You see the hurt and pain in these kids' faces and you can just tell they've had a hard life. But when they get their Easter basket, their faces light up.
pain life light hurt easter hard faces
I'm not sure of the count but that was one of the bad things for me, to see these little kids getting off and they were shivering and some didn't have jackets and some didn't have shoes and it was pouring rain out too. (They had) blank looks on their faces like they just woke up -- scared looks on their faces.
kids scared bad count rain things shoes faces
Hades raised an eyebrow. When he sat forward in his throne, shadowy faces appeared in the folds of his black robes, faces of torment, as if the garment was stitched of trapped souls from the Fields of Punishment, trying to get out. The ADHD part of me wondered, off-task, whether the rest of his clothes were made the same way. What horrible things would you have to do in your life to get woven into Hades' underwear?
life rest black forward things percy-jackson punishment souls torment made part faces clothes
She leaned down and looked at his lifeless face and Leisel kissed her best friend, Rudy Steiner, soft and true on his lips. He tasted dusty and sweet. He tasted like regret in the shadows of trees and in the glow of the anarchist's suit collection. She kissed him long and soft, and when she pulled herself away, she touched his mouth with her fingers.. She did not say goodbye. She was incapable, and after a few more minutes at his side, she was able to tear herself from the ground. It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on..
true humans regret shadows sweet trees friend mouth goodbye face lips faces side
I'm not prepared for Rue's family. Her parents, whose faces are still fresh with sorrow. Her fiver younger siblings, who resemble her so closely. The slight builds, the luminous brown eyes. They form a flock of small dark birds.
adventure family parents sorrow dark small grief siblings eyes birds fresh faces form
Father was an atheist; he had even joined the Skeleton Army - a club of men who went about in masks or black faces, with ribald placards and a brass band, to make war upon the Salvation Army.
men war army black salvation atheist father band masks faces atheists atheism
Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
book dark search picture face window pages faces books windows shop
Our clients' faces, with the customary outward paleness and inner glow of the book lover.
book lover faces books
Do you understand now why books are hated and feared? Because they reveal the pores on the face of life. The comfortable people want only the faces of the full moon, wax, faces without pores, hairless, expressionless.
life people moon understand face faces books comfortable
But no one may know the shape of the tale in which they move. And, perhaps, we do not truly know which sort of beast it is, either. Stories have a way of changing faces. They are unruly things, undisciplined, given to delinquency and the throwing of erasers. This is why we must close them up into thick, solid books, so they cannot get out and cause trouble.
trouble stories changing things beast close faces books
The portraits, of more historical than artistic interest, had gone; and tapestry, full of the blue and bronze of peacocks, fell over the doors, and shut out all history and activity untouched with beauty and peace; and now when I looked at my Crevelli and pondered on the rose in the hand of the Virgin, wherein the form was so delicate and precise that it seemed more like a thought than a flower, or at the grey dawn and rapturous faces of my Francesca, I knew all a Christian's ecstasy without his slavery to rule and custom; when I pondered over the antique bronze gods and goddesses, which I had mortgaged my house to buy, I had all a pagan's delight in various beauty and without his terror at sleepless destiny and his labour with many sacrifices; and I had only to go to my bookshelf, where every book was bound in leather, stamped with intricate ornament, and of a carefully chosen colour: Shakespeare in the orange of the glory of the world, Dante in the dull red of his anger, Milton in the blue grey of his formal calm; and I could experience what I would of human passions without their bitterness and without satiety. I had gathered about me all gods because I believed in none, and experienced every pleasure because I gave myself to none, but held myself apart, individual, indissoluble, a mirror of polished steel: I looked in the triumph of this imagination at the birds of Hera, glowing in the firelight as though they were wrought of jewels; and to my mind, for which symbolism was a necessity, they seemed the doorkeepers of my world, shutting out all that was not of as affluent a beauty as their own; and for a moment I thought as I had thought in so many other moments, that it was possible to rob life of every bitterness except the bitterness of death; and then a thought which had followed this thought, time after time, filled me with a passionate sorrow.
slavery anger necessity life imagination glory destiny steel mind peace death time beauty history moment christianity human shakespeare experience thought world sorrow historical book moments artistic terror flower dawn individual gods delight pleasure birds passions bitterness triumph ecstasy sacrifices rose interest bound hand calm blue mirror faces symbolism red rule pagan form house god books dull custom
Lift up your heads, ye people, lift up your faces, too, open your mouths to sing His praise, and the rain will fall on you.
people healing praise jesus fall rain open sing faces god christian
. While I was happy enough to pray to any god, knowing that they were simply different faces created by men, of one indivisible truth.
culture men truth knowing happy pray faces god
The surgeons' market is imaginary, since there is nothing wrong with women's faces or bodies that social change won't cure; so the surgeons depend for their income on warping female self-perception and multiplying female self-hatred.
equality culture change beauty society feminism self-esteem objectification body-image sexuality wrong eating-disorders marketing market female bodies advertising aging double-standards pornography social cure faces magazines imaginary images income cosmetics plastic-surgery diet-industry mass-culture fashion-industry cosmetic-surgery
It was the nature of his profession that his experience with death should be greater than for most and he said that while it was true that time heals bereavement it does so only at the cost of the slow extinction of those loved ones from the heart's memory which is the sole place of their abode then or now. Faces fade, voices dim. Seize them back, whispered the sepulturero. Speak with them. Call their names. Do this and do not let sorrow die for it is the sweetening of every gift.
extinction nature death time memory names true experience sorrow gift bereavement speak place die call voices faces profession greater
I wonder if everyone who faces death hurts like this. It's as though for the first time I realize how much just being alive makes my body ache. But I don't want that ache to stop.
death time body living stop alive faces realize
Life is fragile and temporary. The faces of today quickly become the faces of the past. Sorrow, pain, and anger.. It all fades- except love. Love is forever and there after, even when we've fallen to our graves.
anger pain life death past inspirational sorrow today romance quote forever faces fallen fragile love
There is no such thing as originality. It has all been said before, suffered before. If a person knows that, is it any wonder love becomes mechanical and death just a scene to be shunned? There is no absolute knowledge to be gained from either. Just another ride on the merry-go-round, another blurred scene of faces smiling and faces grieved.
death knowledge smiling person originality ride absolute faces love thing
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
He thought he saw some horses, too, and a clown, but it was the faces of all those dead raptors that really bothered him. And maybe that clown a little bit.
funny humor death thought horses dead horse faces
Facing death calmly is praiseworthy only if one faces it alone. Death together is no longer death, even for unbelievers. The source of sorrows lies not in leaving life, but in leaving that which gives it meaning. When love is our whole life, what difference is there between living together and dying together?
life death lies meaning leaving living difference desperation dying source faces love
Cassandra wondered at the mind's cruel ability to toss up flecks of the past. Why, as she neared her life's end, her grandmother's head should ring with the voices of people long since gone. Was it always this way? Did those with passage booked on death's silent ship always scan the dock for faces of the long-departed?
ability people death past memories ship sad end silent voices head faces cruel
Actually, this is a poem my father once showed me, a long time ago. It has been bastardized many times, in many ways, but this is the original: The Cold Within Six men trapped by happenstance, in bleak and bitter coldEach possessed a stick of wood, or so the story's told. Their dying fire in need of logs, the first man held his back For of the faces round the fire, he noticed one was black. One man looking cross the way, saw one not of his churchAnd could not bring himself to givethe fire his stick of birch. The third one sat in tattered clothes, he gave his coat a hitchWhy should his log be put to useto warm the idle rich?The rich man just sat back and thoughtof the wealth he had in store And how to keep what he had earnedfrom the lazy, shiftless poor. The black man's face bespoke revengeas the fire passed from his sight, For all he saw in his stick of woodwas a chance to spite the white. And the last man of this forlorn groupdid naught except for gain, Giving only to those who gave, was how he played the gameThe logs held tight, in death's stillhands, was proof of human sinThey didn't die from the cold without, they died from the cold within.
chance proof wealth original man men death time human gain hate poem prejudice fire giving cross lazy black poor times spite bitter face die father white cold dying sight rich faces clothes
Masks camouflage the faces of both good and evil. Keeps hidden what is a truth and what is a lie.
life truth death evil good lie hidden masks faces
You should regard each meeting with a friend as a sitting he is unwillingly giving you for a portrait - a portrait that, probably, when you or he die, will still be unfinished. And, though this is an absorbing pursuit, nevertheless, the painters are apt to end pessimists. For however handsome and merry may be the face, however rich may be the background, in the first rough sketch of each portrait, yet with every added stroke of the brush, with ever modification of the chiaroscuro, the eyes looking out at you grow more disquieting. And, finally, it is your face that you are staring at in terror, as in a mirror by candlelight, when all the house is still.
friendship faces
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