Sam: I want to skate, too. Alain van Versch: It's not Skate, it's Ski. Sam: It's Skate. Alain van Versch: No, it's Ski. Sam: Skate! Alain van Versch: Ski. Sam: You're annoying me!
Dorothy: Did you say something? Tin Woodsman: [indiscernible sounds from the Tin Man, who is rusted] Dorothy: He said oil can! Scarecrow: Oil can what? Dorothy: Oil can.
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!
A brick is a rust-colored blur of movement, caught in a moment, and transformed from motion into a physical object. Studying this brick would give scientists an insight into how fast I run.
My fingers are blistered and they smell like lighter fluid— like burnt tin foil and rusted silverware. Quick question: Is it still considered heroin chic if I’m actually using heroin? No? Whatever.
I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.
It is not work that kills men; it is worry. Work is healthy; you can hardly put more upon a man than he can bear. Worry is the rust upon the blade. It is not the revolution which destroys the machinery but the friction. Fear secretes acids; but love ...
The sun leaves me to silence Before my eyes adjust My ears are tuned for violence My jaw begins to rust His words wrap all about me And heavy as they seem They do not feel as filthy As leaving them in dreams
O'Dell: [after hearing train whistle coming towards wrecked track] I-It's abandoned. Uh, look at the rust. Caretta number two shut down in '51. [whistle blows again] O'Dell: Shit, shit!
I would love with all my heart to be able to speak Greek, classical or modern or both. It is a beautiful language, both aurally and in terms of the intricacy of its construction. I took four semesters of Ancient Greek in college, but it's all rusted ...
When I draw something, I try to build some kind of history into it. Drawing an object that has a certain amount of wear and tear or rust; or a tree that is damaged. I love trying to render not just the object, but what it has been through.
Praise be to God, Who has so disposed matters that pleasant literary anecdotes may serve as an instrument for the polishing of wits and the cleansing of rust from our hearts.
'Rust' really started with the passing of my dad, and me really looking back inward to my self about where I stand with all things on a faith/religious/spiritual level. And it's really put me on this interesting road and very educational, I might add...
In the medieval tradition, Beksinski seems to believe art to be a forewarning about the fragility of the flesh– whatever pleasures we know are doomed to perish– thus, his paintings manage to evoke at once the process of decay and the ongoing stru...
Bobby: [indicating a junk car by a rural gas station] That's my '51 Dodge. No, that's my car! That's my car! Whooee! All my youth and passion... spent in that back seat. It's all gone, you see? It's all gone - rust and dust.
Eli: [reading part of his newest novel at a press conference] The crickets and the rust-beetles scuttled among the nettles of the sage thicket. "Vámonos, amigos," he whispered, and threw the busted leather flintcraw over the loose weave of the saddl...
we roar along the rust belts——the great red spot—— the polar vortex——the caress of solar flares—— ruffle the molten methane and ammonia oceans of me—— the storm-riven non-surface of me and mine—— that which you call skin——...
The great problems we see in the world today will not be solved by people functioning at half capacity cranking out work they don't care about in order to buy more things that will eventually rust and rot.
He’s like an old clock the won’t tell time but won’t stop neither with the hands bend out of shape and the face bare of numbers and the alarm rusted silent, an old worthless clock that keeps ticking and cuckooing without meaning nothing.
Here's what's not beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what they place really is. You see how fake it all is. It's not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. ...
The harsh truth is, most red-haired men look like blondes who've spoiled from lack of refrigeration. They look like brown-haired men who've been composted out behind the barn. Yet that same pigmentation that on a man can resemble leaf mold or junkyar...
