Browsing Topic Best Beads Quotes

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins – now the crows own the field.

Here is the door of my mom’s house, well-remembered childhood portal. Here is the yard, and a set of wires that runs from the house to a wooden pole, and some fat birds sitting together on the wires, five of them lined up like beads on an abacus.

People count with self-satisfaction the number of times they have recited the name of God on their prayer beads, but they keep no beads for reckoning the number of idle words they speak.

Irish Catholics are more interested in the rosary beads than in the rosary.

I think all writers are always collecting characters as we go along. Not just characters of course, we’re collecting EVERYTHING. Bits and pieces of story. An interesting dynamic between people. A theme. A great character back story. A cool occupation. The look of someone’s eyes. A burning ambition. Hundreds of thousands of bits of flotsam and jetsam that we stick in the back of our minds like the shelves full of buttons and ribbons and fabrics and threads and beads in a costumer’s shop.

Where there is no style, there is in effect no point of view. There is, essentially, no anger, no conviction, no self. Style is opinion, hung washing, the caliber of a bullet, teething beads.

There are a lot of recent pics of me rocking silk strings of beads. They’re made by survivors of the sex trade in Cambodia who were rescued by one of the organizations I support.

You know that for sure because Godzilla was killed by an ordinary missile. He spends most of that film dodging them but then the Army finally gets a bead on him and they shoot a missile at him and he blows up and dies, and that’s not what Godzilla is. Godzilla is supposed to be a thing that you can’t possibly kill, no matter how hard you try.

They say the Pharaohs built the pyramids Do you think one Pharaoh dropped one bead of sweat? We built the pyramids for the Pharaohs and we’re building for them yet.

The painful things seemed like knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.

Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law, Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw; Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite; Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage, And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age. Pleased with this bauble still, as that before, Till tired he sleeps, and life’s poor play is o’er.

I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like child stringing beads in kindergarten, – happy, absorbed and quietly putting one bead on after another.

A danger of travel is that we see things at the wrong time, before we have had a chance to build up the necessary receptivity and when new information is therefore as useless and fugitive as necklace beads without a connecting chain.

In the camp, this meant committing my verse-many thousands of lines-to memory. To help me with this I improvised decimal counting beads and, in transit prisons, broke up matchsticks and used the fragments as tallies. As I approached the end of my sentences I grew more confident of my powers of memory, and began writing down and memorizing prose-dialogue at first, but then, bit by bit, whole densely written passages. My memory found room for them! It worked. But more and more of my time-in the end as much as one week every month-went into the regular repetition of all I had memorized.

I’m not going to lay down in words the lure of this place. Every great writer in the land, from Faulkner to Twain to Rice to Ford, has tried to do it and fallen short. It is impossible to capture the essence, tolerance, and spirit of south Louisiana in words and to try is to roll down a road of clichés, bouncing over beignets and beads and brass bands and it just is what it is. It is home.

If I hold her hand she says, ‘Don’t touch!’ If I hold her foot she says ‘Don’t touch!’ But when I hold her waist-beads she pretends not to know.

On the motionless branches of some trees, autumn berries hung like clusters of coral beads, as in those fabled orchards where the fruits were jewels . . .

Instead of kids just hearing about beads and baskets and fringe, and about what ‘was’ and ‘were,’ we present Native American culture as a living contemporary culture.

Women want a family life that glitters and is stable. They don’t want some lump spouse watching ice hockey in the late hours of his eighteenth beer. They want a family that is so much fun and is so smart that they look forward to Thanksgiving rather than regarding it with a shudder. That’s the glitter part. The stable part is, obviously, they don’t want to be one bead on a long necklace of wives. They want, just like men, fun, love, fame, money and power. And equal pay for equal work.

There’s a one in six billion chance you’ll find your soul mate. And that’s if they’re not dead. At best they’re probably living in some Siberian ice cave eating bugs and weaving beads into their back hair. But they’re out there. My dad believed that to find your perfect soul mate, first, you had to look through a bunch of other guys’ soul mates.

In some countries Women’s Day is a national holiday and men give women flowers. In America Women’s Day falls on another holiday, Mardi Gras, where men give women beads in the respectful and post-feminist desire to see their naked boobies.

blue bead on the wick,there’s that in me thatburns and chills, blackeningmy heart with its soot,I think sometimes not Apollo heard mebut a different god.

If I look back, my mother was always out. I can remember the perfume and her scarlet chiffon dress and crystal beads, going to a party. She used to play her violin at restaurants later on in life and at old people’s homes. She loved the races, which she used to take me to as a child: our carpets were bought with her winnings. Loved her chickens.

In this uncertain space between birth and death, especially here at the end of the world in Moonlight Bay, we need hope as surely as we need food and water, love and friendship. The trick, however, is to remember that hope is a perilous thing, that it’s not a steel and concrete bridge across the void between this moment and a brighter future. Hope is no stronger than tremulous beads of dew strung on a filament of spider web, and it alone can’t long support the terrible weight of an anguished mind and a tortured heart.

slowly the paledew-beads of lightlapped up from flowerscan thicken,darken to gold:honey of the human.

I ordered each man to be presented with something, as strings of ten or a dozen glass beads apiece, and thongs of leather, all which they estimated highly; those which came on board I directed should be fed with molasses.

Creativity is part sweat – not just beads of it, but sometimes buckets.

And her voice is a string of colored beads, Or steps leading into the sea.

Like threads of silver seen through crystal beads Let love through good deeds show.

You know that every bead of sweat falling off your head, every weight you’ve pumped – the history of that is all in your eyes.

To sweat is to pray, to make an offering of your innermost self. Sweat is holy water, prayer beads, pearls of liquid that release your past. Sweat is an ancient and universal form of self healing, whether done in the gym, the sauna, or the sweat lodge. I do it on the dance floor. The more you dance, the more you sweat. The more you sweat, the more you pray. The more you pray, the closer you come to ecstasy.

The literary man? An indiscreet man, who devaluates his miseries, divulges them, tells them like so many beads: immodesty-the sideshow of second thoughts-is his rule; he offers himself.

Day is like day as two beads in a rosary, unless changes of weather form the only variety.

No. He wouldn’t lie about that. Not to her. And not because she’d rip him to pieces when she discovered the truth. I can’t give you forever. The nibbling increased in intensity, leaving a bead of blood in the center of her mouth. Because we’re not a good match? Of course she would remember every insult he’d ever thrown at her. Yes. Then what can you give me? Here. Now. Something his body craved more with every second that passed.

Method is more important than strength, when you wish to control your enemies.