445 Quotes About Prose

A life of bucolic wonder can become Apocalypse Now inside my mind. Even in my idyllic life with my dog Bear. Bear is enthusiasm with claws. We have a rowboat and I heap Bear in. The river is so alive with light and dark. On the surface light dances like spilt heaven and if you put your feet in, the sludge and slime feels like the ooze that we crawled out of. The whole spectrum is there, the river is the whole road, the beginning, the end, ever changing, ever present.

[...] de facto, por muito que nos custe reconhecê-lo, estas realidades sujas da vida também têm de ser consideradas em qualquer relato, com a tripa em sossego qualquer um tem ideias, discutir, por exemplo, se existe uma relação directa entre os olhos e os sentimentos, ou se o sentido de responsabilidade é a consequência natural de uma boa visão, mas quando a aflição aperta, quando o corpo se nos desmanada de dor e angústia, então é que se vê o animalzinho que somos.

Yellow and red and white dandelions lit up the sky, pinned there for a few seconds before dribbling away, only to be followed by a blue agapanthus blooming here, a red starfish flaring there.

How do I forget all this hurt and pain in the past?How do I forget the last year that has passed?How do I know that everything will be alright?Is there a light at the end of this tunnel, so bright?Will everything work out in the end?Will I ever be able to love again?Will this feeling and regret and guilt wilt?How long will it take for my heart to heal?

I close my eyes and say a prayer, That tonight you’ll be held. I lift you up to the spare pairOf shoulders that can’t be felled.Tonight, as you sleep,I pray your worries are wiped away.May you wake up and not weep, For joy will come in the day.Let the bridge cover your worries,Let the rain wash away the fear.Let the shoulders hold your furies.Let the sunshine bring you cheer. Shoulders holding you high.Arms shielding you from danger.May you never have to cry,On top of the mountainous glacier.

If a soul could leave the body, she thought, this is the sound it would make: like the screech of a nail being pulled from old wood.

Taking the life of a nation is a serious task, V says. Few succeed, even if the cause is just. We didn't, and ours wasn't. But sometimes I can't help missing those days when we all just took care of each other.

Within her simple, terrified mind, swift calculations of distance and speed were at work, and her face advertised the disappointing results.

Some can't handle the fiery poet, how she rips into souls burning words into prose.