Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Courpse. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Courpse Quotes And Sayings by 97 Authors including Gunter Grass,Donna Tartt,Bertrand Russell,Jill Frayne,Jean Lorrain for you to enjoy and share.
I remain restless and dissatisfied; what I knot with my right hand, I undo with my left, what my left hand creates, my right fist shatters
Strenuous occasions where (jumpy, un-opiated, wracked to the last synapse),
It is permissible with certain precautions to speak in print of coitus, but it is not permissible to employ the monosyllabic synonym for this word.
Landscape, which looks so constant, is on the move. The mountains dream on the horizon, but mountains are just passing through. I watch them, wearing, grinding, rising up out there, their motion still the main beat.
Her vice takes hold of her again, but she still refrains until some moment when, gnawed by some hideous caprice, she comes aground like a mournful wreck ruined by lust, in the midst of her own banal, perfidious pollution.
The horses have stopped
their clippity-clop,
but feet are too slow
for where I must go.
So here I shall stay
until light of day
when clippity-clop
gets my team underway.
Looking back across the years, so many pictures flash on the screen of my memory that just as I begin to see one clearly, another slides in, blotting out the first, itself to be pushed aside by the next and the next and the next.
scat to rock steady
rippling response stroking over his cock.
had felt time settle over itself, imbricate and fix into place the vertigo of future aligning with the present.
the long sorrow of the color red.
The coquette has companions, indeed, but no lovers,
for love is respectful and timorous; and where among her followers will she find a husband?
Clutching my cure
I tightly lock the door
I try to catch my breath again
I hurt much more
Than anytime before
I had no options left again
A great tragedy passes from crest to hollow of passion, rises and sinks again, as rhythmically as sea-waves.
A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness ... and suddenly the "I" pales, pales, and fades out.
The ever relentless
Drugged to sleep by repetition of the diurnal
round, the monotonous sorrow of the finite,
within I am awake
repairing in dirt the frayed immaculate thread
forced by being to watch the birth of suns
Let heartbreak be alternative to coffe break, five midmorning minutes devoted to emotion.
The changeful change of circumstances.
[Lat., Varia sors rerum.]
There are reveries so deep, reveries which help us descend so deeply within ourselves that they rid us of our history. They liberate us from our name. These solitudes of today return us to the original solitudes.
Movements- driven by such unexpected need, fueled by such a relentless desire, and crashing into unimaginable possibilities.
paralyzed by the past, caught in the amber of loss.
To live was to be a fragment of the cosmere that was experiencing itself.
Lying there in bed, dangling in a zone somewhere between sleep and consciousness, he was overcome by a strange feeling: that he was losing control of his life, and for the first time in recent years was unsure of the direction it was taking him. Carl Dias reflects on life in RACING WITH THE RAIN
I could feel myself begin to recede, to tip and lose balance, slide toward the deeper darkness that had crept in from outside. It happened so quickly and took me by surprise; sometimes I just turned around and found it there-ah, camarade-unaware it had been waiting for me for days.
Life is not long enough for a coquette to play all her tricks in.
Repooping is the purest form of pooping
Digiphrenia - the way our media and technologies encourage us to be in more than one place at the same time.
Up to
now man derived his coherence from his Creator. But from the moment that he consecrates his rupture
with Him, he finds himself delivered over to the fleeting moment, to the passing days, and to wasted
sensibility.
It was a night replaying its corrosive recurrence on the road of our lives, on the road which was hungry for great transformations.
you're rowing by wordlight
Indecision and reveries are the anesthetics of constructive action
He held her forever. Ashy flickers swam in his eyes, shadows of temptation drawing her into infinite depths. A breath away from his tantalising mouth, she parted her lips. The thudding of her pulse hurt. The knocking of her heart brushed her soul. She sank into him.
I ... overflow; my desires have invented new desire, my body knows unheard-of-songs. Time and again ... I have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst - burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune.
Such a suitable word, stroke. I'd heard it since childhood without fully understanding its meaning, but it sounded, even through a haze of sleep and dope, just like itself: abrupt and brutal and irreversible. A stroke of lightning, the stroke of midnight, the stroke of a pen.
thereafter, the selfsame
As the components of your life are stripped away, after all the ambitions and hopes vaporize, you reach a self-reflective starkness
the repetitious plucking of a single overwound string.
The monotony stirs many bitter recollections
Once again, the wheel was turning; the time for rest was over.
... my joints ache with fatigue, my dried up body trembles toward its own destruction in turmoils of which I dare not become fully conscious, in my head are astonishing convulsions.
Thinking of a series of dreams
Where the time and the tempo fly
And there's no exit in any direction
'Cept the one that you can't see with your eyes
In a world addicted to speed, I blur the moments into one unholy smear.
Tethered to the ground by quotidian conversation.
... the window rosy with anemic November light.
A red ganglion, no bigger than a scarlet thread, snapped and quivered; a nerve, no greater than a red linen fiber twisted. Deep in her one little mech was gone and the entire machine, imbalanced, was about to steadily shake itself to bits.
Sink every impulse like a bolt. Secure
The bastion of sensation. Do not waver
Into language. Do not waver in it.
Everything gives way before the recurring torment and festivity of passion.
But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot
Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
As we take, in fact, a general view of the wonderful stream of our consciousness, what strikes us first is this different pace of its parts. Like a bird 's life, it seems to be made of an alternation of flights and perchings.
Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.
Regan's pulse was astonishing. It hammered at a speed too rapid to gauge. Across the bed, Merrin reached out calmly and with the end of his thumb traced the sign of the cross on Regan's vomit-covered chest. The words of his prayer were swallowed up in the poundings.
The cadence of suffering has begun. Every evening at dusk, my heart constricts until night has come.
lilting cadence,
I hear myself laughing, screeching, cackling. The world is red hot and pulsing. On fire [...] I stroll down the corridor and the flickering fluorescents celebrate my passing, humming in praise. I spin, bow and hum along. Bloody footprints trail; bloody fingers smear the walls.
Waxes and wanes with no predictable schedule or trigger.
My heart stirring this way and that like so much hot soup,
Three little words. My world stands still, tilts, then spins on a new axis.
Wandering and confused, lost to myself, ill-assorted, contradictory, Pausing, gazing, bending, and stopping
When I am old and addled I will make coronets like Cad, that have nothing to do with history, but represent the whimsy and cobwebs in my brain.
Once a change of direction has begun, even though it's the wrong one, it still tends to clothe itself as thoroughly in the appurtenances of Tightness as if it had been a natural all along.
The churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words
snakelike hiss, undulating,
Remorse goes to sleep during a prosperous period and wakes up in adversity.
[Fr., Le remords s'endort durant un destin prospere et s'aigrit dans l'adversite.]
Month by month things are losing their hardness; even my body now lets the light through; my spine is soft like wax near the flame of the candle. I dream; I dream.
The xcursion helped dislodge your ... sense of ennui?
Each sporadic burst of work, each minor success and disappointment, each moment of calm and relaxation, seemed merely a temporary halt on my steady descent through layer after layer of depression, like an elevator stopping for a moment on the way down to the basement.
My mind rebels at stagnation.
Charles Morgan describes as the stilling of the soul within the activities of the mind and body so that it might be still as the axis of a revolving wheel is still.
Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
I am fading away. Slowly but surely. Like the sailor who watches his home shore gradually disappear, I watch my past recede. My old life still burns within me, but more and more of it is reduced to the ashes of memory.
Clung to those faint images that seemed to blur and fade
Trifling trouble find utterance; deeply felt pangs are silent.
There is a pain so utter, it swallows being up;
The covers the abyss with a trance
So memory can step around, across, upon it.
Unfaithfully our, Time
The cadence of suffering has begun - Cesare Pavese
I
am
in
pieces.
He had been slowing down, the way one, half asleep, continually rereads the same paragraph trying to find a connection between sentences.
The earth is rocking, the skies are riven
Jove in a passion, in god-like fashion, Is breaking the crystal urns of heaven.
She used to wander through the past as often as it beckoned her, bemoaning the loss of nostalgia. Then, for a while, she turned from it, blissfully free of its noxious clutch, and now it's back, taunting her with what she left behind, knowing she can never recapture what's gone.
The quivering
of Psyche's butterflies.
The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
Her correspondence had been like the pumping of a heart into a severed artery, wild and incessant at first, then slowing down with a kind of muscular reluctance to a stream that became a trickle and finally ceased; the heart had stopped.
HISTORICALOVERDOSING:To live in a period of time when too much seems to happen.
Men have always been the victims of trifles, but when they were uncomfortable and passionate, and in constant danger, they hardly had time to notice what the daily texture of their thoughts was in their calm intervals, whereas with us the intervals are all.
Coimhead feara fhear na foighrde.
(Beware the anger of a patient man)
A fickle lover, sleep takes us as it will, when it wants, and how. Sensing her desperate need, however, it draws Corrie deeply into its embrace, somewhere between her tears and terror.
Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in the vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade.
You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel - a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady
I hover over myself
Watching.
Mind and body separated,
Each in control
As though there are two puppeteers
Working the strings of my marionette self.
With a whirl of thought oppressed
I sink from reverie to rest.
An horrid vision seized my head,
I saw the graves give up their dead.
Something rippled round the table: a loosening, a settling, a long sigh too low to hear. Un ange passe, my French grandfather would have said: an angel is passing. Somewhere upstairs I heard the faint, dreamy note of a clock striking.
My dreams and I spin tighter
the longer we practice our intricate steps
Hesitated; swooped again; hesitated again; swooped once more
When you forget about your self consciousness for a moment, you forget about your true self, your real you and your true purpose for a moment
But lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity;
Celerity is tardiness when ardent desire urges.
Continued eloquence is wearisome.
Coffee falls into the stomach ... ideas begin to move, things remembered arrive at full gallop ... the shafts of wit start up like sharp-shooters, similes arise, the paper is covered with ink ...
The urgency of the moment always missed its mark. Words fluttered sideways and struck the object inches too low. Then one gave it up; then the idea sunk back again; then one became like most middle-aged people, cautious, furtive, with wrinkles between the eyes and a look of perpetual apprehension.
That tendency ... to lie awake between the hours of two and four, when the chrysalis of faint misgiving becomes so readily the butterfly of panic.
The cadence of suffering has begun.