Mirrored Quotes (displaying: 1 - 16 of 16 quotes )
An ordinary mirror is silvered at the back but the window of the night train has darkness behind the glass. My face and the faces of other travellers were now mirrored on this darkness in a succession of stillnesses. Consider this, said the darkness: any motion at any speed is a succession of stillnesses; any section through an action will show just such a plane of stillness as this dark window in which your seeking face is mirrored. And in each plane of stillness is the moment of clarity that makes you responsible for what you do.
A day of dappled seaborne clouds. The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?
But love, honest love, requires empathy. It is a sharing—of joy, of pain, of laughter, and of tears. Honest love makes one’s soul a reflection of the partner’s moods. And as a room seems larger when it is lined with mirrors, so do the joys become amplified. And as the individual items within the mirrored room seem less acute, so does pain diminish and fade, stretched thin by the sharing. That is the beauty of love, whether in passion or friendship. A sharing that multiplies the joys and thins the pains.
Alan..." Shelby kept her voice mild and patient as excitement ripped through her. "I've already told you, nothing's going to get started between us. Don't take it personally," she added with a half smile. "You're very attractive. I'm just not interested."No?" With his free hand, he circled her wrist. "Your pulse is racing."Her annoyance was quick, mirrored in the sudden flare in her eyes, the sudden jerk of her chin. "I'm always happy to boost an ego," she said evenly. "Now, I'll get your shirt."Boost it a little higher," he suggested and drew her closer.
Michael Heseltine, a wild-haired visionary, Klaus Kinski to Margaret's Thatcher's Werner Herzog, pushed Docklands across the Thames to the East Greenwich Peninsula. The Millennium Dome concept was a remake of 'Fitzcarraldo', a film in which suborned natives (expendable extras) drag a paddle steamer over a hill in order to force a short cut to more exploitable territory. The point being to bring Enrico Caruso, one of the gods of opera, to an upstream trading post. An insane achievement mirrored in the rebranding of the Dome, after its long and expensive limbo, as the O2 Arena, a popular showcase for cryogenic rock acts: Norma Desmond divas and the resurrected Michael Jackson, whose virtual rebirth, post-mortem, gave the shabby tent the status of a riverside cathedral.
The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?
Phillip look into Ray's eyes. He saw compassion and hope. And he saw himself mirrored back, bleeding in a dirty gutter on a street where life was worth less than a dime bag. Sick, tired, petrified, Phillip dropped his head into his hands."What's the point?"You're the point, son." Ray ran his hand over Phillip's hair. "You're the point.
The leaves were long, the grass was green,The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,And in the glade a light was seenOf stars in shadow shimmering.Tinuviel was dancing thereTo music of a pipe unseen,And light of stars was in her hair,And in her raiment glimmering.There Beren came from mountains cold,And lost he wandered under leaves,And where the Elven-river rolled.He walked along and sorrowing.He peered between the hemlock-leavesAnd saw in wonder flowers of goldUpon her mantle and her sleeves,And her hair like shadow following.Enchantment healed his weary feetThat over hills were doomed to roam;And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,And grasped at moonbeams glistening.Through woven woods in ElvenhomeShe lightly fled on dancing feet,And left him lonely still to roamIn the silent forest listening.He heard there oft the flying soundOf feet as light as linden-leaves,Or music welling underground,In hidden hollows quavering.Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,And one by one with sighing soundWhispering fell the beechen leavesIn the wintry woodland wavering.He sought her ever, wandering farWhere leaves of years were thickly strewn,By light of moon and ray of starIn frosty heavens shivering.Her mantle glinted in the moon,As on a hill-top high and farShe danced, and at her feet was strewnA mist of silver quivering.When winter passed, she came again,And her song released the sudden spring,Like rising lark, and falling rain,And melting water bubbling.He saw the elven-flowers springAbout her feet, and healed againHe longed by her to dance and singUpon the grass untroubling.Again she fled, but swift he came.Tinuviel! Tinuviel!He called her by her elvish name;And there she halted listening.One moment stood she, and a spellHis voice laid on her: Beren came,And doom fell on TinuvielThat in his arms lay glistening.As Beren looked into her eyesWithin the shadows of her hair,The trembling starlight of the skiesHe saw there mirrored shimmering.Tinuviel the elven-fair,Immortal maiden elven-wise,About him cast her shadowy hairAnd arms like silver glimmering.Long was the way that fate them bore,O'er stony mountains cold and grey,Through halls of iron and darkling door,And woods of nightshade morrowless.The Sundering Seas between them lay,And yet at last they met once more,And long ago they passed awayIn the forest singing sorrowless.
I had started keeping a journal, and I was discovering that I didn't need school in order to experience the misery of appearances. I could manufacture excruciating embarrassment in the privacy of my bedroom, simply by reading what I'd written in the journal the day before. Its pages faithfully mirrored my fraudulence and pomposity and immaturity. Reading it made me desperate to change myself, to sound less idiotic. As George Benson had stressed in Then Joy Breaks Through, the experience of growth and self-realization, even of ecstatic joy, were natural processes available to believers and nonbelievers alike. And so I declared private war on stagnation and committed myself privately to personal growth. The Authentic Relationship I wanted now was with the written page.
Gil-galad was an Elven-king. Of him the harpers sadly sing: the last whose realm was fair and freebetween the Mountains and the Sea. His sword was long, his lance was keen, his shining helm afar was seen; the countless stars of heaven's fieldwere mirrored in his silver shield. But long ago he rode away, and where he dwelleth none can say; for into darkness fell his starin Mordor where the shadows are.