Slant 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
especially-when-you-talk-about-power-documentary-filmmaking-you-cant-really-have-slant-financially-you-cant-have-slant-on-end-goals
tell-the-truth-but-tell-it-slant
tell-all-truth-but-tell-it-slantsuccess-in-circuit-lies-emily-dickinson
tell-all-the-truth-but-tell-it-slant-success-in-circuit-lies
the-imagination-demands-that-life-be-told-slant-because-its-need-distance-john-mcgahern
getting-plenty-sleep-is-always-great-it-really-is-i-have-girlfriend-whos-sending-me-slant-board
i-cant-remove-autobiographical-slant-from-things-i-write-you-always-bring-yourself-into-what-youre-writing
theres-certain-slant-light-on-winter-afternoons-that-oppresses-like-weight-of-cathedral-tunes-emily-dickinson
italics-provide-wonderful-advantage-you-see-right-away-that-words-are-in-rush-when-something-exists-at-slant-you-cant-help-but-consider-irony-ann-beattie
nothing-she-did-said-was-quite-what-she-meant-but-still-her-life-could-be-called-monument-shaped-in-slant-available-light-set-to-movement-carol-shields
solitude-stands-by-windowshe-turns-her-head-as-i-walk-in-roomi-can-see-by-her-eyes-shes-been-waitingstanding-in-slant-late-afternoon-suzanne-vega
the-desert-sharpened-sweet-ache-his-longing-amplified-it-gave-shape-to-it-in-sere-geology-clean-slant-light-jon-krakauer
the-mainstream-media-has-its-own-agenda-they-do-not-want-to-print-facts-they-have-agenda-they-have-slant-they-have-bias-it-is-outrageous-to-me
if-i-wanted-to-take-more-activist-journalistic-slant-in-work-i-should-probably-just-go-be-activist-journalist-but-im-happy-being-comedian
i-dont-feel-like-my-films-are-about-gender-they-are-about-identity-but-different-slant-on-identity
night-thoughts-have-different-color-than-day-thoughts-different-slant-more-than-anything-else-they-know-all-secret-paths-chinks-in-armor-they-can-take-advantage-to-force-their-wa
lets-make-this-slow-ride-shall-we-the-deep-purr-her-voice-brought-sassy-grin-to-his-face-the-long-slant-his-eyes-grew-languid-you-have-reins-cher-you-can-whip-me-with-them-if-you
john-grady-looked-at-table-the-paper-cat-stepped-thin-slant-among-shapes-cats-thereon-he-looked-up-again-yessir-he-said-just-me-him-cormac-mccarthy
life-doesnt-just-happen-its-constructed-through-history-power-and-thats-something-i-am-interested-in-is-art-world-world-thats-trying-to-engage-socially-with-leftist-slant-to-work
a-picture-my-existence-would-show-useless-wooden-stake-covered-in-snow-stuck-loosely-at-slant-in-ground-in-ploughed-field-on-edge-vast-open-franz-kafka
i-made-records-in-past-that-are-as-traditional-as-any-other-country-records-that-have-been-made-but-at-same-time-records-have-contemporary-slant-on-it-too
everyone-has-natural-slant-towards-seeking-themselves-this-gets-in-way-seeking-god-unless-god-intervenes-criss-jami
Almondine To her, the scent and the memory of him were one. Where it lay strongest, the distant past came to her as if that morning: Taking a dead sparrow from her jaws, before she knew to hide such things. Guiding her to the floor, bending her knee until the arthritis made it stick, his palm hotsided on her ribs to measure her breaths and know where the pain began. And to comfort her. That had been the week before he went away. He was gone, she knew this, but something of him clung to the baseboards. At times the floor quivered under his footstep. She stood then and nosed into the kitchen and the bathroom and the bedroom-especially the closet-her intention to press her ruff against his hand, run it along his thigh, feel the heat of his body through the fabric. Places, times, weather-all these drew him up inside her. Rain, especially, falling past the double doors of the kennel, where he'd waited through so many storms, each drop throwing a dozen replicas into the air as it struck the waterlogged earth. And where the rising and falling water met, something like an expectation formed, a place where he might appear and pass in long strides, silent and gestureless. For she was not without her own selfish desires: to hold things motionless, to measure herself against them and find herself present, to know that she was alive precisely because he needn't acknowledge her in casual passing; that utter constancy might prevail if she attended the world so carefully. And if not constancy, then only those changes she desired, not those that sapped her, undefined her. And so she searched. She'd watched his casket lowered into the ground, a box, man-made, no more like him than the trees that swayed under the winter wind. To assign him an identity outside the world was not in her thinking. The fence line where he walked and the bed where he slept-that was where he lived, and they remembered him. Yet he was gone. She knew it most keenly in the diminishment of her own self. In her life, she'd been nourished and sustained by certain things, him being one of them, Trudy another, and Edgar, the third and most important, but it was really the three of them together, intersecting in her, for each of them powered her heart a different way. Each of them bore different responsibilities to her and with her and required different things from her, and her day was the fulfillment of those responsibilities. She could not imagine that portion of her would never return. With her it was not hope, or wistful thoughts-it was her sense of being alive that thinned by the proportion of her spirit devoted to him. "ory of Edgar Sawtelle" As spring came on, his scent about the place began to fade. She stopped looking for him. Whole days she slept beside his chair, as the sunlight drifted from eastern-slant to western-slant, moving only to ease the weight of her bones against the floor. And Trudy and Edgar, encapsulated in mourning, somehow forgot to care for one another, let alone her. Or if they knew, their grief and heartache overwhelmed them. Anyway, there was so little they might have done, save to bring out a shirt of his to lie on, perhaps walk with her along the fence line, where fragments of time had snagged and hung. But if they noticed her grief, they hardly knew to do those things. And she without the language to ask.

David Wroblewski
almondine-to-her-scent-memory-him-were-one-where-it-lay-strongest-distant-past-came-to-her-as-if-that-morning-taking-dead-sparrow-from-her-jaws-before-she-knew-to-hide-such-thing
On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

Mary Rose O'Reilley
on-first-day-november-last-year-sacred-to-many-religious-calendars-but-especially-celtic-i-went-for-walk-among-bare-oaks-birch-nothing-much-was-going-on-scarlet-sumac-had-passed-
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