Heat Quotes (page 2)
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One stifling summer afternoon last August, in the attic of a tiny stone house in Pennsylvania, I made a most interesting discovery: the shortest, cheapest method of inducing a nervous breakdown ever perfected. In this technique..., the subject is placed in a sharply sloping attic heated to 340 F and given a mothproof closet known as the Jiffy-Cloz to assemble.
S. J. Perelman
The light of artistic creation is also blinding.
The artist can’t see the suffering he causes
to those around him. And the’ll never
understand the purity of his goal, how the heat
of his invention won’t melt the ice in his heart.
He must be ruthless!
No religion, no purpose except this:
Make something perfect before you die.
Life is short, art is for all time
Ian Mcewan
All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow, Stitch life down for fear we guess. At the hidden ugliness. Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with your steel-thin beat. To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind, You shall not: I'll keep it free. Though you turn earth, sky and sea. To a patchwork quilt to keep. Your mind snug and warm in sleep!
Edith Sitwell
If it were not for the depressing heat and the urgency of the work, one could sit down and laugh to tears at the absurdity of the thing, and under the circumstances it is a little wearing. But our motto is the old west coast proverb, Softly, softly, catchee monkey; in other words, don't flurry; patience gains the day.
Robert Baden-Powell
He tried to think of something to say but could not. He's had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the dull despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things toe eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down...
Cormac McCarthy
I looked at her without a word. She held an edge of the beach towel in each hand, pressing the edges against her cheeks. White smoke was rising from the cigarette between her fingers. With no wind to disturb it, the smoke rose straight up, like a miniature smoke signal. She was apparently having trouble deciding whether to cry or to laugh. At least she looked that way to me. She wavered atop the narrow line that divided one possibility from the other, but in the end she fell to neither side....
Haruki Murakami
A day, a livelong day, is not one thing but many. It changes not only in growing light toward zenith and decline again, but in texture and mood, in tone and meaning, warped by a thousand factors of season, of heat or cold, of still or multi winds, torqued by odors, tastes, and the fabrics of ice or grass, of bud or leaf or black-drawn naked limbs. And as a day changes so do its subjects, bugs and birds, cates, dogs, butterflies and people.
John Steinbeck