Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Unhorrified. 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 Unhorrified Quotes And Sayings by 86 Authors including William Shakespeare,Charles Baudelaire,Emily Dickinson,Charles Lamb,Colleen Hoover for you to enjoy and share.
Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.
Forest, I fear you! In my ruined heart your roaring wakens the same agony as in cathedrals when the organ moans and from the depths I hear that I am damned.
A Word that Breathes Distinctly
Has not the Power to Die
A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
eternally scared
Let the earth look at me, and bless me, for now I am fecund and sacred, like the palms and the furrows.
You walk on corpses, beauty, undismayed.
Dead. It sounds final but it's a word missing an ing.
There was something unspeakably
One shard of brilliant summer pierced me
and remains.
By this only
unregenerate bone
I am not dead, but waiting.
Soul rotted before my eyes.
frightening? Vigdis A. panted
An unedified palate is the irrepressible cloven foot of the upstart. The
Living jewels dropped unstained from heaven.
The unformed is not worse than the over-formed. The former is nothing; the latter is mere appearance. Real form presupposes real life.
Frumious. Anything that inspires its own adjective is a force to be feared.
Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored.
Alone!-that worn-out word, So idly spoken, and so coldly heard; Yet all that poets sing and grief hath known Of hopes laid waste, knells in that word ALONE!
All unquiet things,
which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs
Scared and sacred are spelled with the same letters. Awful proceeds from the same root word as awesome. Terrify and terrific. Every negative experience holds the seed of transformation.
Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.
Unheralded we came into this world. Unheralded we will go out. But while we are in this world, we do such deeds that even if this generation does not remember, the next generation cannot forget.
She is not refined. She is not unrefined. She keeps a parrot
I wanted to call you, but I find myself feeling ... awkward when it comes to you."
"'Awkward' is the word du jour," I agreed. "So, I make you nervous?"
"Not quite nervous," he said. "Just unsettled."
I wriggled my eyebrows and inched a little closer to him. "Unsettled, that's even better.
A squalid phantasmagoria of breath
The untouched created the unbroken.
The beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Not unseated,
Not even touched
By the shocks of sickness,
Gods stand worlds from men.
Blind and naked as an unearthed mole, uncomprehending.
Nothing can unman you like an un-man.
Wordless, it rises and falls in hemidemisemitones of unearthly misery. The dirge of the damned
I am unshakable.
Worthless. Stupid. These are the words I grew up hearing. They're the words I try to outrun, because if I let them in, until the only thing left of me is worthless stupid worthless stupid worthless stupid freak. And then there's nothing to do but run harder and fill myself with other words ...
Sterile, splendid torture of understanding and loving ...
despised. This natural
... la kuvunda halian ubani. There is no incense for something rotting. And that is the condition of the world. This I know.
You lack the courage to be consumed in flames and to become ashes: so you will never become new, and never young again!
A generation of the unteachable is hanging upon us like a necklace of corpses.
grotesque countenance
I write in praise of the solitary act: of not feeling a trespassing tongue forced into one's mouth, one's breath smothered, nipples crushed against the ribcage, and that metallic tingling in the chin set off by a certain odd nerve: unpleasure.
All that is loathsome, drooping, or decayed is here.
I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home; But the poor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
Aberrant is not abhorrent
Repose, v.i. To cease from troubling.
A fearful instance of the ill consequences attending upon irascibility - alive, with the qualifications of the dead - dead, with the propensities of the living - an anomaly on the face of the earth - being very calm, yet breathless.
Women have made me; and also unmade.
Simple, like uncarved wood.
I am pretty unextraordinary.
Each day we take another step to hell,
Descending through the stench, unhorrified
She was not quite what you would call refined.
She was not quite what you would call unrefined.
She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.
Extreme torture is mute, and so we sat silent, petrified, like columns of marble buried under the sand of an earthquake. Neither wished to listen to the other because our heart-threads had become weak and even breathing would have broken them.
Thou art the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor bare, forked animal as thou art.
First I was decayed, I was putrefied. Kept thinking I could never live on, now that I had died...
Agitated on the inside by disgust but with nothing showing in their immobile features, absolutely still, as unmoving as those of landscapes, of photographs, of summer sunsets, nothing showing in their ever-horizontal features, decomposing silently in the Formica chairs.
Fear is a desolate boneyard where our dreams go to desiccate in the hot sun. This
I have overspread the world like a syrup and the emptiness of it it's terrifying, but there is no dislodging the seed; the seed has become a little knot of cold fire which roars like a sun in the vast hollow of the dead carcass.
The perfection of rottenness.
Grief is terror, in its most undiluted form.
When I unwrapped the moth from its funeral shroud, it was the same startlingly lovely creature as on the day I had entombed it. Everything about it seemed beautiful and perfect, and so utterly unchanged.
I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd to hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in't: I have supt full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
I'm an unpure purist, something like that.
Peevishness may be considered the canker of life, that destroys its vigor and checks its improvement; that creeps on with hourly depredations, and taints and vitiates what it cannot consume.
Barren, barren and trivial are these words. But not barren the experience.
This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.
excoriated and burned, mapped and measured and meted
Don't repeat this word again
Lifeless and shockingly alien in that place where dissolution itself was a seething turmoil of ejaculation tumescence conception and birth, and death did not even exit.
absence
looks like a lake bed flooded with sky
sounds like cotton howling
tastes like tear-stained pillows
smells like churning bile and burnt hair
feels like screaming agony, my heart dying and dying
May the crushed spirit revived.
Worthless as wither'd weeds.
I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.
What is it that I especially find utterly unendurable? That I cannot cope with, that makes me choke and faint? Bad air! Bad air! The approach of some ill-constituted thing; that I have to smell the entrails of some ill-constituted soul!
I am not yet born; O hear me.
Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the
club-footed ghoul come near me.
Birds of prey and fierce piranha enter not into Nirvana, where are neither thorns nor nettles, only soft and fragrant petals.
What is this word that broke through the fence of your teeth, Atreides?
For this was untrammeled need; this was a body of water and a soul of ash. The
Accursed, blasted, heartless things [books]! Full of empty promises, full of false lures, always making you hungry, never satisfying you, never!
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 ...
out vile jelly! where is thy lustre now
Named must your fear be, before banish it you can.
The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown, is often left unloved.
Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
If all the world Should in a pet of temp'rance, feed on pulse, Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but frieze, Th' All-giver would be unthank'd, would be unprais'd.
Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.
It was my tongue that swore; my heart is unsworn.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart ...
Surely there is no more wretched sight that the human body unloved and uncared for.
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Right words, sometimes they escape me; curses nay so much. Of them I am kin.
Spooky wild and gusty; swirling dervishes of rattling leaves race by, fleeing the windflung deadwood that cracks and thumps behind.
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonor'd, and unsung.
Flee sloth; for the indolence of the soul is the decay of the body.
She is overtaken by a sensation of unbeing. There is no other word for it.
In very truth it is the unattained which gives zest to the commonplace and brims the cup of our daily life with keenest joy.
Nothing natural can be wholly unworthy.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
The sacred soul is untouchable.
I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.
Drear ritual turned its wheel. The ferment of the heart, within these walls, was mocked by every length of sleeping shadow. The passions, no greater than candle flames, flickered in Time's yawn, for Gormenghast, huge and adumbrate, out-crumbles all.
Anything more low, obscene, feculent, the manifold heaving's of history have not cast up. We shall come to the worship of onions, cats and things vermiculite.