Wreaths 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-shall-smile-when-wreaths-snow-blossom-where-rose-should-grow-emily-bronte
he-engraved-cherubim-lions-palm-trees-on-surfaces-supports-on-panels-in-every-available-space-with-wreaths-all-around-1-kings-736
as-from-large-heap-flowers-many-garlands-wreaths-are-made-by-mortal-in-this-life-there-is-much-good-work-to-be-done-buddha
never-shall-i-forget-little-faces-children-whose-bodies-turned-into-wreaths-smoke-beneath-silent-blue-sky-elie-wiesel
he-was-owner-moonlight-on-ground-he-fell-in-love-with-most-beautiful-trees-he-made-wreaths-leaves-strung-them-around-his-neck-tove-jansson
madam-president-speaking-here-in-dublin-castle-it-is-impossible-to-ignore-weight-history-as-it-was-yesterday-when-you-i-laid-wreaths-at-garden-queen-elizabeth-ii
each-stand-had-four-bronze-wheels-with-bronze-axles-each-had-basin-resting-on-four-supports-cast-with-wreaths-on-each-side-1-kings-730
t-is-hers-to-pluck-amaranthine-flower-of-faith-round-sufferers-temples-bind-wreaths-that-endure-afflictions-heaviest-shower-and-do-not-shrink-from-william-wordsworth
the-brief-span-our-poor-unhappy-life-to-its-final-hour-is-hastening-on-while-we-drink-call-for-gay-wreaths-perfumes-young-girls-old-age-creeps-juvenal
the-priest-zeus-whose-temple-was-just-outside-city-brought-bulls-wreaths-to-city-gates-because-he-crowd-wanted-to-offer-sacrifices-to-them-acts-1413
my-mother-was-perfectly-horrified-when-i-began-shooting-tried-to-keep-me-in-school-but-i-would-run-away-go-quail-shooting-in-woods-trim-my-dresses-annie-oakley
on-panels-between-uprights-were-lions-bulls-cherubim-on-uprights-as-well-above-below-lions-bulls-were-wreaths-hammered-work-1-kings-729
Art is the conscious making of numinous phenomena. Many objects are just objects - inert, merely utilitarian. Many events are inconsequential, too banal to add anything to our experience of life. This is unfortunate, as one cannot grow except by having one's spirit greatly stirred; and the spirit cannot be greatly stirred by spiritless things. Much of our very life is dead. For primitive man, this was not so. He made his own possessions, and shaped and decorated them with the aim of making them not merely useful, but powerful. He tried to infuse his weapons with the nature of the tiger, his cooking pots with the life of growing things; and he succeeded. Appearance, material, history, context, rarity - perhaps rarity most of all - combine to create, magically, the quality of soul. But we modern demiurges are prolific copyists; we give few things souls of their own. Locomotives, with their close resemblance to beasts, may be the great exception; but in nearly all else with which today's poor humans are filling the world, I see a quelling of the numinous, an ashening of the fire of life. We are making an inert world; we are building a cemetery. And on the tombs, to remind us of life, we lay wreaths of poetry and bouquets of painting. You expressed this very condition, when you said that art beautifies life. No longer integral, the numinous has become optional, a luxury - one of which you, my dear friend, are fond, however unconsciously. You adorn yourself with the same instincts as the primitive who puts a frightening mask of clay and feathers on his head, and you comport yourself in an uncommonly calculated way - as do I. We thus make numinous phenomena of ourselves. No mean trick - to make oneself a rarity, in this overpopulated age.

K.J. Bishop
art-is-conscious-making-numinous-phenomena-many-objects-are-just-objects-inert-merely-utilitarian-many-events-are-inconsequential-too-banal-to-add-anything-to-our-experience-life
The bast, dispersing in shreds in the sunset whispered "Time has begun." The son, Adam, stripped naked, descended into the Old Testament of his native land and arrayed himself in bast; a wreath of roadside field grass he placed upon his brow, a staff, not a switch, he pulled from the ground, flourishing the birch branch like a sacred palm. On the road he stood like a guard. The dust-gray road ran into the sunset. And a crow perched there, perched and croaked, there where the celestial fire consumed the earth. There were blind men along the dust-gray road running into the twilight. Antique, crooken, they trailed along, lonely and sinister silhouettes, holding to one another and to their leader's cane. They were raising dust. One was beard-less, he kept squinting. Another, a little old man with a protruding lip, was whispering and praying. A third, covered with red hair, frowned. Their backs were bent, their heads bowed low, their arms extended to the staff. Strange it was to see this mute procession in the terrible twilight. They made their way immutable, primordial, blind. Oh, if only they could open their eyes, oh if only they were not blind! Russian Land, awake! And Adam, rude image of the returned king, lowered the birch branch to their white pupils. And on them he laid his hands, as, groaning and moaning they seated themselves in the dust and with trembling hands pushed chunks of black bread into their mouths. Their faces were ashen and menacing, lit with the pale light of deadly clouds. Lightning blazed, their blinded faces blazed. Oh, if only they opened their eyes, oh, if only they saw the light! Adam, Adam, you stand illumined by lightnings. Now you lay the gentle branch upon their faces. Adam, Adam, say, see, see! And he restores their sight. But the blind men turning their ashen faces and opening their white eyes did not see. And the wind whispered "Thou art behind the hill." From the clouds a fiery veil began to shimmer and died out. A little birch murmured, beseeching, and fell asleep. The dusk dispersed at the horizon and a bloody stump of the sunset stuck up. And spotted with brilliant coals glowing red, the bast streamed out from the sunset like a striped cloak. On the waxen image of Adam the field grass wreaths sighed fearfully giving a soft whistle and the green dewy clusters sprinkled forth fiery tears on the blind faces of the blind. He knew what he was doing, he was restoring their sight. ("Adam")

Andrei Bely
the-bast-dispersing-in-shreds-in-sunset-whispered-time-has-begun-the-son-adam-stripped-naked-descended-into-old-testament-his-native-land-arrayed-himself-in-bast-wreath-roadside-
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