Lid Quotes (page 2)
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It was Miss Murdstone who was arrived, and a gloomy-looking lady she was...She brought with her, two uncompromising hard black boxes, with her initials on the lids in hard brass nails. When she paid the coachman she took her money out of a hard steel purse, and she kept the purse in a very jail of a bag which hung upon her arm by a heavy chain, and shut up like a bite. I had never, at that time, seen such a metallic lady altogether as Miss Murdstone was.
Charles Dickens
Oiled, with tube bones cut from bronze and sunk in gelatin, the robots lay. In coffins for the not dead and not alive, in planked boxes, the metronomes waited to be set in motion. There was a smell of lubrication and lathed brass. There was a silence of the tomb yard. Sexed but sexless, the robots. Named but unnamed, and borrowing from humans everything but humanity, the robots stared at the nailed lids of their labeled F.O.B. boxes, in a death that was not even a death, for there had never...
Ray Bradbury
it occurred to me what a simple thing reality is, how easy it is to make it work. It's just reality. Just housework. Just a home. Like running a simple machine. Once you learn to run it, it's just a matter of repetition. You push this button and pull that lever. You adjust a gauge, put on the lid, set the timer. The same thing, over and over.
Haruki Murakami
She is standing on my lids. And her hair is in my hair. She has the colour of my eye. She has the body of my hand. In my shade she is engulfed. As a stone against the sky. She will never close her eyes. And she does not let me sleep. And her dreams in the bright day. Make the suns evaporate. And me laugh cry and laugh. Speak when I have nothing to say
Paul Eluard
Swirling furiously among the stairs and corridors of her exquisite home like a small and angry white bat Sybilla, Dowager Lady Culter, was not above spitting at her unfortunate son when he chose to sit down in his own great hall to take his boots off. ‘If Madge Mumblecrust comes down those stairs once again for a morsel of fowl’s liver with ginger, or pressed meats with almond-milk, I shall retire to a little wicker house in the forest and cast spells which will sink Venice into the sea for...
Dorothy Dunnett
That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found. A thing to do, and all her hair. In one long yellow string I wound. Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again. Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress. About her neck; her cheek once more. Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .
Robert Browning