Shriek 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
what-strange-thing-it-is-to-recognize-sound-like-shriek-wounded-animal-when-youve-never-heard-shriek-wounded-animal-john-lheureux
first-listen-my-friend-then-you-may-shriek-bluster-aristophanes
boredom-is-the-conviction-that-you-cant-change-the-shriek-of-unused-capacities
rosalind-exploded-with-shriek-worthy-teakettle-emma-clifton
boredom-is-conviction-that-you-cant-change-shriek-unused-capacities-saul-bellow
so-yes-i-will-marry-you-someday-if-youll-have-me-he-said-modestly-of-course-i-will-you-idiot-i-said-with-shriek-threw-myself-into-his-arms-eilis-oneal
haiku-is-not-shriek-howl-sigh-yawn-rather-it-is-deep-breath-life-santka-taneda
lightening-flashed-again-again-but-above-shriek-wind-pounding-hail-they-never-heard-thunder-samuel-snoekbrown
the-foolish-race-mankind-are-swarming-below-in-night-they-shriek-rage-quarrel-all-them-are-right-heinrich-heine
if-while-i-hear-wild-shriek-slave-mother-robbed-her-little-ones-i-do-not-open-my-mouth-am-i-not-guilty-lucy-stone
miss-grantham-gave-shriek-you-have-trifled-with-me-she-said-into-folds-her-handkerchief-you-promised-me-marriage-now-you-mean-to-cast-me-off-for-georgette-heyer
children-are-most-wonderful-audiences-whats-struck-me-most-is-that-that-they-watch-it-silently-until-end-when-they-shriek-shout-clap-emma-thompson
the-soaring-pilot-makes-an-aerial-excursion-not-an-incursion-his-passage-leaves-a-whisper-not-a-shriek
caxtons-are-mechanical-birds-with-many-wings-and-some-are-treasured-for-their-markings-they-cause-eyes-to-melt-or-body-to-shriek-without-pain-craig-raine
adina-gave-little-shriek-that-fish-just-swam-past-my-leg-creepy-where-did-it-go-to-your-right-two-oclock-get-it-you-are-officially-most-bloodthirsty-libba-bray
interesting-fact-from-front-lines-raw-grief-smells-like-ripped-leaves-splintered-branches-jagged-green-shriek-tana-french
the-squeak-oarlocks-comes-over-lake-water-a-womans-shriek-assaults-ear-while-above-in-sky-inured-to-everything-the-moon-looks-on-with-mindless-leer-the-unknown-lady-alexander-blo
when-people-spot-fallon-in-public-they-do-not-shriek-drool-go-wobbly-in-knees-its-different-look-entirely-a-tilt-head-mouth-agape-eyebrows-rolled-like-you-do-when-you-see-puppy
then-rose-from-sea-to-sky-wild-farewell-then-shriekd-timid-stood-still-brave-then-some-leapd-overboard-with-fearful-yell-as-eager-to-anticipate-lord-byron
always-i-shall-be-one-who-loves-wilderness-swaggers-softly-creeps-between-mountain-peaks-i-shall-listen-long-to-seas-brave-music-i-shall-sing-my-everett-ruess
i-wanted-line-in-poem-to-be-hollow-ney-dervish-orchestra-whose-plaintive-wail-is-call-to-god-but-all-i-achieved-was-awkward-shrieking-not-even-anne-michaels
technique-the-word-is-like-shriek-outraged-art-it-is-idiot-name-given-to-effort-by-those-who-are-too-weak-too-weary-too-dull-to-play-game-the-mighty-have-no-theory-technique
who-trusted-god-was-love-indeed-and-love-creations-final-law-tho-nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw-with-ravine-shriekd-against-his-creed
vamps-who-are-dying-think-they-are-give-piercing-eardrumbursting-shriek-like-love-child-screech-owl-mountain-lion-on-crystal-meth-amplified-faith-hunter
the-dust-thirty-years-hung-lifeless-in-shafts-morning-light-gilding-perfectly-prim-pages-shone-incanescent-shriek-rolling-ladders-mourned-in-perennial-soliloquy-michelle-franklin
fissure-appeared-splinters-plastic-broke-away-around-it-fissure-widened-radiating-further-fractures-when-first-leg-broke-out-simon-tried-to-shriek-l-ashley-straker
man-screams-from-depths-his-soul-whole-era-becomes-single-piercing-shriek-art-also-screams-into-deep-darkness-screams-for-help-screams-for-spirit-this-is-expressionism-hermann-ba
take-my-hand-haunted-sleep-she-will-shriek-forever-take-my-hand-shell-pay-price-like-melting-ice-take-my-hand-take-my-hand-heavenwood
france-had-shown-light-to-all-men-preached-gospel-all-mens-good-celtic-demos-rose-demon-shriekd-slaked-light-with-blood-alfred-lord-tennyson
each-time-girl-approached-table-mortimer-would-smile-like-this-and-each-time-girl-would-shriek-run-away-kelly-dipucchio
dr-urbino-caught-parrot-around-neck-with-triumphant-sigh-e-y-est-but-he-released-him-immediately-because-ladder-slipped-from-under-his-feet-for-instant-he-was-suspended-in-air-th
I Hear the sledges with the bells - Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. II Hear the mellow wedding bells - Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! - From the molten - golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle - dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! - how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! III Hear the loud alarum bells - Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now - now to sit, or never, By the side of the pale - faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear, it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells - Of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells - In the clamor and the clanging of the bells! IV Hear the tolling of the bells - Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people - ah, the people - They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who, tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone - They are neither man nor woman - They are neither brute nor human - They are Ghouls: - And their king it is who tolls: - And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls A paean from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the paean of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the paean of the bells: - Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells: - To the sobbing of the bells: - Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells - To the tolling of the bells - Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, - To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

Edgar Allan Poe
i-hear-sledges-with-bells-silver-bells-what-world-merriment-their-melody-foretells-how-they-tinkle-tinkle-tinkle-in-icy-air-night-while-stars-that-oversprinkle-all-heavens-seem-t
I'm going to tell you something once and then whether you die is strictly up to you, " Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. "What I'm going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do, then I will leave with this baggage here"-he glanced at Buttercup-"and you will be tied up but not fatally, and will be free to go about your business. And if you choose to fight, well, then, we will not both leave alive." You are only alive now because you said 'to the pain.' I want that phrase explained." My pleasure. To the pain means this: if we duel and you win, death for me. If we duel and I win, life for you. But life on my terms. The first thing you lose will be your feet. Below the ankle. You will have stumps available to use within six months. Then your hands, at the wrists. They heal somewhat quicker. Five months is a fair average. Next your nose. No smell of dawn for you. Followed by your tongue. Deeply cut away. Not even a stump left. And then your left eye-" And then my right eye, and then my ears, and shall we get on with it?" the Prince said. Wrong!" Westley's voice rang across the room. "Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child shall be yours to cherish-every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means. It means that I leave you in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more; so there you have it, pig, there you know, you miserable vomitous mass, and I say this now, and live or die, it's up to you: Drop your sword!" The sword crashed to the floor.

William Goldman
im-going-to-tell-you-something-once-then-whether-you-die-is-strictly-up-to-you-westley-said-lying-pleasantly-on-bed-what-im-going-to-tell-you-is-this-drop-your-sword-if-you-do-th
He was just a small church parson when the war broke out, and he Looked and dressed and acted like all parsons that we see. He wore the cleric's broadcloth and he hooked his vest behind. But he had a man's religion and he had a stong man's mind. And he heard the call to duty, and he quit his church and went. And he bravely tramped right with 'em every- where the boys were sent. He put aside his broadcloth and he put the khaki on; Said he'd come to be a soldier and was going to live like one. Then he'd refereed the prize fights that the boys pulled off at night, And if no one else was handy he'd put on the gloves and fight. He wasn't there a fortnight ere he saw the sol- diers' needs, And he said: "I'm done with preaching; this is now the time for deeds." He learned the sound of shrapnel, he could tell the size of shell From the shriek it make above him, and he knew just where it fell. In the front line trench he laboured, and he knew the feel of mud, And he didn't run from danger and he wasn't scared of blood. He wrote letters for the wounded, and he cheered them with his jokes, And he never made a visit without passing round the smokes. Then one day a bullet got him, as he knelt be- side a lad Who was "going west" right speedy, and they both seemed mighty glad, 'Cause he held the boy's hand tighter, and he smiled and whispered low, "Now you needn't fear the journey; over there with you I'll go." And they both passed out together, arm in arm I think they went. He had kept his vow to follow everywhere the boys were sent.

Edgar A. Guest
he-was-just-small-church-parson-when-war-broke-out-he-looked-dressed-acted-like-all-parsons-that-we-see-he-wore-clerics-broadcloth-he-hooked-his-vest-behind-but-he-had-mans-relig
DAMNATION!' No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring sobriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub. The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled - cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom. The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me. I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches... ' The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault.' It was mine, I suppose, ' Emerson said mildly. Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?' No, ' said Emerson. He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)

Elizabeth Peters
damnation-no-device-printers-art-not-even-capital-letters-can-indicate-intensity-that-shriek-rage-emerson-is-known-to-his-egyptian-workers-by-admiring-sobriquet-father-curses-the
in-cage-wireribs-the-size-mans-head-macaw-bristles-in-staring-combustion-suffers-stoking-devils-his-eyes-in-old-ladys-parlour-where-aspidistra-succumbs-to-musk-faded-velvet-he-ha
And then, with a shock like high-voltage coursing through me, the phone beside me started pealing thinly. I just stood there and stared at it, blood draining from my face. A call to a tollbooth? It must, it must be a wrong number, somebody wanted the Information Booth or-! It must have been audible outside, with all I had the slide partly closed. One of the redcaps passing by turned, looked over, then started coming across toward where I was. To get rid of him I picked up the receiver, put it to my ear. 'You'd better come out now, time's up, ' a flat, deadly voice said. 'They're calling your train, but you're not getting on that one - or any other.' 'Wh-where are talking from?' 'The next booth to yours, ' the voice jeered. 'You forgot the glass inserts only reach halfway down.' The connection broke and a man's looming figure was shadowing the glass in front of my eyes, before I could even get the receiver back on the hook. I dropped it full-length, tensed my right arm to pound it through his face as soon as I shoved the glass aside. He had a revolver-bore for a top vest-button, trained on me. Two more had shown up behind him, from which direction I hadn't noticed. It was very dark in the booth now, their collective silhouettes shut out all the daylight. The station and all its friendly bustle was blotted out, had receded into the far background, a thousand miles away for all the help it could give me. I slapped the glass wearily aside, came slowly out. One of them flashed a badge - maybe Crow had loaned him his for the occasion. 'You're being arrested for putting slugs in that phone. It won't do any good to raise your voice and shriek for help, try to tell people different. But suit yourself.' I knew that as well as he; heads turned to stare after us by the dozens as they started with me in their midst through the station's main-level. But not one in all that crowd would have dared interfere with what they mistook for a legitimate arrest in the line of duty. The one with the badge kept it conspicuously tilted in his upturned palm, at sight of which the frozen onlookers slowly parted, made way for us through their midst. I was being led to my doom in full view of scores of people. ("Graves For The Living")

Cornell Woolrich
and-then-with-shock-like-highvoltage-coursing-through-me-phone-beside-me-started-pealing-thinly-i-just-stood-there-stared-at-it-blood-draining-from-my-face-a-call-to-tollbooth-it
LADY LAZARUS I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it- A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?- The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die. This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade. What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see Them unwrap me hand and foot- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone, Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident. The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls. Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I've a call. It's easy enough to do it in a cell. It's easy enough to do it and stay put. It's the theatrical Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout: 'A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart- It really goes. And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy. I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern. Ash, ash- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there- A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath
lady-lazarus-i-have-done-it-again-one-year-in-every-ten-i-manage-it-a-sort-walking-miracle-my-skin-bright-as-nazi-lampshade-my-right-foot-a-paperweight-my-face-featureless-fine-j
Religion, with its metaphysical error of absolute guilt, dominated the broadest, the cosmic realm. From there, it infiltrated the subordinate realms of biological, social and moral existence with its errors of the absolute and inherited guilt. Humanity, split up into millions of factions, groups, nations and states, lacerated itself with mutual accusations. "The Greeks are to blame, " the Romans said, and "The Romans are to blame, " the Greeks said. So they warred against one another. "The ancient Jewish priests are to blame, " the early Christians shouted. "The Christians have preached the wrong Messiah, " the Jews shouted and crucified the harmless Jesus. "The Muslims and Turks and Huns are guilty, " the crusaders screamed. "The witches and heretics are to blame, " the later Christians howled for centuries, murdering, hanging, torturing and burning heretics. It remains to investigate the sources from which the Jesus legend derives its grandeur, emotional power and perseverance. Let us continue to stay outside this St. Vitus dance. The longer we look around, the crazier it seems. Hundreds of minor patriarchs, self-proclaimed kings and princes, accused one another of this or that sin and made war, scorched the land, brought famine and epidemics to the populations. Later, this became known as "history." And the historians did not doubt the rationality of this history. Gradually the common people appeared on the scene. "The Queen is to blame, " the people's representatives shouted, and beheaded the Queen. Howling, the populace danced around the guillotine. From the ranks of the people arose Napoleon. "The Austrians, the Prussians, the Russians are to blame, " it was now said. "Napoleon is to blame, " came the reply. "The machines are to blame!" the weavers screamed, and "The lumpenproletariat is to blame, " sounded back. "The Monarchy is to blame, long live the Constitution!" the burgers shouted. "The middle classes and the Constitution are to blame; wipe them out; long live the Dictatorship of the Proletariat, " the proletarian dictators shout, and "The Russians are to blame, " is hurled back. "Germany is to blame, " the Japanese and the Italians shouted in 1915. "England is to blame, " the fathers of the proletarians shouted in 1939. And "Germany is to blame, " the self-same fathers shouted in 1942. "Italy, Germany and Japan are to blame, " it was said in 1940. It is only by keeping strictly outside this inferno that one can be amazed that the human animal continues to shriek "Guilty!" without doubting its own sanity, without even once asking about the origin of this guilt. Such mass psychoses have an origin and a function. Only human beings who are forced to hide something catastrophic are capable of erring so consistently and punishing so relentlessly any attempt at clarifying such errors.

Wilhelm Reich
religion-with-its-metaphysical-error-absolute-guilt-dominated-broadest-cosmic-realm-from-there-it-infiltrated-subordinate-realms-biological-social-moral-existence-with-its-errors
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