Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Seam. 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 Seam Quotes And Sayings by 99 Authors including Amor Towles,Jane Yolen,Cleanth Brooks,Rick Bass,Gregory Maguire for you to enjoy and share.
I sutured split infinitives and hoisted dangling modifiers and wore out the seam of my best flannel skirt.
I have pulled threads from magic tapestries already woven and used them to weave my own cloth.
Man's experience is indeed a seamless garment, no part of which can be separated from the rest.
The seams, the laminae between the various worlds the past present and future as well as the living and the nonliving may not be as distinct and clear-cut as we have been taught or as our somewhat arbitrary clocks and calendars have led us to believe.
Your name is Rain, isn't it? Rain slips in the cracks and slides through the seams. You can do it? Can't you?
You may not divide the seamless coat of learning,
Our clothes are too much a part of us for most of us ever to be entirely indifferent to their condition: it is as though the fabric were indeed a natural extension of the body, or even of the soul.
Genetic Denim gods, if you're listening, please don't rip, and if you have to, maybe you could have an elf from your warehouse send me another pair ... I'm a size 28 and its called 'The Twig' in a dark grayish wash ... I will wear them until I die, unless those rips beat me to it.
the bed, narrow apple-green draperies at
I wonder if she was goin' to quilt it or just knot it?
What binds the fabric together when the raging, shifting, winds of change keep ripping away?
The cut of a garment speaks of intellect and talent and the color of temperament and heart.
Look deep into my soul than what stretches the fabric of my clothes
and the frayed earth, crisscrossed like old bagasse, spring to a cushiony quilt of emerald grass, and who does sew and sow and patch the land?
God, the Master Weaver. He stretches the yarn and intertwines the colors, the ragged twine with the velvet strings, the pains with the pleasures. Nothing escapes his reach.
Our lives are like single threads meticulously woven together - the result an exquisite tapestry of past, present, and future. Bound by unflappable trust, our hearts, our desires, her life woven into mine.
Like delicate lace, So the threads intertwine, Oh, gossamer web Of wond'rous design! Such beauty and grace Wild nature produces ... Ughh, look at the spider Suck out that bug's juices!
It's a good thing you're not my Story Weaver. You're easily distracted by the pattern of the cloth and can't see the quality of the threads." "Well
Dear Lord...patch this work. Quilt us together, feather-stitching piece by piece our tag-ends of living, our individual scraps of love
Jimmie says our socks and clothes are very religious because they are so holey
The sky was a feather blanket of clouds, save for one blue hole in the fabric. A blue cloud in a white sky.
The stallion and his mare,
unbridled, with arrow-pattern,
are worked on.
the blue cloth
before the door
of religion and inspiration ...
like a patchwork of twisting tunnels and
...there was something in the texture of the weave that felt happy: the
echo of a memory so far down in his soul it was all emotion, a
burst of colour and warmth, adrift from time and place.
Scraps of love
torn and tattered
faded, scattered
trashed
threads of hope
frayed and tangled
broken, mangled
dashed
backing, buttons
yarn and batting
quilted tenderly
wrapped up in
this warm repair
my patchwork family
I undress to impress - Patch
After recently acquiring a position as a seamstress at Damsels in Dis Dress,
Apparel, n.: There are times I don't mind doing the laundry, because folding your clothes reminds me of the shape of you.
The cabbage white flies through the tailor's cheek. The tailor sinks his head. The cabbage white flies out of the back of the tailor's head, white and uncrumpled. Skinny Wilma flaps her handkerchief. The cabbage white flies through her forehead and into her head.
What a richly colored strong warm coat is woven when love is the warp and work is the woof.
the rain falls, catching the trailing edges of net curtains which flow out of open windows like fishing nets lowered over the backs of boats, nets hung neatly between the outside and the in, keeping floundering secrets firmly hidden...
You have to keep taking the next necessary stitch, and the next one, and the next. Without stitches, you just have rags. And we are not rags.
Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket
Only I can snatch my own weave
It is the horrible texture of a fabric that should be woven of ships' cables and hawsers. A Polar wind blows through it, and birds of prey hover over it.
You can weave your life so long
only so long, and then a thing in the world out of your control will tug at one vital thread and leave you patternless and subdued.
The only spot of comfort was the lingering impression of her fingertips through the fabric of his shirt, a reminder of the good side of having skin. He cultivated that square-inch patch, tilled and tended it into a full-body embrace.
I keep wondering if it'll ever hurt less. This...this hole in our lives." "Oh, I imagine it'll hurt less eventually. I think there will always be a hole, though. But lace is one of the most beautiful fabrics, you know. All those holes and gaps, but it's still complete somehow- still lovely.
To fine folkes a little ill finely wrapt.
Ou always have to choose between the path of needles and the path of pins. When a dress is torn, you know, you can just pin it up, or you can take the time to sew it together. That's what it means. The quick and easy way or the painful way that works.
The ends and means are a seamless web.
Down the endless halls of quilt
My silver thread of tears is split.
My fingerbone the key that broke
My blood the oil that smooth the lock.
Only a master weaver could intertwine dark and light threads in such a way that all one saw was beauty when looking back at the finished tapestry.
khaki utility vests - open portmanteaus
All her old thoughts seemed as thin and ragged as a piece of knitting made and ripped out and made and ripped out again until all the threads were frayed, growing ever more worn, but never larger.
She tangled her words
like matted fishing lines
Like warp and woof all destinies
Are woven fast,
Linked in sympathy like the keys
Of an organ vast.
Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;
Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.
Around your skin, I tie and untie mine.
Now my tapestry's unraveling.
It was one frayed rope thrown across the chasm between us. Not enough to get across, but maybe just enough to tell that it wasn't as wide as I'd originally thought.
I was held together by one thread that was black and frayed, and the end of it was tied to Maggie. She had unwittingly pulled on it, loosening the already loose knitting until I was nothing more than a pile of tangled string, completely unraveled.
No one ever taught me, and I never had formal classes in pattern making, so I was like, Okay, I'll just drape, and I'll sew as I pin it.
Warp threads are thicker than the weft, and made of a coarser wool as well. I think of them as like wives. Their work is not obvious - all you can see are the ridges they make under the colorful weft threads. But if they weren't there, there would be no tapestry. Georges would unravel without me.
Here," he said,holding out a dark mink coat. "Thought you might be cold."
"Where did you-"
"I yoinked it off a broad coming home from the market back there.Don't worry,she had enough natural padding already."
"Bill!"
"Hey,you needed it!" He shrugged. "Wear it in good health.
Whether you're a programmer or a seamstress, it's all about new techniques, simplifying old techniques, and consolidating steps. Making things go faster - but not worse.
He couldn't read any more of Velvette's stories. This was too intimate. She spills her soul by stitching words so splendidly, even ragged threads are imperceptible.
Rip yourself open.
Tell me my life story before I die.
Sew yourself shut.
Our life is woven wind.
I rose to my knees, mouth dry and heart pounding, and paused to finger a rip in my beautiful Dacron bowling shirt. I pushed my fingertip through the hole and wiggled it at myself. Hello, Dexter, where are you going? Hello, Mr. Finger. I don't know, but I'm almost there. I hear my friends calling.
A gust of wind went Nike across the flat landscape
The zip on the pitch is very zippy
This is what art is all about. It is weaving fabric from the feathers you have plucked from your own breast. But no one must ever see the process - only the finished bolt of goods. They must never suspect that that crimson thread running through the pattern is blood.
The Weaver wove herself from the thread of night, hair of moonlight, skin of stars. So old. Without beginning or end.
is the part of the hook that determines the size of the stitches. This part is also sometimes referred to as the shank. When a pattern directs a
Shifting from one hip to the other in his lumbering, elephantine fashion, Ignatius sent waves of flesh rippling beneath the tweed and flannel, waves that broke upon buttons and seams. Thus
Tabitha's quilt was more than pieces of fabric sewn together. It was a patchwork of souls.
Bean also saw how the man's body moved inside his clothes, with a kind of contained strength that made his clothes seem like Kleenex, he could rip through the fabric just by tugging at it a little, because nothing could hold him in except his own self-control.
the wrinkled sleeve of the head
We wore that grief like one wears one's underclothes. An invisible skin, unseen to prying eyes, but knitted to us all the same. We wore it every day.
You never realize how much of your background is sewn into the lining of your clothes.
the sleeve slipping over the edge of the rung. I steadied myself, fed more of the sleeve through it, until I had a complete loop through the rung. That work shirt was my favorite one, Gap, one hundred
Everybody's got the seam of goodness in them, Kit," said Grandpa. "Just a matter of whether it can be found and brought out into the light.
When a man says knife is no form of seduction he means he's never been split. But doesn't everyone have a seam? Unravel to dark sugar?"
Feminism is not a patch; it is a whole new pattern which can only be realized by weaving a new garment, seamless from top to bottom and multicolored from the beginning.
Joy and woe are woven fine, a clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine, runs a joy with silken twine.
I can't sew, but I can spin one helluva yarn.
weaving his way across
I got to keep it tight like seams,
Cause ain't no fiends
Comin' in between me and my dreams,
See what I mean, black?
The sun and wind pour into the sheets on the line. There are bodies in the billowing, forms created and lost in a breath.
CALL ME PATCH. NO REALLY, CALL ME
The morning road air was like a new dress. That made her feel the apron tied around her waist. She untied it and flung it on a low bush beside the road and walked on,
Mama sewed the rags together, sewing every piece with love. She made my coat of many colors that I was proud of.
Whirling of her skirts,
a chequered carpet beneath-
sunset dawns outside.
Tom Hyde, the tinker, standing on the gallows, was asked if he had anything to say. "Tell the tailors," said he, "to remember to make a knot in their thread before they take the first stitch." His companion's prayer is forgotten.
The rope has been torn; a knot
Can tie it again, but
It's been torn.
Perhaps we'll meet again, but
You won't find me
In the place where we parted ways.
Either it is the fold of the infinite, or the constant folds [replis] of finitude which curve the outside and constitute the inside.
Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.
It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.
To think, a sweater, is made entirely of knots. My stomach could clothe a village.
The snow ... came in thick tufts like new wool - washed before the weaver spins it.
A mortal had woven it, a man who, having caught sight of the Seelie queen, had spent the remainder of his short life weaving depictions of her. He had died of starvation, raw, red fingers staining the final tapestry.
I am spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world.
Mum had a job fitting upholstery into cars, but, in the evenings, she worked as a seamstress.
Your twisting is done
you have the last thread of my heart. I wonder: when the thread grows slack, will you feel it?
Weave the circle, tightly sewn,
Let nothing evil or unknown
Enter within. Stay without
On pain of death, we cast you out.
What am I doing? Tearing myself. My usual occupation at most times.
Loopy as a crochet convention.
The stitch ripper is your friend. Be one with the stitch ripper...
A vast deal of human sympathy runs along the electric line of needlework, stretching from the throne to the wicker chair of the humble seamstress.
What need for feathers now? What need to confirm their loss? While the womb-red sky swelled with the promise of tomorrow, and he rode the warm, crimson currents, skimming, wheeling and gliding.