coffee-table-isnt-mess-its-object-art-stephanie-pearlmcphee
i-watched-land-for-as-long-as-i-could-until-it-disappeared-behind-its-shawl-mist-until-i-had-it-fixed-in-my-mind-unchanged-mysterious-beautiful-aimee-friedman
i-need-to-finish-this-scarfshawlblanket-thing-i-can-start-something-for-emma-hat-maybe-sweater-for-her-stuffed-elephant-laurie-halse-anderson
my-poor-life-this-shawl-frayed-on-strongboxes-full-gold-i-roll-along-with-dream-and-smoke-and-only-flame-in-universe-blaise-cendrars
i-am-your-moon-your-moonlight-too-i-am-your-flower-garden-your-water-too-i-have-come-all-this-way-eager-for-you-without-shoes-shawl-i-want-you-to-laugh-to-kill-all-your-worries-t
youd-be-surprised-theo-she-said-leaning-back-in-her-shawlshaped-chair-what-small-everyday-things-can-lift-us-out-despair-but-nobody-can-do-it-for-you-youre-one-who-has-to-watch-f
the-lunatic-fringe-is-more-like-spanish-shawl-where-fringe-makes-up-entire-garment-aldous-huxley
a-common-pickpocket-trick-is-for-operator-to-carry-shawl-overcoat-carelessly-over-left-arm-to-take-seat-on-right-side-person-they-intend-to-rob-in-streetcar-other-vehicle
christmas-eve-was-night-song-that-wrapped-itself-about-you-like-shawl-but-it-warmed-more-than-your-body-it-warmed-your-heart-filled-it-too-with-melody-that-would-last-forever-bes
im-afraid-to-look-in-mirror-im-afraid-im-going-to-see-old-lady-with-white-hair-just-like-old-ladies-in-park-alittle-bundle-in-black-shawl-just-paddy-chayefsky
And now it is said of me That my love is nothing because I have borne no children, Or because I have fathered none; That I twisted the twig in my hands And cut the blossom free too soon from the seed; That I lay across the fire, And snuffed it dead sooner than draft or rain. But I have turned away, and drawn myself Upright to walk along the room alone. Across the dark the spines of cactus plants Remind me how I go-aloof, obscure, Indifferent to the words the children chalk Against my house and down the garden walls. They cannot tear the garden out of me, Nor smear my love with names. Love is a cliff, A clear, cold curve of stone, mottled by stars, smirched by the morning, carved by the dark sea Till stars and dawn and waves can slash no more, Till the rock's heart is found and shaped again. I keep the house and say no words, the evening Falls like a petal down the shawl of trees. I light the fire and see the blossom dance On air alone; I will not douse that flame, That searing flower; I will burn in it. I will not banish love to empty rain. For I know that I am asked to hate myself For their sweet sake Who sow the world with child. I am given to burn on the dark fire they make With their sly voices. But I have burned already down to bone. There is a fire that burns beyond the names Of sludge and filth of which this world is made. Agony sears the dark flesh of the body, And lifts me higher than the smoke, to rise Above the earth, above the sacrifice; Until my soul flares outward like a blue Blossom of gas fire dancing in mid-air: Free of the body's work of twisted iron.

James Wright
and-now-it-is-said-me-that-my-love-is-nothing-because-i-have-borne-no-children-or-because-i-have-fathered-none-that-i-twisted-twig-in-my-hands-and-cut-blossom-free-too-soon-from-
Young man, ' he went on, raising his head again, 'in your face I seem to read some trouble of mind. When you came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once. For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of noblemen, and on leaving, she danced the shawl dance before the governor and other personages for which she was presented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The medal ... well, the medal of course was sold-long ago, hm ... but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she wanted to tell some one or other of her past honours and of the happy days that are gone. I don't condemn her for it. I don't blame her, for the one thing left her is recollection of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That's why she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov's rudeness to her, and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three children, one smaller than the other. She married her first husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him from her father's house. She was exceedingly fond of her husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and although she paid him back, of which I have authentic documentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears and she throws him up at me; and I am glad, I am glad that, though only in imagination, she should think of herself as having once been happy... And she was left at his death with three children in a wild and remote district where I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hopeless poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs of all sorts, I don't feel equal to describing it even. Her relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too, excessively proud... And then, honoured sir, and then, I, being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extremity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and culture and distinguished family, should have consented to be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wringing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that you don't understand yet...

Fyodor Dostoyevsky
young-man-he-went-on-raising-his-head-again-in-your-face-i-seem-to-read-some-trouble-mind-when-you-came-in-i-read-it-that-was-why-i-addressed-you-at-once-for-in-unfolding-to-you-
The fact is,' said Van Gogh, 'the fact is that we are painters in real life, and the important thing is to breathe as hard as ever we can breathe.' So I breathe. I breathe at the open window above my desk, and a moist fragrance assails me from the gnawed leaves of the growing mock orange. This air is as intricate as the light that filters through forested mountain ridges and into my kitchen window; this sweet air is the breath of leafy lungs more rotted than mine; it has sifted through the serrations of many teeth. I have to love these tatters. And I must confess that the thought of this old yard breathing alone in the dark turns my mind to something else. I cannot in all honesty call the world old when I've seen it new. On the other hand, neither will honesty permit me suddenly to invoke certain experiences of newness and beauty as binding, sweeping away all knowledge. But I am thinking now of the tree with the lights in it, the cedar in the yard by the creek I saw transfigured. That the world is old and frayed is no surprise; that the world could ever become new and whole beyond uncertainty was, and is, such a surprise that I find myself referring all subsequent kinds of knowledge to it. And it suddenly occurs to me to wonder: were the twigs of the cedar I saw really bloated with galls? They probably were; they almost surely were. I have seen these 'cedar apples' swell from that cedar's green before and since: reddish gray, rank, malignant. All right then. But knowledge does not vanquish mystery, or obscure its distant lights. I still now and will tomorrow steer by what happened that day, when some undeniably new spirit roared down the air, bowled me over, and turned on the lights. I stood on grass like air, air like lightning coursed in my blood, floated my bones, swam in my teeth. I've been there, seen it, been done by it. I know what happened to the cedar tree, I saw the cells in the cedar tree pulse charged like wings beating praise. Now, it would be too facile to pull everything out of the hat and say that mystery vanquishes knowledge. Although my vision of the world of the spirit would not be altered a jot if the cedar had been purulent with galls, those galls actually do matter to my understanding of this world. Can I say then that corruption is one of beauty's deep-blue speckles, that the frayed and nibbled fringe of the world is a tallith, a prayer shawl, the intricate garment of beauty? It is very tempting, but I cannot. But I can, however, affirm that corruption is not beauty's very heart and I can I think call the vision of the cedar and the knowledge of these wormy quarryings twin fjords cutting into the granite cliffs of mystery and say the new is always present simultaneously with the old, however hidden. The tree with the lights in it does not go out; that light still shines on an old world, now feebly, now bright. I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I've come to care for, whose gnawed trees breathe a delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections but overwhelmingly in spite of them, under the wind-rent clouds, upstream and down.

Annie Dillard
the-fact-is-said-van-gogh-fact-is-that-we-are-painters-in-real-life-important-thing-is-to-breathe-as-hard-as-ever-we-can-breathe-so-i-breathe-i-breathe-at-open-window-above-my-de
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...