Sheathed 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
people-seem-sheathed-in-their-tough-organization-ralph-waldo-emerson
avarice-is-fear-sheathed-in-gold-paul-eldridge
the-boldness-his-mind-was-sheathed-in-scabbard-politeness-dumas-malone
a-naked-blade-sheathed-in-velvet-that-was-raphaels-voice-nalini-singh
all-nature-is-vast-symbolism-every-material-fact-has-sheathed-within-it-spiritual-truth-edwin-powell-hubble
when-in-fight-to-death-one-wants-to-employ-all-ones-weapons-to-utmost-i-must-say-that-to-die-with-ones-sword-still-sheathed-is-most-regrettable-miyamoto-musashi
i-have-felt-cats-rubbing-their-faces-against-mine-and-touching-my-cheek-with-claws-carefully-sheathed-these-things-to-me-are-expressions-of-love
all-feminine-claws-he-said-to-himself-are-sheathed-in-velvet-but-they-can-hurt-good-deal-if-they-touch-you-on-sore-places-defects-your-qualitieseven-merely-with-velvet-ford-madox
when-matthew-merely-stared-at-him-jackson-reached-into-weapon-box-pulled-out-sheathed-machete-handing-it-to-boy-matthew-laughed-dropped-it-kresley-cole
the-dangerous-men-were-still-asleep-their-blades-sheathed-next-to-their-beds-the-really-dangerous-men-had-been-up-for-hours-their-quills-ledgers-were-getting-hard-use-daniel-pola
teenager-me-teenager-if-she-suddenly-stood-here-now-before-me-would-i-need-to-treat-her-as-near-dear-although-shes-strange-to-me-distant-shed-tear-kiss-her-brow-for-simple-reason
He handed me something done up in paper. 'Your mask, ' he said. 'Don't put it on until we get past the city-limits.' It was a frightening-looking thing when I did so. It was not a mask but a hood for the entire head, canvas and cardboard, chalk-white to simulate a skull, with deep black hollows for the eyes and grinning teeth for the mouth. The private highway, as we neared the house, was lined on both sides with parked cars. I counted fifteen of them as we bashed by; and there must have been as many more ahead, in the other direction. We drew up and he and I got out. I glanced in cautiously over my shoulder at the driver as we went by, to see if I could see his face, but he too had donned one of the death-masks. 'Never do that, ' the Messenger warned me in a low voice. 'Never try to penetrate any other member's disguise.' The house was as silent and lifeless as the last time - on the outside. Within it was a horrid, crawling charnel-house alive with skull-headed figures, their bodies encased in business-suits, tuxedos, and evening dresses. The lights were all dyed a ghastly green or ghostly blue, by means of colored tissue-paper sheathed around them. A group of masked musicians kept playing the Funeral March over and over, with brief pauses in between. A coffin stood in the center of the main living-room. I was drenched with sweat under my own mask and sick almost to death, even this early in the game. At last the Book-keeper, unmasked, appeared in their midst. Behind him came the Messenger. The dead-head guests all applauded enthusiastically and gathered around them in a ring. Those in other rooms came in. The musicians stopped the Death Match. The Book-keeper bowed, smiled graciously. 'Good evening, fellow corpses, ' was his chill greeting. 'We are gathered together to witness the induction of our newest member.' There was an electric tension. 'Brother Bud!' His voice rang out like a clarion in the silence. 'Step forward.' ("Graves For Living")

Cornell Woolrich
he-handed-me-something-done-up-in-paper-your-mask-he-said-dont-put-it-on-until-we-get-past-citylimits-it-was-frighteninglooking-thing-when-i-did-it-was-not-mask-but-hood-for-enti
After a few sips, he picked up his sax and started jamming with the storm. Most days, Rivers meditated twice, when he awoke and again in the evening before writing or reading. But he still found a special relaxation and renewal in solitary playing. Contemplation through music was different from other reflective experiences, in part, because his visual associations were set free to mutate, morph, and meander; while the other senses were occupied in fierce concentraction on breathing, blowing, fingering, and listening. Within the flow of this activity, his awareness would land in different states of consciousness, different phases of time, and easily moved between revisualization of experience and its creation. The playing dislodged hidden feelings, primed him for recognizing the habitually denied, sheathed the sword of lnaguage, and loosened the shield and armor of his character. His contemplative playing purged him of worrisome realities, smelted off from his center the dross of eperience, and on those rare and cherished days, left only the refinement of flickering fire. Although he was more aware of his emotions, the music and dance of thought kept them at arm's length, Wordsworth's 'emotion recollected in tranquility.'... As he played, his mind's eye became the fisher's bobber, guided by a line of sound around the driftwood of thought, the residue of his life, which materialized from nowhere and sank back into nothingness without his weaving them into any insistent pattern of order and understanding. He was momentarily freed of logical sequencing, the press of premises, the psycho-logic of primary process, the throb of Thought pulsing in and through him, and in billions of mind/bodies, now and throughout time, belonging each to each, to none, to no one, to Everyone, rocking back and forward in an ebb and flow of wishes, fears, and goals. He fished free of desire, illusion, or multiplicity; distant from the hook, the fisher, the fish; but tethered still on the long line of music, until it snagged on an immovable object, some unquestioned assumption, or perhaps a stray consummation, a catch in the flow of creation and wonder.

Jay Richards
after-few-sips-he-picked-up-his-sax-started-jamming-with-storm-most-days-rivers-meditated-twice-when-he-awoke-again-in-evening-before-writing-reading-but-he-still-found-special-r
?Earn cash when you save a quote by clicking
EARNED Load...
LEVEL : Load...