Moving In Quotes (page 5)
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It was curious how that predestined horror moved in and
out of one’s consciousness. There it lay, fixed in future times,
preceding death as surely as 99 precedes 100. One could not
avoid it, but one could perhaps postpone it: and yet instead,
every now and again, by a conscious, wilful act, one chose
to shorten the interval before it happened.
At this moment there was a quick step on
George Orwell
And even if these scenes from our youth were given back to us we would hardly know what to do. The tender, secret influence that passed from them into us could not rise again. We might be amongst them and move in them; we might remember and love them and be stirred by the sight of them. But it would be like gazing at the photograph of a dead comrade; those are his features, it is his face, and the days we spent together take on a mournful life in the memory; but the man himself it is not.
Erich Maria Remarque
... Suppose these hours are composed of ourselves, So that they become an impalpable town, full of Impalpable bells, transparencies of sound. Sounding in transparent dwellings of the self, Impalpable habitations that seem to move. In the movement of the colors of the mind. Confused illuminations and sonorities, So much ourselves, we cannot tell apartthe idea and bearer - being ofthe idea....
Wallace Stevens
With the palms zipping past and the big sun burning down on the road ahead, I had a flash of something I hadn’t felt since my first months in Europe - a mixture of ignorance and a loose, “what the hell” kind of confidence that comes on a man when the wind picks up and he begins to move in a hard straight line toward an unknown horizon.
Hunter S. Thompson
I was moving in a narrow range between busy distractedness and a pervasive sadness whose granules seemed to enter each cell, weighing it down, one grain per cell, just enough in sum that I walked with head lowered, shoulders rolled into a slump, feet shuffling . . . . I ghosted between islands of anxiety . . . and a fatigue that dulled my zest, decanted it. Sorrow felt like a marble coat I couldn't shed. [pp. 152-153]
Diane Ackerman
