Stinging 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
the-smoke-has-been-stinging-my-eyes
his-conscience-like-sunburnt-scorpion-was-stinging-itself-to-death-edward-st-aubyn
it-went-from-butterflies-fluttering-in-my-stomach-to-bees-stinging-in-my-heart
i-went-from-butterflies-fluttering-in-my-stomach-to-bees-stinging-my-heart
an-appeal-to-goodness-which-is-not-in-him-is-to-vain-sensitive-soul-stinging-insult-frederick-rolfe
now-im-floating-like-butterfly-stinging-like-bee-i-earned-my-stripes-i-went-from-zero-to-my-own-hero-katy-perry
jealousy-had-taste-all-right-a-bitter-tonguestinging-flavor-like-peach-pit-dolores-hitchens
a-woman-may-have-witty-tongue-stinging-pen-but-she-will-never-laugh-at-her-own-individual-shortcomings
every-now-then-we-discover-in-seething-mass-humanity-round-us-person-who-does-not-seem-to-need-anybody-else-contrast-with-ourselves-is-stinging-ernest-dimnet
i-understood-that-no-one-could-have-lobbed-such-stinging-wad-shame-out-into-world-without-having-considerable-personal-reserve-it-to-draw-on-barbara-ehrenreich
the-smell-onion-is-most-effective-thing-for-relieving-stinging-eyes-irritated-by-tear-gas
and-then-it-hits-me-like-fast-openpalmed-stinging-smack-in-face-having-ghost-boyfriend-was-weird-lisa-schroeder
a-story-with-moral-appended-is-like-bill-mosquito-it-bores-you-then-injects-stinging-drop-to-irritate-your-conscience-o-henry
my-lips-eyes-heart-were-stinging-when-you-kissed-me-in-dark-jack-garton-to-jennifer-hammer-2008-age-24-jeanette-lynes
my-eyes-were-stinging-my-body-shaking-my-heart-seemed-to-be-just-aching-deep-in-my-chest-i-should-have-let-myself-smash-down-rocks-it-would-have-hurt-whole-lot-less-keri-arthur
the-serpent-king-tiger-stinging-wasp-small-child-dog-owned-by-other-people-fool-these-seven-ought-not-to-be-awakened-from-sleep-chanakya
i-almost-gave-my-life-long-ago-for-thing-that-has-gone-to-dust-now-stinging-my-eyes-it-is-strange-how-often-heart-must-be-broken-before-years-can-make-it-wise-sara-teasdale
the-idea-was-splinter-in-my-mind-always-there-always-stinging-even-when-i-wasnt-conscious-it-even-when-i-wasnt-thinking-about-it-michelle-hodkin
you-know-how-i-know-im-girl-tears-sudden-unbidden-tears-stinging-my-eyeballs-akua-mercy
the-tears-were-back-stinging-just-behind-my-eyes-there-was-blood-all-over-my-penguins-i-didnt-give-damn-about-walls-carpet-they-could-be-replaced-but-id-collected-those-damned-st
hollywood-can-be-stinging-town-they-say-its-forgiving-business-its-not-that-forgiving
as-dye-soaks-fibres-drawn-into-them-to-change-their-colour-forever-does-memory-stinging-sweet-change-fibre-mans-character-robin-hobb
blood-tricked-down-mollys-neck-from-stinging-cut-justine-had-given-her-she-thought-dear-lords-ladies-all-i-want-in-whole-wide-world-is-bath-pina-colada-chance-to-stake-this-bitch
if-you-ever-leave-me-again-she-said-her-eyes-stinging-i-swear-to-all-gods-percy-had-nerve-to-laugh-suddenly-lump-heated-emotions-melted-inside-annabeth-consider-me-warned-percy-s
her-fingers-moved-among-barnacles-mussels-blueblack-sharpedged-neon-red-starfish-were-limp-dalis-on-rocks-surrounded-by-bouquets-stinging-anemones-purple-bursts-spiny-sea-urchins
Last night I had the dream again. Except it's not a dream I know because when it comes for me, I'm still awake. There's my desk. The map on the wall. The Stuffed animals I don't play with anymore but don't want to hurt Dad's feelings by sticking in the closet I might be in bed. I might be just standing there, looking foe a missing sock. Then i'm gone. it doesn't just show me somthing this time, it takes me from here to THERE> standing on the bank of a river of fire. A thousand wasps in my head. Fighting and dying inside my skull, their bodies piling up against the backs of me eyes. Stinging and stinging. Dad's voice. Somewhere across the river. Calling my name. I've never heard him sound like that before. He's so frightened he can't hide it, even though he tries (he ALWAYS tries). The dead boy floats by. Facedown. So I wait for his head to pop up, show the holes where his eye used to be, say somthing with his blue lips. One of the terrible things it might make him do. But he just passes like a chunk of wood. I've never been here before, but I know it's real. The river is the line between this place and the Other Place. And I'm on the wrong side. There's a dark forest behind me but that's not what it is. I try to get to where Dad is. My toes touch the river and it sings with pain. Then there's arms pulling me back. Dragging me into the trees. They feel like a man's arms but it's not a man that sticks its fingers into my mouth. Nails that scratch the back of my throat. Skin that tastes like dirt. But just before that, before I'm back in my room with my missing sock in my hand, I realize I've been calling out to Dad just like he's been calling out to me. Telling him the same thing the whole time. Not words from my mouth through the air, but from my heart through the earth, so only the two of us could hear it. FIND ME

Andrew Pyper
last-night-i-had-dream-again-except-its-not-dream-i-know-because-when-it-comes-for-me-im-still-awake-theres-my-desk-the-map-on-wall-the-stuffed-animals-i-dont-play-with-anymore-b
the-clock-on-morning-lenape-building-must-clocks-be-circles-time-is-not-circle-suppose-mother-all-minutes-started-right-here-on-sidewalk-in-front-morning-lenape-building-parade-m
The door suddenly jerks open. A wideeyed teenager bursts out. She stares at me in dazed horror. In a strange way, I both know and don't know what has just happened. As the fragments begin to converge, they convey a horrible reality: I must have been hit by this car as I entered the crosswalk. In confused disbelief, I sink back into a hazy twilight. I find that I am unable to think clearly or to will myself awake from this nightmare. A man rushes to my side and drops to his knees. He announces himself as an off-duty paramedic. When I try to see where the voice is coming from, he sternly orders, 'Don't move your head.' The contradiction between his sharp command and what my body naturally wants-to turn toward his voice-frightens and stuns me into a sort of paralysis. My awareness strangely splits, and I experience an uncanny 'dislocation.' It's as if I'm floating above my body, looking down on the unfolding scene. I am snapped back when he roughly grabs my wrist and takes my pulse. He then shifts his position, directly above me. Awkwardly, he grasps my head with both of his hands, trapping it and keeping it from moving. His abrupt actions and the stinging ring of his command panic me; they immobilize me further. Dread seeps into my dazed, foggy consciousness: Maybe I have a broken neck, I think. I have a compelling impulse to find someone else to focus on. Simply, I need to have someone's comforting gaze, a lifeline to hold onto. But I'm too terrified to move and feel helplessly frozen.

Peter A. Levine
the-door-suddenly-jerks-open-a-wideeyed-teenager-bursts-out-she-stares-at-me-in-dazed-horror-in-strange-way-i-both-know-dont-know-what-has-just-happened-as-fragments-begin-to-con
Fairy tales are about trouble, about getting into and out of it, and trouble seems to be a necessary stage on the route to becoming. All the magic and glass mountains and pearls the size of houses and princesses beautiful as the day and talking birds and part-time serpents are distractions from the core of most of the stories, the struggle to survive against adversaries, to find your place in the world, and to come into your own. Fairy tales are almost always the stories of the powerless, of youngest sons, abandoned children, orphans, of humans transformed into birds and beasts or otherwise enchanted away from their own lives and selves. Even princesses are chattels to be disowned by fathers, punished by step-mothers, or claimed by princes, though they often assert themselves in between and are rarely as passive as the cartoon versions. Fairy tales are children's stories not in wh they were made for but in their focus on the early stages of life, when others have power over you and you have power over no one. In them, power is rarely the right tool for survival anyway. Rather the powerless thrive on alliances, often in the form of reciprocated acts of kindness - from beehives that were not raided, birds that were not killed but set free or fed, old women who were saluted with respect. Kindness sewn among the meek is harvested in crisis... In Hans Christian Andersen's retelling of the old Nordic tale that begins with a stepmother, "The Wild Swans, " the banished sister can only disenchant her eleven brothers - who are swans all day look but turn human at night - by gathering stinging nettles barehanded from churchyard graves, making them into flax, spinning them and knitting eleven long-sleeved shirts while remaining silent the whole time. If she speaks, they'll remain birds forever. In her silence, she cannot protest the crimes she accused of and nearly burned as a witch. Hauled off to a pyre as she knits the last of the shirts, she is rescued by the swans, who fly in at the last moment. As they swoop down, she throws the nettle shirts over them so that they turn into men again, all but the youngest brother, whose shirt is missing a sleeve so that he's left with one arm and one wing, eternally a swan-man. Why shirts made of graveyard nettles by bleeding fingers and silence should disenchant men turned into birds by their step-mother is a question the story doesn't need to answer. It just needs to give us compelling images of exile, loneliness, affection, and metamorphosis - and of a heroine who nearly dies of being unable to tell her own story.

Rebecca Solnit
fairy-tales-are-about-trouble-about-getting-into-out-it-trouble-seems-to-be-necessary-stage-on-route-to-becoming-all-magic-glass-mountains-pearls-size-houses-princesses-beautiful
Asking a writer why they like to write {in the theoretical sense of the question} is like asking a person why they breathe. For me, writing is a natural reflex to the beauty, the events, and the people I see around me. As Anais Nin put it, "We write to taste life twice." I live and then I write. The one transfers to the other, for me, in a gentle, necessary way. As prosaic as it sounds, I believe I process by writing. Part of the way I deal with stressful situations, catty people, or great joy or great trials in my own life is by conjuring it onto paper in some way; a journal entry, a blog post, my writing notebook, or my latest story. While I am a fair conversationalist, my real forte is expressing myself in words on paper. If I leave it all chasing round my head like rabbits in a warren, I'm apt to become a bug-bear to live with and my family would not thank me. Some people need counselors. Some people need long, drawn-out phone-calls with a trusted friend. Some people need to go out for a run. I need to get away to a quiet, lonesome corner-preferably on the front steps at gloaming with the North Star trembling against the darkening blue. I need to set my pen fiercely against the page {for at such moments I must be writing-not typing.} and I need to convert the stress or excitement or happiness into something to be shared with another person. The beauty of the relationship between reading and writing is its give-and-take dynamic. For years I gathered and read every book in the near vicinity and absorbed tale upon tale, story upon story, adventures and sagas and dramas and classics. I fed my fancy, my tastes, and my ideas upon good books and thus those aspects of myself grew up to be none too shabby. When I began to employ my fancy, tastes, and ideas in writing my own books, the dawning of a strange and wonderful idea tinged the horizon of thought with blush-rose colors: If I persisted and worked hard and poured myself into the craft, I could create one of those books. One of the heart-books that foster a love of reading and even writing in another person somewhere. I could have a hand in forming another person's mind. A great responsibility and a great privilege that, and one I would love to be a party to. Books can change a person. I am a firm believer in that. I cannot tell you how many sentiments or noble ideas or parts of my own personality are woven from threads of things I've read over the years. I hoard quotations and shadows of quotations and general impressions of books like a tzar of Russia hoards his icy treasures. They make up a large part of who I am. I think it's worth saying again: books can change a person. For better or for worse. As a writer it's my two-edged gift to be able to slay or heal where I will. It's my responsibility to wield that weapon aright and do only good with my words. Or only purposeful cutting. I am not set against the surgeon's method of butchery-the nicking of a person's spirit, the rubbing in of a salty, stinging salve, and the ultimate healing-over of that wound that makes for a healthier person in the end. It's the bitter herbs that heal the best, so now and again you might be called upon to write something with more cayenne than honey about it. But the end must be good. We cannot let the Light fade from our words.

Rachel Heffington
asking-writer-why-they-like-to-write-in-theoretical-sense-question-is-like-asking-person-why-they-breathe-for-me-writing-is-natural-reflex-to-beauty-events-people-i-see-around-me
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