Anyhow, I had found something out about an unknown privation, and I realized how a general love or craving, before it is explicit or before it sees its object, manifests itself as boredom or some other kind of suffering. And what did I think of myself in relation to the great occasions, the more sizable being of these books? Why, I?saw?them, first of all. So suppose I wasn't created to read a great declaration, or to boss a palatinate, or send off a message to Avignon, and so on, I could see, so there nevertheless was a share for me in all that had happened. How much of a share? Why, I knew there were things that would never, because they could never, come of my reading. But this knowledge was not so different from the remote but ever-present death that sits in the corner of the loving bedroom; though it doesn't budge from the corner, you wouldn't stop your loving. Then neither would I stop my reading. I sat and read. I had no eye, ear, or interest for anything else--that is, for usual, second-order, oatmeal, mere-phenomenal, snarled-shoelace-carfare-laundry-ticket plainness, unspecified dismalness, unknown captivities; the life of despair-harness or the life of organization-habits which is meant to supplant accidents with calm abiding. Well, now, who can really expect the daily facts to go, toil or prisons to go, oatmeal and laundry tickets and the rest, and insist that all moments be raised to the greatest importance, demand that everyone breathe the pointy, star-furnished air at its highest difficulty, abolish all brick, vaultlike rooms, all dreariness, and live like prophets or gods? Why, everybody knows this triumphant life can only be periodic. So there's a schism about it, some saying only this triumphant life is real and others that only the daily facts are. For me there was no debate, and I made speed into the former.
reading life speed death rest live real inspirational unknown education suffering kind loving knowledge moments debate prophets gods share boredom eye facts air stop things found importance interest read calm difficulty message great made accidents demand love books breathe boss prisons
I kissed my fingers, held my palm flat beside my mouth and blew it into the air that surrounded her memory. I closed my eyes, thinking this was one of those moments you see in movies or read about in books where everything comes together.
movies memory moments eyes mouth air thinking kiss read books
She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed!
beautiful words black wall air things cold red books
Most of [her ashes] fell into the river in a long gray curtain. But some was caught by the wind and blown upward toward the blue spring sky where it swirled a moment in the air, before dissolving into sunlight.
history moment sky wind sunlight air river spring blue historical-fiction france christian
When Great Trees FallWhen great trees fall, rocks on distant hills shudder, lions hunker downin tall grasses, and even elephantslumber after safety. When great trees fallin forests, small things recoil into silence, their senseseroded beyond fear. When great souls die, the air around us becomeslight, rare, sterile. We breathe, briefly. Our eyes, briefly, see witha hurtful clarity. Our memory, suddenly sharpened, examines, gnaws on kind wordsunsaid, promised walksnever taken. Great souls die andour reality, bound tothem, takes leave of us. Our souls, dependent upon theirnurture, now shrink, wizened. Our minds, formedand informed by theirradiance, fall away. We are not so much maddenedas reduced to the unutterable ignoranceof dark, coldcaves. And when great souls die, after a period peace blooms, slowly and alwaysirregularly. Spaces fillwith a kind ofsoothing electric vibration. Our senses, restored, neverto be the same, whisper to us. They existed. They existed. We can be. Be and bebetter. For they existed.
poetry silence life writing peace death soul memory reality fear kind poem writers dark poems fall trees clarity senses poet poets small eyes air leave safety things die bound minds souls great lions breathe forests whisper
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
pain death time art soul names breath listen quiet rhyme air ecstasy die rich love
Death is nothing at all,I have only slipped into the next roomI am I and you are youWhatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by my old familiar name, Speak to me in the easy way which you always usedPut no difference in your tone, Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrowLaugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household world that it always was, Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant. It it the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity. Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, Just around the corner. All is well.
life mind death world smile pray difference play shadow jokes waiting speak air call easy effect sight solemnity
My love, do you recall the object which we saw, That fair, sweet, summer morn!At a turn in the path a foul carcassOn a gravel strewn bed, Its legs raised in the air, like a lustful woman, Burning and dripping with poisons, Displayed in a shameless, nonchalant wayIts belly, swollen with gases.
death fair sweet poison woman summer air burning path bed love legs
At times I believed that the last page of my book and the last page of my life were one and the same, that when my book ended I'd end, a great wind would sweep through my rooms carrying the pages away, and when the air cleared of all those fluttering white sheets the room would be silent, the chair where I sat empty.
life writing death book wind end times air empty silent white great pages
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shews in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven: and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
prison life solitude death time world sadness heaven spirit lying changing anxiety air young asleep boy dust bed breathe gross
Do you remember the sight we saw, my soul, that soft summer morninground a turning in the path, the disgusting carcass on a bed scattered with stones, its legs in the air like a woman in needburning its wedding poisonslike a fountain with its rhythmic sobs,I could hear it clearly flowing with a long murmuring sound, but I touch my body in vain to find the wound.I am the vampire of my own heart, one of the great outcasts condemned to eternal laughterwho can no longer smile. Am I dead?I must be dead.
poetry sound wedding vampires death soul body heart smile murder woman remember vain vampire summer eternal find air dead wound touch fountain hear path sight great bed horror stones legs
Supermarkets this large and clean and modern are a revelation to me. I spent my life in small steamy delicatessens with slanted display cabinets full of trays that hold soft wet lumpy matter in pale colours. High enough cabinets so you had to stand on tiptoes to give your order. Shouts, accents. In cities no one notices specific dying. Dying is a quality of the air. It's everywhere and nowhere. Men shout as they die to be noticed, remembered for a second or two. To die in an apartment instead of a house can depress the soul, I would imagine, for several lives to come. In a town there are houses, plants in bay windows. People notice dying better. The dead have faces, automobiles. If you don't know a name you know a street name, a dog's name. 'He drove an orange Mazda.' You know a couple of useless things about a person that become major facts of identification and cosmic placement when he dies suddenly, after a short illness, in his own bed, with a comforter and matching pillows, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, feverish, a little congested in the sinuses and chest, thinking about his dry cleaning.
quality clean life people order men death soul houses person revelation lives small imagine illness facts air stand thinking dead things cities cleaning matter die afternoon useless dying faces bed modern house plants give windows short wet cosmic
I'll never be ready. Yet at the same time, you always want to reach the end. You can't fly to a destination and linger in the air. I want to reach the end of this thing, and I feel terrible about it.
death time destination end feel air linger fly ready thing terrible
How thin the air felt at the forest's edge, how ghostly the trees that guarded their realm.. The whole world seemed as delicate as a dandelion seed, and as fleeting.. How sad to know that the figment village of my imagination would not vanish when I ended, to understand that it was not I who had invented the moon the first time I realized how lovely it was. To admit that it was not my breath that made the winds blow.. [M]y heart, my heart knew that when I closed my eyes I invented the night sky and the stars too. Wasn't the whole dome of the sky the same shape as the inside of my skull? Didn't I create the sun and the day when I raised my eyelids every morning?
imagination perception nature death time world heart sky breath trees sad night stars day morning lovely moon sun eyes air understand create inside made seed realm skull thin
There's a gentle sigh which descends like billowing silk upon the soul that accepts its coming death. It's a gentle pocket of air in the turbulence of everyday life.. The silk settles around you as if it has been drifting towards the earth forever and has finally found it's target. The flag of defeat has been mercifully dropped and, in this action, the loss is not so bad. Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat, and death is swallowed up in victory.
life victory flag action death soul earth loss bad defeat air found forever embrace
Knowing you are alive is watching on every side your generation's short time falling away as fast as rivers drop through air, and feeling it hit.
life death time knowing feeling awareness air rivers falling alive side short
A little smoke lost in the air, that was the life of a man.
life man death lost air smoke
I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.
birth death memory fair remember shock air remembering born cold dying
I'll fall.''You wont fall.''I'll fall. I'll fall and I'll die.'As I said it, I could see it happening. The foot stepping on air, pulling the rest of my body with it, tree limbs breaking as I plummeted down. 'No,' he said, his voice assured, 'You'd never do that to me.
death rest voice body fall air falling die tree breaking
We're so old that the winds of age echo along our ribs and pick at our eye sockets. We could be gone tomorrow. A chill, say, or a little slip on the cliff side. I feel as fragile as a dried flower. I rattle a little in the moving air, but I'm only coherent dust-a shape of what once was. My essence is going.
age death essence moving flower feel tomorrow eye air echo fragile side
Oxygen Everything needs it: bone, muscles, and even, while it calls the earth its home, the soul. So the merciful, noisy machine stands in our house working away in its lung-like voice. I hear it as I kneel before the fire, stirring with a stick of iron, letting the logs lie more loosely. You, in the upstairs room, are in your usual position, leaning on your right shoulder which aches all day. You are breathing patiently; it is a beautiful sound. It is your life, which is so close to my own that I would not know where to drop the knife of separation. And what does this have to do with love, except everything? Now the fire rises and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red roses of flame. Then it settles to quietude, or maybe gratitude, as it feeds as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift: our purest, sweet necessity: the air.
poetry sound necessity life death home soul voice earth beautiful gratitude gift sweet fire singing day separation lie machine air breathing hear working dying invisible close roses house love knife
Let my heiress have full rights, Live in my house, sing songs that I composed. Yet how slowly my strength ebbs, How the tortured breast craves air. The love of my friends, my enemies' rancorAnd the yellow roses in my bushy garden, And a lover's burning tenderness?all thisI bestow upon you, messenger of dawn. Also the glory for which I was born, For which my star, like some whirlwind, soaredAnd now falls. Look, its fallingProphesies your power, love and inspiration. Preserving my generous bequest, You will live long and worthily. Thus it will be. You see, I am content, Be happy, but remember me.
rights strength inspiration content glory power death live songs happy friends remember dawn air born star sing generous tenderness burning garden dying roses house inheritance love
I was living my own future and my brother's lost one as well. I represented him here just as he represented me there, in some unguessable other place. His move from life to death might resemble my stepping into the kitchen - into its soft nowhere quality and foggy hum. I breathed the dark air. If I had at that moment a sense of calm kindly death while my heart beat and my lungs expanded, he might know a similar sense of life in the middle of his ongoing death.
quality life death moment future sense heart living dark lost air place calm brothers beat kitchen
The use of sea and air is common to all; neither can a title to the ocean belong to any people or private persons, forasmuch as neither nature nor public use and custom permit any possession therof.
life wisdom environmental nature air sea common ocean freedom
Close your eyes and turn your face into the wind. Feel it sweep along your skin in an invisible ocean of exultation. Suddenly, you you are.
life uplifting feeling wind pleasure air alive drunk fresh freedom
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