Trunks 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
i-wanted-to-keep-these-trunks-as-souvenir-now-look-at-them-they-were-splattered-with-blood-muhammad-ali
there-is-something-sad-about-clothes-laid-in-tomb-trunks
learned-to-shake-the-limbs-of-trees-to-trunks-that-never-grow
its-easier-to-die-than-to-move-at-least-for-other-side-you-dont-need-trunks-wallace-stegner
plucking-people-away-as-though-they-were-trunks-uprooted-palmtrees-alqamar-20
virtue-is-beauty-but-beauteous-evilare-empty-trunks-oerflourished-by-devil-william-shakespeare
weeping-willows-remind-me-summer-and-sadness-i-wonder-if-tissues-are-made-out-their-trunks-jarod-kintz
in-all-great-arts-as-in-trees-it-is-height-that-charms-us-we-care-nothing-for-roots-trunks-yet-it-could-not-be-without-aid-these-marcus-tullius-cicero
the-trees-grew-too-thickly-their-trunks-were-too-big-for-any-healthy-new-england-wood-there-was-too-much-silence-in-dim-alleys-between-them-h-p-lovecraft
standing-together-on-hill-nothing-is-spoken-but-understood-below-procession-wooden-men-swinging-their-tree-trunks-in-wind-cult-of-luna
my-motto-is-walk-expropriating-igniting-always-leaving-behind-me-howls-moral-offenses-smoking-trunks-old-things-renzo-novatore
we-are-destined-to-be-roots-trunks-branches-wings-when-flying-is-out-reach-we-are-two-hands-dirt-closer-to-infinity-mariana-fulger
the-traveller-knows-not-who-may-be-concealed-by-innumerable-trunks-thick-boughs-overhead-that-with-lonely-footsteps-he-may-yet-be-passing-through-nathaniel-hawthorne
riven-torn-with-cannonshot-trunks-trees-protruded-bunches-splinters-like-hands-fingers-above-wound-interlacing-with-those-below-ambrose-bierce
you-know-i-am-given-to-antiquarian-genealogical-pursuits-an-old-family-letter-is-delight-to-my-eyes-i-can-prowl-in-old-trunks-letters-by-day-with-rutherford-b-hayes
their-leafy-whispers-delighted-her-she-promised-her-confidentiality-by-gently-touching-trunks-both-trees-they-had-held-her-secrets-close-to-their-hearts-she-could-do-no-less-jesi
i-am-accordingly-ready-i-have-pressed-as-many-cabinet-papers-into-trunks-as-to-fill-one-carriage-our-private-property-must-be-sacrificed-as-it-is-dolley-madison
in-cellars-night-when-mind-starts-moving-around-old-trunks-bad-times-pain-this-same-that-memory-small-boldness-is-hand-to-hold-john-leonard
and-there-were-carved-hearts-in-trunks-trees-with-initials-couples-who-felt-there-was-no-more-romantic-thing-they-could-do-to-celebrate-their-love-than-scar-local-plant-life-kevi
id-like-relationship-that-was-like-two-tree-trunks-side-by-side-strong-but-independent
here-grew-willows-alders-their-trunks-twisted-like-giants-sinews-around-them-bark-lichen-bloomed-bluewhite-in-darkness-it-felt-like-good-place-where-there-was-old-magic-duncan-ha
the-children-walk-away-from-me-flick-flickety-off-at-tangent-between-thin-blotched-beech-trunks-then-turn-like-yoyos-at-end-their-strings-come-back-to-me-from-poem-in-bishopswood
what-we-call-wisdom-is-result-all-wisdom-past-ages-our-best-institutions-are-like-young-trees-growing-upon-roots-old-trunks-that-have-crumbled-henry-ward-beecher
talk-about-meeting-your-soul-mate-i-truly-feel-i-have-been-given-that-gift-and-believe-me-i-wasnt-some-lightweight-package-im-like-package-that-demi-moore
in-fierce-march-weather-white-waves-break-tether-and-whirled-together-at-either-hand-like-weeds-uplifted-the-treetrunks-rifted-in-spars-are-drifted-algernon-charles-swinburne
all-papers-contained-nothing-but-fantastic-stories-about-war-however-for-several-months-we-had-been-accustomed-to-war-talk-we-had-often-packed-our-service-trunks-that-whole-thing
im-going-to-make-appearance-in-professional-wrestling-but-it-wont-be-for-wwe-if-i-put-wrestling-boots-wrestling-trunks-on-one-last-time-im-going-to-its-going-to-be-done-by-me-me-
repeat-truth-that-dull-can-grasp-it-repeat-truth-with-speed-woodpeckers-beak-making-holes-in-tree-trunks-mehmet-murat-ildan
mom-dad-were-bibliophiles-dad-shared-his-fathers-love-westerns-mom-favored-likes-zelazny-heinlein-howard-burroughs-we-owned-several-hundred-books-stored-in-trunks-that-comprised-
they-throw-us-trunks-says-were-starting-to-drown-were-all-shook-down-all-shook-down-all-shook-down-all-shook-down-the-replacements
throwin-us-trunks-as-were-starting-to-drown-were-all-shook-down-all-shook-down-shook-down-all-shook-down-the-replacements
tree-trunks-are-composed-layers-growth-meaningful-expressions-are-composed-layers-words-say-something-meaningful-dandre-lampkin
people-great-power-wield-great-power-but-people-lesser-power-people-who-have-fallen-out-power-go-to-jail-without-adequate-evidence-their-bodies-are-found-in-trunks-cars
back-then-come-july-blazers-would-again-make-their-way-out-steel-trunks-evenings-would-be-spent-looking-at-snowcapped-mountains-from-our-terrace-spotting-first-few-lights-on-hill
nancy-waded-out-to-her-own-rocks-searched-her-own-pools-let-that-couple-look-after-themselves-she-crouched-low-down-touched-smooth-rubberlike-sea-anemones-who-were-stuck-like-lum
october-31st-i-was-standing-by-the-sour-these-thugs-dont-wanna-talk-they-want-these-pumas-i-just-bought-fresh-outta-school-picked-on-cuz-im-bilingual-wyclef-jean
When they turned off, it was still early in the pink and green fields. The fumes of morning, sweet and bitter, sprang up where they walked. The insects ticked softly, their strength in reserve; butterflies chopped the air, going to the east, and the birds flew carelessly and sang by fits. They went down again and soon the smell of the river spread over the woods, cool and secret. Every step they took among the great walls of vines and among the passion-flowers started up a little life, a little flight. 'We're walking along in the changing-time, ' said Doc. 'Any day now the change will come. It's going to turn from hot to cold, and we can kill the hog that's ripe and have fresh meat to eat. Come one of these nights and we can wander down here and tree a nice possum. Old Jack Frost will be pinching things up. Old Mr. Winter will be standing in the door. Hickory tree there will be yellow. Sweet-gum red, hickory yellow, dogwood red, sycamore yellow.' He went along rapping the tree trunks with his knuckle. 'Magnolia and live-oak never die. Remember that. Persimmons will all get fit to eat, and the nuts will be dropping like rain all through the woods here. And run, little quail, run, for we'll be after you too.' They went on and suddenly the woods opened upon light, and they had reached the river. Everyone stopped, but Doc talked on ahead as though nothing had happened. 'Only today, ' he said, 'today, in October sun, it's all gold-sky and tree and water. Everything just before it changes looks to be made of gold.' ("The Wide Net")

Eudora Welty
when-they-turned-off-it-was-still-early-in-pink-green-fields-the-fumes-morning-sweet-bitter-sprang-up-where-they-walked-the-insects-ticked-softly-their-strength-in-reserve-butter
McKay had worn the wings in the world war with honor, flying first with the French and later with his own country's forces. And as a bird loves the trees, so did McKay love them. To him they were not merely trunks and roots, branches and leaves; to him they were personalities. He was acutely aware of differences in character even among the same species - that pine was benevolent and jolly; that one austere and monkish; there stood a swaggering bravo, and there dwelt a sage wrapped in green meditation; that birch was a wanton - the birch near her was virginal, still a-dream. The war had sapped him, nerve and brain and soul. Through all the years that had passed since then the wound had kept open. But now, as he slid his car down the vast green bowl, he felt its spirit reach out to him; reach out to him and caress and quiet him, promising him healing. He seemed to drift like a falling leaf through the clustered woods; to be cradled by gentle hands of the trees. He had stopped at the little gnome of an inn, and then he had lingered, day after day, week after week. The trees had nursed him; soft whisperings of leaves, slow chant of the needled pines, had first deadened, then driven from him the re-echoing clamor of the war and its sorrow. The open wound of his spirit had closed under their green healing; had closed and become scar; and even the scar had been covered and buried, as the scars on Earth's breast are covered and buried beneath the falling leaves of Autumn. The trees had laid green healing hands on his eyes, banishing the pictures of war. He had sucked strength from the green breasts of the hills. ("The Women Of The Woods")

Abraham Merritt
mckay-had-worn-wings-in-world-war-with-honor-flying-first-with-french-later-with-his-own-countrys-forces-and-as-bird-loves-trees-did-mckay-love-them-to-him-they-were-not-merely-t
Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.

Joyce Cary
nothing-is-masterpiece-real-masterpiece-till-its-about-two-hundred-years-old-a-picture-is-like-tree-church-youve-got-to-let-it-grow-into-masterpiece-same-with-poem-new-religion-t
The full moon, well risen in a cloudless eastern sky, covered the high solitude with its light. We are not conscious of daylight as that which displaces darkness. Daylight, even when the sun is clear of clouds, seems to us simply the natural condition of the earth and air. When we think of the downs, we think of the downs in daylight, as with think of a rabbit with its fur on. Stubbs may have envisaged the skeleton inside the horse, but most of us do not: and we do not usually envisage the downs without daylight, even though the light is not a part of the down itself as the hide is part of the horse itself. We take daylight for granted. But moonlight is another matter. It is inconstant. The full moon wanes and returns again. Clouds may obscure it to an extent to which they cannot obscure daylight. Water is necessary to us, but a waterfall is not. Where it is to be found it is something extra, a beautiful ornament. We need daylight and to that extent it us utilitarian, but moonlight we do not need. When it comes, it serves no necessity. It transforms. It falls upon the banks and the grass, separating one long blade from another; turning a drift of brown, frosted leaves from a single heap to innumerable flashing fragments; or glimmering lengthways along wet twigs as though light itself were ductile. Its long beams pour, white and sharp, between the trunks of trees, their clarity fading as they recede into the powdery, misty distance of beech woods at night. In moonlight, two acres of coarse bent grass, undulant and ankle deep, tumbled and rough as a horse's mane, appear like a bay of waves, all shadowy troughs and hollows. The growth is so thick and matted that event the wind does not move it, but it is the moonlight that seems to confer stillness upon it. We do not take moonlight for granted. It is like snow, or like the dew on a July morning. It does not reveal but changes what it covers. And its low intensity-so much lower than that of daylight-makes us conscious that it is something added to the down, to give it, for only a little time, a singular and marvelous quality that we should admire while we can, for soon it will be gone again.

Richard Adams
the-full-moon-well-risen-in-cloudless-eastern-sky-covered-high-solitude-with-its-light-we-are-not-conscious-daylight-as-that-which-displaces-darkness-daylight-even-when-sun-is-cl
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