Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Palaver. 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 Palaver Quotes And Sayings by 95 Authors including Lao-Tzu,Thomas Hardy,Hope Ann,Thomas Gray,Cornell Woolrich for you to enjoy and share.
that of the mind is in abysmal stillness;
An unedified palate is the irrepressible cloven foot of the upstart. The
His fingers brushed the outline of the bronze disc hanging beneath his tunic. Haydn jerked his
hand away, gritting his teeth as he tried to block the memories. The clashing of steel. The screams and cries of battle. They fled, replaced by flames. Shadows. Pleading and tears.
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
It was dark now, and broodingly sluggish. Like something supine waiting to spring, with just the tip of its tail twitching. Leaves stood still on the trees. An evil green star glinted in the black sky like a hostile eye, like an evil spying eye.
("For The Rest Of Her Life")
I opened both eyes. Dread was sitting on my chest as if it were an animal. I mean, dread so real it had physical presence, like a Labrador retriever I could teach tricks to. Here, Dread. Sit, Dread. Roll over, Dread. Play dead, Dread.
Do you wrestle with dreams?
Do you contend with shadows?
Do you move in a kind of sleep?
Time has slipped away.
Your life is stolen.
You tarried with trifles,
Victim of your folly.
When sighs are hypnotized by sorrow
Happy moments you need to borrow
From a little child or from a bird
Who has the wild freedom of soul: stirred!
Inside every pause lived a contemplation
The dread had not left my soul.
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
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?
Left alone, I was passive; repulsed, I withdrew; forgotten - my lips would not utter, nor my eyes dart a reminder.
His sunrise mood evaporated with the dew, giving way to restlessness, disquiet. All his life, Lucius's moods had been prey to shifts of light, and now a leaden melancholy dragged at his spirits.
A little impatience (carefully applied and infused with
For a moment Dustfinger felt as if he had never been away- as if he had simply had a bad dream, and the memory of it had left a stale taste on his tongue,a shadow on his heart,nothing more.
The grave, dread thing! Men shiver when thou'rt named: Nature appalled, Shakes off her wonted firmness.
My heartaches, sadness has consumed me, emptiness has filled me, hold me do not let me slip away.
Show me one thing here on earth which has begun well and not ended badly. The proudest palpitations are engulfed in a sewer, where they cease throbbing, as though having reached their natural term: this downfall constitutes the heart's drama and the negative meaning of history.
A slow terror slowly build
A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
stuttering over your words.
spasm of horror, which
The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!
It's a brooding melancholy that haunts me.
E'en Beauty mourns in her decaying bower,
That Time upon her angel brow should set
His crooked autograph, and mar the jet
Of glossy locks. Lo! how her chaplet green,
The hoar frost and the canker worm destroy.
Decay's dull film obscures those matchless eyes.
The gorgeous breathlessness and thrilling pulse
those are sensations that the years have layered on top of the initial emptiness, like sheet after sheet of silk covering a bare table. More than fifty years later I can only see the cloth; the table has been obscured.
Foul smell of the things that we do to escape
There is no glamour in this. No rock and roll.
This is just endings. This is just grief.
The smile that folded the puffed eyelids and creased the sagging cheeks was fixed and forced. I'd seen such smiles in mortuaries on the false face of death. It reminded me that I was going to grow old and die.
Shard by shard we are released from the tyranny of so-called time. A curtain of purple wisteria partially conceals the entrance to a familiar garden ... In a wink, a lifetime, we pass through the infinite movements of a silent overture.
Nothing can so pierce the soul as the uttermost sigh of the body.
The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
An unfinished feeling.
I wonder at the idleness of tears.
The hollows around her eyes were darkly glamorous, her mouth sullen: she had the beauty of an insomniac.
This pause of rest, This morning hush before the sun.
Right words, sometimes they escape me; curses nay so much. Of them I am kin.
Listlessness to everything, but brooding sorrow, was the night that fell on my undisciplined heart. Let me look up from it - as at last I did, thank Heaven! - and from its long, sad, wretched dream, to dawn.
Moping melancholy And moon-struck madness.
Hypnotized
I am hypnotized
Sleepwalking to the rhythm of your words,
Never wishing to wake-
I had become a little like a coffin: I felt a hollowness in me and a rattling at my seams.
The churn of stale words in the heart again
love love love thud of the old plunger
pestling the unalterable
whey of words
The long eyelids beat and lift: a burning needleprick stings and quivers in the velvet iris.
Let soul speak with the silent articulation of a face.
For a flicker of a moment our gazes held, sweet and tormented.
My heart, for unknown reasons, seems to freeze in motion in my chest. I can see he senses it and he holds his pause to enjoy my suffering, prolonging my ignorance. Viktor, what?
Trifling trouble find utterance; deeply felt pangs are silent.
I just sit at a typewriter and curse a bit.
I used to tremble from nerves so badly that the only way I could hold my head steady was to lower my chin practically to my chest and look up at Bogie. That was the beginning of The Look.
The yawn of the void. A siren call for the unimaginative
Why so pale and wan, fond lover,
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
The wrinkles in my brow,
The furrows in my face,
Say, limping age will lodge him now
Where youth must give him place.
Today words curve around my vision,
Stumbling from my parched core
To soak again those strands of silence.
I have lost my rhythm.
I can't sleep.
I can't eat.
I have been robbed of
my filth.
I'd always imagined that I'd come up with something clever and pithy when it came to my last words, but as I stood there staring at those horrifying green eyes, I settled for a little startled profanity.
How embarrassing.
Poise was keeping your knees and your lips together, your eyebrows and your nostrils apart.
My soul wandered, happy, sad, unending.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought ...
Swallow future
Spit out hope
Burn your face
Upon the chrome
Window. I felt anxious and
The computer, the noise of the computer feels like impatience. It's sort of the sound of impatience to me.
His grip slackened. His last breath rustled her hair. She felt his soul release its hold on the strands of the spiderweb that connected them, and it was like falling asleep in a monster's lair--frightened of the dark, but too tired to keep going.
In video games and animation, you find that the toughest things to make different are the things that aren't words: grunts, groans, gasps.
Hunched forward, feeling his ears burning, his hands shaking. Tried to concentrate. Found his eyes flickering over sentences and phrases, retaining nothing. [Charles Meredith]
A tear that trembles for a little while
Upon the trembling eyelid, till the world
Wavers within its circle like a dream,
Holds more of meaning in its narrow orb
Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.
stillness, the ruler of movement.
Plunderous is the palate I gift to you, openly I hug the universe of our friendship expanding its outer limit.
For a long time, my subconscious rested in a dark place, ticking through memories like a jukebox selecting a record ...
I'm staring, emotionless, into a pair of unfamiliar, dark eyes. I feel as though I'm staring at two eyes I've never seen before, despite the fact that I've more than likely looked at these eyes on a daily basis since I was old enough to reach a mirror.
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed,
And my head, worn out with love, at rest
In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
Volatile repose. The words just kept occurring to me. It was a perfect description of me -quiet, calm, but on the edge of something vast and dark and dangerous and explosive.
A feeling, for which I have no name, has taken possession of my soul.
I was brooding, boy. Than which there is no richer pastime. It muffles one with rotting plumes. It gives forth sullen music. It is the smell of home.
My thoughts are quiet, but not calm. There is a terror on the edge of the silence, a terror fed by my burning flesh and the stench of death.
If I could/bind myself to this moment, to the slow//snare of its scent/what would it matter if I became//just the flutter of page/in a text someone turns//to examine me/in the wrong color?
The gloom encroaches upon my mind, and my heart flutters like a bird held fast in a fist.
The beat of her heart, the slow burning away ... of the bitter fires of the devil's arcade.
My dignified weeping gives way to full-on ugliness, my mouth open and my face contorted and sounds like a dying animal coming from my throat.
A nervous silence loosens tongues
senseless, senseless coughs of emotion
There is rust in my mouth,the stain of an old kiss.
How often our involuntary facial motions testify to the thoughts we were keeping secret, and betray us to those around!
His stubble was cut smooth. he smelled of aftershave, dry deodorant and sex-tarnished bedsheets. those eyes
grey, strong, inlaid beneath a firm brow that displayed such hate and SUCH love
they seduced her every time ... but not tonight.
lilting cadence,
Smooth out with wine the worries of a wrinkled brow.
Disgust at the torments that shackle us, the chains of heavy life.
One's palate is reborn every morning!
You rest, you rust.
My soul's the present shadow of a presence gone.
That fitful strain of melancholy which will ever be found inseperable from the perfection of the beautiful.
Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of complaint on which he dwells in his moments of dejection.
ennui - that dreaded mire of the human emotions.
The fresh complexion of former days was gone. A mortal pallor covered those features, which he had known so charming and so gentle, and sorrow had furrowed them into pitiless lines and traced dark and unspeakably sad shadows under her eyes.
Where words leave off, gesture begins. Don't we speak of a person being speechless with rage, dancing with impatience, setting his teeth? The final motions of the soul are speechless, animal, grotesque, or of an incomparable beauty.
It rasped her, though, to have stirring about in her this brutal monster! to hear twigs cracking and feel hooves planted down in the depths of that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul; never to be content quite, or quite secure, for at any moment the brute would be stirring, this hatred ...
All affectation; 'tis my perfect scorn;
Object of my implacable disgust.
Repose, v.i. To cease from troubling.
Before I write down one word, I have to have the character in my mind through and through. I must penetrate into the last wrinkle of his soul.
Where does such tenderness come from
And what do I do with it, you, sly,
Adolescent, vagabond singer,
Whose lashes couldn't be longer?