Unearthly 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-unearthly-arrogance-nonexistence-allen-ellow
sometimes-i-sit-down-to-sketch-at-the-unearthly-hour-of-3-in-the-morning
sometimes-adventure-is-mundane-thing-a-trip-to-shore-with-your-best-friend-learning-you-can-laugh-in-unearthly-ways-rose-christo
the-literature-emperor-penguin-is-as-forbidding-as-inaccessible-as-frozen-heart-antarctica-itself-its-beauties-may-be-unearthly-but-they-are-not-ursula-k-le-guin
one-day-my-lady-said-mr-keeper-stepping-aside-allowing-her-to-join-them-i-should-hope-i-would-be-fortunate-enough-to-see-such-graceful-unearthly-curtsy-from-you-again-heather-dix
mark-it-down-god-loves-you-with-unearthly-love-you-cant-win-it-by-being-winsome-you-cant-lose-it-by-being-loser-but-you-can-be-blind-enough-to-max-lucado
it-is-normal-for-me-to-wake-find-myself-writing-in-dark-to-be-out-my-tomb-caught-in-unearthly-world-alive-with-images-that-haunt-me
you-you-strange-you-almost-unearthly-thing-i-love-as-my-own-flesh-you-poor-obscure-small-plain-as-you-are-i-entreat-to-accept-me-as-husband-charlotte-bronte
once-fields-green-bountifullness-grew-trees-crops-profusely-up-in-sky-through-darkness-came-star-death-unearthly-hollow
the-geniuses-all-ages-all-lands-speak-different-languages-but-same-flame-burns-in-them-all-oh-if-you-only-knew-what-unearthly-happiness-my-soul-feels-now-from-being-able-to-under
ripping-cruelty-the-only-ability-black-hole-soul-high-on-hostility-unearthly-rush-of-misanthrphy-pure-for-this-ill-burn-in-hell-sure-dark-throne
though-one-can-be-callous-in-ireland-one-cannot-be-wholly-opaque-material-an-unearthly-disturbance-works-in-spirit-reason-can-never-reconcile-one-to-elizabeth-bowen
a-poet-is-bird-unearthly-excellence-who-escapes-from-his-celestial-realm-arrives-in-this-world-warbling-if-we-do-not-cherish-him-he-spreads-his-khalil-gibran
should-i-be-grateful-should-i-curse-fact-that-despite-all-misfortune-i-can-still-feel-love-unearthly-love-but-still-for-earthly-objects-franz-kafka
gods-unearthly-grace-immeasurable-love-for-us-is-heartbeat-this-whole-record-this-is-story-hope-redemption-one-that-paints-brutally-beautifully-honest-picture-what-it-is-to-reall
what-after-all-is-special-about-genes-the-answer-is-that-they-are-replicators-the-laws-physics-are-supposed-to-be-true-all-over-accessible-universe-are-there-any-principles-biolo
to-return-to-general-analysis-rosicrucian-outlook-magic-was-dominating-factor-working-as-mathematicsmechanics-in-lower-world-as-celestial-mathematics-in-celestial-world-as-angeli
It was while gliding through these latter waters that one serene and moonlight night, when all the waves rolled by like scrolls of silver; and, by their soft, suffusing seethings, made what seemed a silvery silence, not a solitude; on such a silent night a silvery jet was seen far in advance of the white bubbles at the bow. Lit up by the moon, it looked celestial; seemed some plumed and glittering god uprising from the sea. Fedallah first descried this jet. For of these moonlight nights, it was his wont to mount to the main-mast head, and stand a look-out there, with the same precision as if it had been day. And yet, though herds of whales were seen by night, not one whaleman in a hundred would venture a lowering for them. You may think with what emotions, then, the seamen beheld this old Oriental perched aloft at such unusual hours; his turban and the moon, companions in one sky. But when, after spending his uniform interval there for several successive nights without uttering a single sound; when, after all this silence, his unearthly voice was heard announcing that silvery, moon-lit jet, every reclining mariner started to his feet as if some winged spirit had lighted in the rigging, and hailed the mortal crew. 'There she blows!' Had the trump of judgment blown, they could not have quivered more; yet still they felt no terror; rather pleasure. For though it was a most unwonted hour, yet so impressive was the cry, and so deliriously exciting, that almost every soul on board instinctively desired a lowering.

Herman Melville
it-was-while-gliding-through-these-latter-waters-that-one-serene-moonlight-night-when-all-waves-rolled-by-like-scrolls-silver-by-their-soft-suffusing-seethings-made-what-seemed-s
It was unearthly, and the men were-No, they were not inhuman. Well, you know, that was the worst of it-this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would come slowly to one. They howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity-like yours-the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate uproar. Ugly. Yes, it was ugly enough; but if you were man enough you would admit to yourself that there was in you just the faintest trace of a response to the terrible frankness of that noise, a dim suspicion of there being a meaning in it which you-you so remote from the night of first ages-could comprehend. And why not? The mind of man is capable of anything-because everything is in it, all the past as well as all the future. What was there after all? Joy, fear, sorrow, devotion, valor, rage-who can tell?-but truth-truth stripped of its cloak of time. Let the fool gape and shudder-the man knows, and can look on without a wink. But he must at least be as much of a man as these on the shore. He must meet that truth with his own true stuff-with his own inborn strength. Principles? Principles won't do. Acquisitions, clothes, pretty rags-rags that would fly off at the first good shake. No; you want a deliberate belief. An appeal to me in this fiendish row-is there? Very well; I hear; I admit, but I have a voice too, and for good or evil mine is the speech that cannot be silenced. Of course, a fool, what with sheer fright and fine sentiments, is always safe. Who's that grunting? You wonder I didn't go ashore for a howl and a dance? Well, no-I didn't. Fine sentiments, you say? Fine sentiments, be hanged! I had no time. I had to mess about with white-lead and strips of woolen blanket helping to put bandages on those leaky steam-pipes-I tell you.

Joseph Conrad
it-was-unearthly-men-wereno-they-were-not-inhuman-well-you-know-that-was-worst-itthis-suspicion-their-not-being-inhuman-it-would-come-slowly-to-one-they-howled-leaped-spun-made-h
A Second Childhood.' When all my days are ending And I have no song to sing, I think that I shall not be too old To stare at everything; As I stared once at a nursery door Or a tall tree and a swing. Wherein God's ponderous mercy hangs On all my sins and me, Because He does not take away The terror from the tree And stones still shine along the road That are and cannot be. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for wine, But I shall not grow too old to see Unearthly daylight shine, Changing my chamber's dust to snow Till I doubt if it be mine. Behold, the crowning mercies melt, The first surprises stay; And in my dross is dropped a gift For which I dare not pray: That a man grow used to grief and joy But not to night and day. Men grow too old for love, my love, Men grow too old for lies; But I shall not grow too old to see Enormous night arise, A cloud that is larger than the world And a monster made of eyes. Nor am I worthy to unloose The latchet of my shoe; Or shake the dust from off my feet Or the staff that bears me through On ground that is too good to last, Too solid to be true. Men grow too old to woo, my love, Men grow too old to wed; But I shall not grow too old to see Hung crazily overhead Incredible rafters when I wake And I find that I am not dead. A thrill of thunder in my hair: Though blackening clouds be plain, Still I am stung and startled By the first drop of the rain: Romance and pride and passion pass And these are what remain. Strange crawling carpets of the grass, Wide windows of the sky; So in this perilous grace of God With all my sins go I: And things grow new though I grow old, Though I grow old and die.

G.K. Chesterton
a-second-childhood-when-all-my-days-are-ending-and-i-have-no-song-to-sing-i-think-that-i-shall-not-be-too-old-to-stare-at-everything-as-i-stared-once-at-nursery-door-or-tall-tree
The hit-woman opened the door. No dead body on the floor. Thank God. I heard an unearthly roar and then Jordan charged Liz from where she'd been hiding beside the door. She tackled her to the floor and stabbed her through the wrist with a small switchblade. The hit-woman shrieked and let go of the gun, allowing Jordan precious seconds to bat it across the room. She landed a couple hard punches to the assassin's nose, bloodying it, before the other woman got the upper hand. She grabbed a handful of Jordan's ponytail and slammed her head into the edge of the coffee table. Jordan cried out, but didn't let go of the knife. She withdrew it and held it against the assassin's throat, shouting, 'Move again and I'll kill you, puta!' Liz panted madly, but stayed put. Jordan glanced up at me. 'You okay?' 'Alive, ' I said through a grimace. 'Not okay.' 'Good enough.' She returned her gaze to the woman pinned beneath her and glared. 'The police are on their way. And not the nice, human police. Angels. Get any ideas about trying to kill me again and you won't even get to deal with them.' 'I've been in jail before, ' Liz said, attempting to recapture her former arrogance. 'I'll get over it.' Jordan leaned down a few inches, lowering her voice. 'Really? How'd you like to return without your tongue?' Liz's eyes went wide, as did mine. 'You wouldn't dare.' 'You shot my best friend. Multiple times. Lex talionis.' 'You can't kill me. You're not a policewoman. You're just a girl.' 'No. I'm a Seer. You and the rest of your friends had better learn the difference between a sheep and a wolf in sheep's clothing. Until then... ' She lifted her fist and punched Liz hard in the temple. The assassin went out like a light. 'Vaya con dios, bitch.

Kyoko M.
the-hitwoman-opened-door-no-dead-body-on-floor-thank-god-i-heard-unearthly-roar-then-jordan-charged-liz-from-where-shed-been-hiding-beside-door-she-tackled-her-to-floor-stabbed-h
What - what - what are you doing?" he demanded. "I am almost six hundred years old, " Magnus claimed, and Ragnor snorted, since Magnus changed his age to suit himself every few weeks. Magnus swept on. "It does seem about time to learn a musical instrument." He flourished his new prize, a little stringed instrument that looked like a cousin of the lute that the lute was embarrassed to be related to. "It's called a charango. I am planning to become a charanguista!" "I wouldn't call that an instrument of music, " Ragnor observed sourly. "An instrument of torture, perhaps." Magnus cradled the charango in his arms as if it were an easily offended baby. "It's a beautiful and very unique instrument! The sound box is made from an armadillo. Well, a dried armadillo shell." "That explains the sound you're making, " said Ragnor. "Like a lost, hungry armadillo." "You are just jealous, " Magnus remarked calmly. "Because you do not have the soul of a true artiste like myself." "Oh, I am positively green with envy, " Ragnor snapped. "Come now, Ragnor. That's not fair, " said Magnus. "You know I love it when you make jokes about your complexion." Magnus refused to be affected by Ragnor's cruel judgments. He regarded his fellow warlock with a lofty stare of superb indifference, raised his charango, and began to play again his defiant, beautiful tune. They both heard the staccato thump of frantically running feet from within the house, the swish of skirts, and then Catarina came rushing out into the courtyard. Her white hair was falling loose about her shoulders, and her face was the picture of alarm. "Magnus, Ragnor, I heard a cat making a most unearthly noise, " she exclaimed. "From the sound of it, the poor creature must be direly sick. You have to help me find it!" Ragnor immediately collapsed with hysterical laughter on his windowsill. Magnus stared at Catarina for a moment, until he saw her lips twitch. "You are conspiring against me and my art, " he declared. "You are a pack of conspirators." He began to play again. Catarina stopped him by putting a hand on his arm. "No, but seriously, Magnus, " she said. "That noise is appalling." Magnus sighed. "Every warlock's a critic." "Why are you doing this?" "I have already explained myself to Ragnor. I wish to become proficient with a musical instrument. I have decided to devote myself to the art of the charanguista, and I wish to hear no more petty objections." "If we are all making lists of things we wish to hear no more... , " Ragnor murmured. Catarina, however, was smiling. "I see, " she said. "Madam, you do not see." "I do. I see it all most clearly, " Catarina assured him. "What is her name?" "I resent your implication, " Magnus said. "There is no woman in the case. I am married to my music!" "Oh, all right, " Catarina said. "What's his name, then?" His name was Imasu Morales, and he was gorgeous.

Cassandra Clare
what-what-what-are-you-doing-he-demanded-i-am-almost-six-hundred-years-old-magnus-claimed-ragnor-snorted-since-magnus-changed-his-age-to-suit-himself-every-few-weeks-magnus-swept
The studio was immense and gloomy, the sole light within it proceeding from a stove, around which the three were seated. Although they were bold, and of the age when men are most jovial, the conversation had taken, in spite of their efforts to the contrary, a reflection from the dull weather without, and their jokes and frivolity were soon exhausted. In addition to the light which issued from the crannies in the stove, there was another emitted from a bowl of spirits, which was ceaselessly stirred by one of the young men, as he poured from an antique silver ladle some of the flaming spirit into the quaint old glasses from which the students drank. The blue flame of the spirit lighted up in a wild and fantastic manner the surrounding objects in the room, so that the heads of old prophets, of satyrs, or Madonnas, clothed in the same ghastly hue, seemed to move and to dance along the walls like a fantastic procession of the dead; and the vast room, which in the day time sparkled with the creations of genius, seemed now, in its alternate darkness and sulphuric light, to be peopled with its dreams. Each time also that the silver spoon agitated the liquid, strange shadows traced themselves along the walls, hideous and of fantastic form. Unearthly tints spread also upon the hangings of the studio, from the old bearded prophet of Michael Angelo to those eccentric caricatures which the artist had scrawled upon his walls, and which resembled an army of demons that one sees in a dream, or such as Goya has painted; whilst the lull and rise of the tempest without but added to the fantastic and nervous feeling which pervaded those within. Besides this, to add to the terror which was creeping over the three occupants of the room, each time that they looked at each other they appeared with faces of a blue tone, with eyes fixed and glittering like live embers, and with pale lips and sunken cheeks; but the most fearful object of all was that of a plaster mask taken from the face of an intimate friend but lately dead, which, hanging near the window, let the light from the spirit fall upon its face, turned three parts towards them, which gave it a strange, vivid, and mocking expression. All people have felt the influence of large and dark rooms, such as Hoffmann has portrayed and Rembrandt has painted; and all the world has experienced those wild and unaccountable terrors - panics without a cause - which seize on one like a spontaneous fever, at the sight of objects to which a stray glimpse of the moon or a feeble ray from a lamp gives a mysterious form; nay, all, we should imagine, have at some period of their lives found themselves by the side of a friend, in a dark and dismal chamber, listening to some wild story, which so enchains them, that although the mere lighting of a candle could put an end to their terror, they would not do so; so much need has the human heart of emotions, whether they be true or false. So it was upon the evening mentioned. The conversation of the three companions never took a direct line, but followed all the phases of their thoughts; sometimes it was light as the smoke which curled from their cigars, then for a moment fantastic as the flame of the burning spirit, and then again dark, lurid, and sombre as the smile which lit up the mask from their dead friend's face. At last the conversation ceased altogether, and the respiration of the smokers was the only sound heard; and their cigars glowed in the dark, like Will-of-the-wisps brooding o'er a stagnant pool. It was evident to them all, that the first who should break the silence, even if he spoke in jest, would cause in the hearts of the others a start and tremor, for each felt that he had almost unwittingly plunged into a ghastly reverie. ("The Dead Man's Story")

James Hain Friswell
the-studio-was-immense-gloomy-sole-light-within-it-proceeding-from-stove-around-which-three-were-seated-although-they-were-bold-age-when-men-are-most-jovial-conversation-had-take
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