Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Cusp. 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 Cusp Quotes And Sayings by 94 Authors including Kathy Reichs,Kathleen Norris,John Lyly,Jacques Barzun,Ann Aguirre for you to enjoy and share.
my train of thought. "Look
Throb
You cut me
into pieces and
put them in separate corners
of the room
each part
placed under pillows
or into water
I grow from this darkness
like starfish
my fingers know the shape to take again
The finest edge is made with the blunt whetstone.
Take a portion of wit, And fashion it fit, Like a needle, with point and with eye: A point that can wound, An eye to look round, And at folly or vice let it fly
A curve of silver hung amid the brighter specks; it looked to me like a curved dagger, pretty but deadly, as if it might slice the sky in two.
What do the contours of your body mean, laid out like the lines on a hand, so that I no longer see them except as fate?
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow.
Where are you going?" I asked.
"The middle of nowhere."
"I thought this was it."
"Nah." You shook your head. "This is just the edge.
So many details came into focus. The shape of his lips, the line of his neck. "I'm not dangerous," I breathed.
He brought his face toward mine. "You are to me."
And somehow, against all reason, we were kissing. I closed my eyes, and the world around me faded.
And suddenly, with a terrific shock, with that feeling as of blurring on a cinematograph screen before the picture comes to focus, Hercule Poirot realized that this artificially set scene had a point of reality ...
How did society ever function without you, little Sharpies? Your nibs have the precise amount of give to create a line quality with character, yet not so much character as to be smushy. Thank you, little pens.
the wall iris
opens its buds:
before my eyes
the last spring
begins to fade
The corners of her mouth
Moyers: {TS] Eliot speaks about the still point of the turning world, where motion and stasis are together, the hub where the movement of time and the stillness of eternity are together.
gentle curves that had not been
A treble clef, for example, resembles a Muscovite or Leningrader in a bulky hooded parka. A bass clef bends as simply and painfully as a silhouetted widow in Leningrad drawing water from the whiteness of a frozen canal.
crepuscle, the mysterious half-light that comes at both ends of the day, when the small secret things come out to feed. There
What you think is the point is not the point at all but only the beginning of the sharpness.
Perched on top of the pointed nose of the
mean it could be," said Grandpa. "Really?" said Norm. "Might just be the thin end of the wedge, Norman." And what was that supposed to mean? thought Norm. Thin end of what flipping wedge? A wedge of cheese? What was it with flipping cheese today? Everyone
Inside every pause lived a contemplation
The Thin Man
I indulge myself
In rich refusals.
Nothing suffices.
I hone myself to
This edge. Asleep, I
Am a horizon.
Keep your eye on the ridgeline, never lose sight of winter's hem. This is how you'll like to remember yourself: standing slightly apart and moving away, knowing in that last tawny rush of the leaves: what goes out there, it never comes back.
Thank you, Professor Weston... - How about those ellipses? Did they fit there)
- Gillian
revealing a splotchy red forehead, shiny with sweat.
The still point in a turning world.
First I have a think, and then I put a line around it.
What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?
What see you in the horizon's bruised smear
That cannot be blotted out
By your raised hand?
Top of mind means tip of tongue.
Common Lisp is politics, not art.
It is the thinnest lines that define us.
Trochee trips from long to short; From long to long in solemn sort Slow Spondee stalks.
Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!
The iron arc of the avoiding journey Curves back upon my weakness at the end; Whether the faint light spark against my face Or in the dark my sight hide from my sight, Centre and circumference are both my weakness.
There's such a thing as too much point on a pencil.
The rosy gleam of his lip, the fevered gleam of his eyes. There was not a line anywhere on his face, nothing creased or graying; all crisp. He was spring, golden and bright. Envious death would drink his blood, and grow young again.
The most highly prized curve of all is that of the bosom ...
From the first shock of the contemplation of a face depends the principal sensation which guides me throughout the entire execution of a portrait.
The thorne comes forth with the point forwards.
The breaking wave and the muscle as it contracts obey the same law. Delicate line gathers the body's total strength in a bold balance. Shall my soul meet so severe a curve, journeying on its way to form?
She stood on the edge of night, that sliver of gray between darkness and dawn, that razor-thin line separating the first part of her life and whatever lay ahead.
A faint blush melting through the light of thy transparent cheek like a rose-leaf bathed in dew.
I've been a professional writer for 20 years, and there are contours in that time, crescents and troughs.
The tongue is the only tool that gets sharper with use.
I will perform the function of a whetstone, which is about to restore sharpness to iron, though itself unable to cut.
[Lat., Fungar vice cotis, acutum
Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsi secandi.]
Behind you swiftly the figure comes softly,
The spot on your skin is a shocking disease.
cheek, the one so disfigured by that
'Tis the sharpness of our mind that gives the edge to our pains and pleasures.
When I came from horizontal vertical straight all old stuff then suddenly I go also again in curved lines. And there I submit to changes in the intensity of my hand leading a tool, you see.
The ellipse is as aimless as that,
Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear
In our present. Its flexing is its account,
Return to the point of no return.
A wounding tongue. I'm working on it. Perhaps its the Celt in me.
I realized that my kisses with Dane had become a form of punctuation, the quotations or the hasty dash at the end of a conversation
The dusk runs down the lane driven like hail;
Far off a precise whistle is escheat
To the dark; and then the towering weak and pale ...
This clockwork twin of mine halted before me, her bowels churning out a settecento minuet, and offered me the bold carnation of her smile. Click, click
she raises her arm and busily dusts my cheeks with pink, powdered chalk that makes me cough; then thrusts towards me her little mirror.
In mid-stroke of word and paper fusion
Una's face was an unbroken block of calculation, saving where, upon her upper lip, a little down of hair fluttered. Yet it gave one an uncanny feeling. It made one think of a tassel on a hammer.
LAST, n. A shoemaker's implement, named by a frowning Providence as opportunity to the maker of puns.
A light white, a disgras, an ink spot, a rosy charm.
There was only one thing about his own appearance which really pleased Hercule Poirot, and that was the profusion of his moustaches, and the way they responded to grooming and treatment and trimming. They were magnificent. He knew of nobody else who had any moustache half as good.
The serpentine line, or the line of grace, by its waving and winding at the same time different ways, leads the eye in a pleasing manner along the continuity of its variety.
In order to walk the path of the edge of the penknife the patience of the Saint Job is needed. In order to walk the path of the edge of the penknife the tenacity of the well tempered steel is needed.
the wrinkled sleeve of the head
There has been an unwise and spectacularly unsuccessful attempt to grow a goatee, hence a fluffy little tuft of something or other, just underneath the centre of his lower lip, that any mother would want to rub off with a bit of spit.
It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide - plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions.
I've got to feel the pencil and see the words at the end of the pencil,
Death sat in His garden, running a whetstone along the edge of His scythe. It was already so sharp that any passing breeze that blew across it was sliced smoothly into two puzzled zephyrs,
Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
While he himself was marking out lines and courses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing lines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.
Reepicheep: Unhand the tail. Aslan the Great gave me this tail and no one, repeat, no one, touches the tail. Period, exclamation mark!
Deep ridges crossed his forehead like terraces in a Thai hillside, tucks in a leather cushion, troughs across a bloodhound's jowls.
The high, thin nose was a little lonely, a little sad, but the bud of her lips opened and closed smoothly, like a beautiful little circle of leeches.
I looked silently at her lips. All women are lips, all lips. Some are pink and firmly round: a ring, a tender guardrail from the whole world. And then there are these ones: a second ago they weren't here, and just now - like a knife-slit - they are here, still dripping sweet blood.
The ink line drawing flowed the cursive journey,
created on paper canvas that brought the story to life.
I think these movements and become them, here,
In this room's stillness, none of them about,
And relish them all-until I think of where
Thrashed by a crook, the cursive adder writes
Quick V's and Q's in the dust and rubs them out.
from Movements
The edge of a precipice ... That is the place where man sits throughout his life!
A cough so robust that I tapped into two new seams of phlegm.
There's a lamentation in the flutter of your lash.
But my mind is like a thin line; it travels badly. I go from thought to thought but not with logic, and I forget things [ ... ]
That great brow And the spirit-small hand propping it.
Hatsumomo's lovely smille grew ... until her lips were as rich and full as drops of blood beading at the edge of a wound
My chin is weak. I find it hard to make decisions. For years I had been caught between the two stools of security on the land and rich-scented life on the exotic islands of literature.
I wasn't really a writer. I had seen a strange beautiful light on the hills and that was all.
There it was again, the prickling sense of standing on a precipice.
My mind is a sacred cow / bleeding in the ellipsis.
I was born with the Sight, Ink," she said, voice trembling. "So tell me, why were you the first person I'd ever seen from the Twixt?"
They stared at each other. His answer slipped through his lips.
"Because I saw you," he confessed. "And I couldn't look away.
She scissored the curls away, and - toms, grow easily sentimental over their haircuts, but I remember this sensation very vividly - it was not like she was cutting hair, it was as if I had a pair of wings beneath my shoulder-blades, that the flesh had all grown over, and she was slicing free ...
Take hold of objects by their centres, not by their lines of contour ... The contour accentuated uniformly and beyond proportion, destroys plasticity, bringing forward those parts of an object which are always most distant from the eye - namely its outlines.
O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
three lines etched into its surface,
moment, thought, what the hell?
THE mind, sharp but not broad, sticks at every point but does not move.
The sadness at the corners of the unsmiling crimson mouth
Don't let despair mutate your flesh
Look at my twisted stumps of thought
See the fingers, listen to the voice
I am slowly becoming the end of the line.
Where did you get that idea for a nose?
- Frizz Mizuno
The thought hath good leggs, and the quill a good tongue.
The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say what thou seest yond.
Thought's surface: word.
Word's surface: gesture.
Gesture's surface: skin.
Skin's surface: shiver.
Was that a smile? (Nora)
Was what a smile? (Ewan)
That strange curvature of your lips. You know, the one where the corners are actually going up instead of down. (Nora)
It is at the edge of excellence that genius awaits.
I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.