We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Headpiece filled with straw. Alas! Our dried voices, when We whisper together Are quiet and meaningless As wind in dry grass Or rats' feet over broken glass In our dry cellar Shape without...
tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play�...
To speak of these things and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are ...
We maintain, therefore, that the first essential, the life and soul, so to speak, of Tragedy is the Plot; and that the Characters come second—compare the parallel in painting, where the most beautiful colours laid on without order will not give one...
I flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats of all sizes and colours scrapping in the middle of the room, and then they all shot past me with a rush and out of the front door; and all that was left of the mobsce...
Afterwards, in bed with a book, the spell of television feels remote compared to the journey into the page. To be in a book. To slip into the crease where two pages meet, to live in the place where your eyes alight upon the words to ignite a world of...
Meltwater (from the book Blue Bridge) Up here. A face Loses its lines I look to see The colour of your eyes … They have turned To water. I lean forward To catch The scent of your hair – All I smell is heather. I touch your hand And all I feel is ...
In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process itself should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a book, be rapt clean out of ourselves, and rise from the perusal, our mind filled with the busiest, kaleidoscopic dance ...
My brother distrusts the essential truth of memories; I distrust the way we colour them in. We each have our own cheap-mail-order paintbox, and our favourite hues. Thus, I remembered Grandma a few pages ago as "petite and unopinionated". My brother, ...
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and o...
Ben: Ms. G, we can fight this y'know, like the Freedom Riders. Marcus: Yeh yeh, we all drive around on a bus, only this time they try and bust us up we bust a few of them board member's heads. Brandy: Or we can go to the newspapers. Media...? Tito: O...
Dutch: Yesterday, what did you see? Dillon: You're wasting your time. Dutch: No more games! Anna: I don't know what it was. It... [surprised look on Dillon's face] Dutch: Go on. Anna: It changed colours, like the chameleon, it uses the jungle. Dillon...
Leigh Anne Touhy: Sean and I have been talking and Michael, if you're gonna accept a football scolarship we think it should be to Tennesee. And I promise that I will be at every game cheering for you. Michael Oher: Every game. Leigh Anne Touhy: Every...
Yet the misty spring rain softened the outline of the mountain across the river and made it even more beautiful. So gentle was the rain that they hardly knew they were getting wet as they strolled back toward the car, not even bothering to put up the...
Cause nobody's the slightest idea who we are, or who we were, not even we ourselves - except, that is, in the glimmer of a moment of fair business between strangers, or the nod of knowing and agreement between friends. Other than these, we go out ano...
There are indeed moral universals — the Hebrew Bible calls them ‘the covenant with Noah’ and they form the basis of modern codes of human rights. But they exist to create space for cultural and religious difference…
Each neighborhood of the city appeared to be made of a different substance, each seemed to have a different air pressure, a different psychic weight: the bright lights and shuttered shops, the housing projects and luxury hotels, the fire escapes and ...
They each had scars to deal with. Scars of a different kind, but scars nonetheless. If he could say something--anything--to make a difference, he'd do it, but there simply wasn't anything left to say. The reality of that made him downright sad.
At a time I used to think that in a world without guards people would walk differently from the way we do in our country. Where people are allowed to think and write differently, I thought, they will also walk differently.
The difference between you and him and him and me isn’t different at all: we’re all different.
I’d love to step off this well-trodden straight and boring path. To somehow live differently, think different thoughts, feel different feelings than others. It wouldn’t bother me to be as alone as a tree on the plains. My leaves would be like no ...
