Wading 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
and-his-eyes-are-like-wading-pools
this-life-is-wading-pool-compared-to-ocean-call-eternity-todd-stocker
your-inability-to-do-what-you-are-noted-for-doing-is-critical-step-to-wading-off-your-past-glories-excellence-israelmore-ayivor
ive-been-wading-through-it-dont-you-know-its-up-to-my-neck-and-it-wont-be-long-fore-its-over-my-head-and-its-thought-you-in-my-mind-keeps-me-tindersticks
ive-been-wading-through-it-dont-you-know-its-up-to-my-neck-and-it-wont-be-long-fore-its-over-my-head-and-i-can-suck-it-into-my-love-breathe-it-in-tindersticks
who-would-prefer-peace-to-glory-hunger-thirst-wading-through-mud-dying-in-service-ones-country-jean-giraudoux
hopping-fence-wading-rio-grande-river-isnt-part-americas-immigration-process-ted-nugent
yeah-i-was-wading-in-deep-despair-wandering-with-no-sense-direction-thinking-prayers-just-vanished-in-air-cause-i-got-myself-in-this-situation-point-of-grace
cats-have-intercepted-my-footsteps-at-ankle-for-long-that-my-gait-both-at-home-on-tour-has-been-compared-to-that-man-wading-through-low-surf-roy-blount
the-way-id-put-it-said-makin-is-that-rike-cant-make-omelet-without-wading-thigh-deep-in-blood-chickens-wearing-their-entrails-as-necklace-mark-lawrence
because-it-hardly-ends-with-falling-in-love-just-opposite-i-dont-need-to-tell-you-your-honor-i-sense-that-you-understand-true-loneliness-how-you-fall-in-love-its-there-that-work-
i-think-i-wrote-the-trysting-place-in-about-three-weeks-but-it-was-inexperience-that-made-me-have-to-do-that-i-didnt-feel-good-about-book-all-time-i-was-writing-it-it-felt-bit-li
the-fly-angler-who-says-they-have-never-ever-fallen-while-wading-is-either-pathogenic-liar-has-never-been-flyfishing-jimmy-moore
one-my-favorite-vacation-memories-was-thai-foot-massage-internet-access-salons-in-bangkok-followed-up-by-my-testing-cellphone-coverage-while-wading-in-provincetown-harbor-on-cape
we-tiptoed-tops-beaver-dams-hopped-hummocks-went-wading-looked-at-spring-flowers-tried-to-catcha-snake-got-lost-found-how-fine-it-was-to-move-at-david-sobel
i-approached-writing-story-for-cbc-literary-awards-as-mercenary-venture-5000-for-one-story-not-bad-now-how-do-you-win-it-jurors-are-wading-through-skyscrapers-paper-looking-for-o
lots-talk-lately-about-great-american-novel-that-seems-to-be-exclusively-masculine-and-how-many-characters-in-genius-books-are-likable-is-holden-caulfield-likable-is-meursault-in
Calf-deep in the soothing water I indulge myself in the wishful vision. I am not unaware of what such daydreams signify, dreams of becoming an unthinking savage, of taking the cold road back to the capital, of groping my way out to the ruins in the desert, of returning to the confinement of my cell, of seeking out the barbarians and offering myself to them to use as they wish. Without exception they are dreams of ends: dreams not of how to live but of how to die. And everyone, I know, in that walled town sinking now into darkness (I hear the two thin trumpet calls that announce the closing of the gates) is similarly preoccupied. What has made it impossible for us to live in time like fish in the water, like birds in air, like children? It is the fault of Empire! Empire has created the time of history. Empire has located its existence not in the smooth recurrent spinning time of the cycle of the seasons but in the jagged time of rise and fall, of beginning and end, of catastrophe. Empire dooms itself to live in history and plot against history. One thought alone preoccupies the submerged mind of Empire: how not to end, how not to die, how to prolong its era. By day it pursues its enemies. It is cunning and ruthless, it sends its bloodhounds everywhere. By night it feeds on images of disaster: the sack of cities, the rape of populations, pyramids of bones, acres of desolation. A mad vision yet a virulent one: I, wading in the ooze, am no less infected with it than the faithful Colonel Joll as he tracks the enemies of Empire through the boundless desert, sword unsheathed to cut down barbarian after barbarian until at last he finds and slays the one whose destiny it should be (or if not his then his son's or unborn grandson's) to climb the bronze gateway to the Summer Palace and topple the globe surmounted by the tiger rampant that symbolizes eternal domination, while his comrades below cheer and fire their muskets in the air.

J.M. Coetzee
calfdeep-in-soothing-water-i-indulge-myself-in-wishful-vision-i-am-not-unaware-what-such-daydreams-signify-dreams-becoming-unthinking-savage-taking-cold-road-back-to-capital-grop
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me, 'Forty-two years I've had this place. I'd really like to go back home, but I ain't got the energy since my old girl died. And I can't sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I'd be curious to know what's in that third cellar of mine.' The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains, the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow. The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert, Gerard the painter, two regulars and myself. Old Marteau, the local builder, was upstairs with his gear, ready to repair the damage. We made a hole. Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously-faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end, an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it, plunging downwards. In short, it was a kind of drain-trap. That's all. Nothing else. Disappointed, we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No, an alcove, with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it's easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert, 'It's of no interest... ' and kept this treasure for myself. I gazed at it for hours on end, in private. So my deductions, my hunches were not mistaken: the Bie¨vre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic, which the blacks of Central Africa practise today, was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bie¨vre, so rich in tannin, had protected the wood from rotting, actually hardened, almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved, probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart, the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them, corroded with rust, broke off at the wood's surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull, like a salt cellar, had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted, fixed in place with wax, of which there were still some vestiges. I've kept quiet about my find. I'm biding my time.

Jacques Yonnet
old-hubert-must-have-had-premonition-his-squalid-demise-in-october-he-said-to-me-fortytwo-years-ive-had-this-place-id-really-like-to-go-back-home-but-i-aint-got-energy-since-my-o
Last year I had a very unusual experience. I was awake, with my eyes closed, when I had a dream. It was a small dream about time. I was dead, I guess, in deep blank space high up above many white stars. My own consciousness had been disclosed to me, and I was happy. Then I saw far below me a long, curved band of color. As I came closer, I saw that it stretched endlessly in either direction, and I understood that I was seeing all the time of the planet where I had lived. It looked like a woman's tweed scarf; the longer I studied any one spot, the more dots of color I saw. There was no end to the deepness and variety of dots. At length I started to look for my time, but, although more and more specks of color and deeper and more intricate textures appeared in the fabric, I couldn't find my time, or any time at all that I recognized as being near my time. I couldn't make out so much as a pyramid. Yet as I looked at the band of time, all the individual people, I understood with special clarity, were living at that very moment with great emotion, in intricate, detail, in their individual times and places, and they were dying and being replaced by ever more people, one by one, like stitches in which wholly worlds of feeling and energy were wrapped in a never-ending cloth. I remembered suddenly the color and texture of our life as we knew it- these things had been utterly forgotten- and I thought as I searched for it on the limitless band, 'that was a good time then, a good time to be living.' And I began to remember our time. I recalled green fields with carrots growing, one by one, in slender rows. Men and women in bright vests and scarves came and pulled the carrots out of the soil and carried them in baskets to shaded kitchens, where they scrubbed them with yellow brushes under running water. I saw white-faced cattle lowing and wading in creeks. I saw May apples in forests, erupting through leaf-strewn paths. Cells on the root hairs of sycamores split and divided, and apples grew spotted and striped in the fall. Mountains kept their cool caves and squirrels raced home to their nests through sunlight and shade. I remembered the ocean, and I seemed to be in the ocean myself, swimming over orange crabs that looked like coral, or off the deep Atlantic banks where whitefish school. Or again I saw the tops of poplars, and the whole sky brushed with clouds in pallid streaks, under which wild ducks flew with outstretched necks, and called, one by one, and flew on. All these things I saw. Scenes grew in depth and sunlit detail before my eyes, and were replaced by ever more scenes, as I remember the life of my time with increasing feeling. At last I saw the earth as a globe in space, and I recalled the ocean's shape and the form of continents, saying to myself with surprise as I looked at the planet, 'yes, that's how it was then, that part there was called France.' I was filled with the deep affection of nostalgia- and then I opened my eyes. We all ought to be able to conjure up sights like these at will, so that we can keep in mind the scope of texture's motion in time.

Annie Dillard
last-year-i-had-unusual-experience-i-was-awake-with-my-eyes-closed-when-i-had-dream-it-was-small-dream-about-time-i-was-dead-i-guess-in-deep-blank-space-high-up-above-many-white-
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