Terraces 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
they-crush-olives-among-terraces-they-tread-winepresses-yet-suffer-thirst-job-2411
something-about-glamour-interested-me-all-my-schoolbooks-had-drawings-of-women-on-terraces-with-a-cocktail-and-a-cigarette
after-pharaohs-daughter-had-come-up-from-city-david-to-palace-solomon-had-built-for-her-he-constructed-supporting-terraces-1-kings-924
here-is-account-how-he-rebelled-against-king-solomon-had-built-supporting-terraces-had-filled-in-gap-in-wall-city-david-his-father-1-kings-1127
he-built-up-city-around-it-from-supporting-terraces-to-surrounding-wall-while-joab-restored-rest-city-1-chronicles-118
here-is-account-forced-labor-king-solomon-conscripted-to-build-lords-temple-his-own-palace-supporting-terraces-wall-jerusalem-hazor-megiddo-1-kings-915
like-flats-today-terraces-houses-gained-certain-anonymity-from-identical-facades-following-identical-floor-plans-heights-stephen-gardiner
My old friend, what are you looking for? After years abroad you've come back with images you've nourished under foreign skies far from you own country.' 'I'm looking for my old garden; the trees come to my waist and the hills resemble terraces yet as a child I used to play on the grass under great shadows and I would run for hours breathless over the slopes.' 'My old friend, rest, you'll get used to it little by little; together we will climb the paths you once knew, we will sit together under the plane trees' dome. They'll come back to you little by little, your garden and your slopes.' 'I'm looking for my old house, the tall windows darkened by ivy; I'm looking for the ancient column known to sailors. How can I get into this coop? The roof comes to my shoulders and however far I look I see men on their knees as though saying their prayers.' 'My old friend, don't you hear me? You'll get used to it little by little. Your house is the one you see and soon friends and relatives will come knocking at the door to welcome you back tenderly.' 'Why is your voice so distant? Raise your head a little so that I understand you. As you speak you grow gradually smaller as though you're sinking into the ground.' 'My old friend, stop a moment and think: you'll get used to it little by little. Your nostalgia has created a non-existent country, with laws alien to earth and man.' 'Now I can't hear a sound. My last friend has sunk. Strange how from time to time they level everything down. Here a thousand scythe-bearing chariots go past and mow everything down

Giorgos Seferis
my-old-friend-what-are-you-looking-for-after-years-abroad-youve-come-back-with-images-youve-nourished-under-foreign-skies-far-from-you-own-country-im-looking-for-my-old-garden-tr
at-this-point-sequence-my-memories-is-disrupted-i-sank-into-chaos-brief-incoherent-bizarre-hallucinations-in-which-grotesque-horrible-kept-close-company-prostrate-as-if-i-were-be
To sit indoors was silly. I postponed the search for Savchenko and Ludmila till the next day and went wandering about Paris. The men wore bowlers, the women huge hats with feathers. On the cafe terraces lovers kissed unconcernedly - I stopped looking away. Students walked along the boulevard St. Michel. They walked in the middle of the street, holding up traffic, but no one dispersed them. At first I thought it was a demonstration - but no, they were simply enjoying themselves. Roasted chestnuts were being sold. Rain began to fall. The grass in the Luxembourg gardens was a tender green. In December! I was very hot in my lined coat. (I had left my boots and fur cap at the hotel.) There were bright posters everywhere. All the time I felt as though I were at the theatre. I have lived in Paris off and on for many years. Various events, snatches of conversation have become confused in my memory. But I remember well my first day there: the city electrified my. The most astonishing thing is that is has remained unchanged; Moscow is unrecognizable, but Paris is still as it was. When I come to Paris now, I feel inexpressibly sad - the city is the same, it is I who have changed. It is painful for me to walk along the familiar streets - they are the streets of my youth. Of course, the fiacres, the omnibuses, the steam-car disappeared long ago; you rarely see a cafe with red velvet or leather settees; only a few pissoirs are left - the rest have gone into hiding underground. But these, after all, are minor details. People still live out in the streets, lovers kiss wherever they please, no one takes any notice of anyone. The old houses haven't changed - what's another half a century to them; at their age it makes no difference. Say what you will, the world has changed, and so the Parisians, too, must be thinking of many things of which they had no inkling in the old days: the atom bomb, mass-production methods, Communism. But with their new thoughts they still remain Parisians, and I am sure that if an eighteen-year-old Soviet lad comes to Paris today he will raise his hands in astonishment, as I did in 1908: "A theatre!

Ilya Ehrenburg
to-sit-indoors-was-silly-i-postponed-search-for-savchenko-ludmila-till-next-day-went-wandering-about-paris-the-men-wore-bowlers-women-huge-hats-with-feathers-on-cafe-terraces-lov
It is sheer coincidence that my hunk of the creek is strewn with boulders. I never merited this grace, that when I face upstream I scent the virgin breath of mountains, I feel a spray of mist on my cheeks and lips, I hear a ceaseless splash and susurrus, a sound of water not merely poured smoothly down air to fill a stead pool, but tumbling live about, over, under, around, between, through an intricate speckling of rock. It is sheer coincidence that upstream from me the creek's bed is ridged in horizontal croppings of sandstone. I never merited this grace, that when I face upstream I see the light on the water careening towards me, inevitably, freely, down a graded series of terraces like the balanced winged platforms on an infinite, inexhaustible font. 'Ho, if you are thirsty, come down to the water; ho if you are hungry, come sit and eat.' This is the present, at last. This is the now , this flickering, broken light, this air that the wind of the future presses down my throat, pumping me buoyant giddy with praise. My god, I look at the creek. It is the answer to Merton's prayer, 'Give us time!' It never stops. If I seek the senses and skills of children, the information of a thousand books, the innocence of puppies, even the insights of my own city past, I do so only, solely, entirely that I might look well at the creek. You don't run down the present, pursue it with baited hooks and nets. You wait for it, empty-handed, and you are filled. You'll have fish left over. The creek is the one great giver. Here is the word from a subatomic physicist: 'everything that has already happened is particles, everything in the future is waves.' Let me twist his meaning. Here it comes. The particles are broken; the waves are translucent, laving, roiling with beauty like sharks. The present is the wave that explodes over my head, flinging the air with particles at the height of its breathless unroll; it is the live water and light that bears from undisclosed sources, the freshest news, renewed and renewing, world without end.

Annie Dillard
it-is-sheer-coincidence-that-my-hunk-creek-is-strewn-with-boulders-i-never-merited-this-grace-that-when-i-face-upstream-i-scent-virgin-breath-mountains-i-feel-spray-mist-on-my-ch
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