Ripening Quotes (displaying: 1 - 21 of 21 quotes )
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--- No---yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever---or else swoon in death.
The highest branch of solitary amusement is reading; but even in the choice of books the fancy is first employed; for in reading, the heart is touched, till its feelings are examined by the understanding, and the ripening of reason regulate the imagination. This is the work of years, and the most important of all employments.
We cannot know his legendary headwith eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torsois still suffused with brilliance from inside, like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low, gleams in all its power. Otherwisethe curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor coulda smile run through the placid hips and thighsto that dark center where procreation flared. Otherwise this stone would seem defacedbeneath the translucent cascade of the shouldersand would not glisten like a wild beast's fur: would not, from all the borders of itself, burst like a star: for here there is no placethat does not see you. You must change your life.
Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A moment and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears.
I travelled the old road every day, I took my fruits to the market, my cattle to the meadows, I ferried my boat across the stream andall the ways were well known to me. One morning my basket was heavy with wares. Men were busy inthe fields, the pastures crowded with cattle; the breast of earthheaved with the mirth of ripening rice. Suddenly there was a tremor in the air, and the sky seemed tokiss me on my forehead. My mind started up like the morning out ofmist. I forgot to follow the track. I stepped a few paces from thepath, and my familiar world appeared strange to me, like a flower. I had only known in bud. My everyday wisdom was ashamed. I went astray in the fairylandof things. It was the best luck of my life that I lost my path thatmorning, and found my eternal childhood.
This day was only the first of man similar ones for the emancipated Mole, each of them longer and fuller of interest as the ripening summer moved onward. He learned to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.
Any thought that abandons unity glorifies diversity. Anddiversity is the home of art. The only thought to liberate the mindis that which leaves it alone, certain of its limits and of itsimpending end. No doctrine tempts it. It awaits the ripening of thework and of life. Detached from it, the work will once more give abarely muffled voice to a soul Forever freed from hope. Or it willgive voice to nothing if the creator, tired of his activity, intends toturn away. That is equivalent.
A paradox: the same century invented History and PHotography. But History is a memory fabricated according to positive formulas, a pure intellectual discourse which abolishes mythic Time; and the Photograph is a certain but fugitive testimony; so that everything, today, prepares our race for this impotence: to be no longer able to conceive duration, affectively or symbolically: the age of the Photograph is also the age of revolutions, contestations, assassinations, explosions, in short, of impatiences, of everything which denies ripening.
In this there is no measuring with time, a year doesn’t matter, and ten years are nothing. Being an artist means: not numbering and counting, but ripening like a tree, which doesn’t force its sap, and stands confidently in the storms of spring, not afraid that afterward summer may not come. It does come. But it comes only to those who are patient, who are there as if eternity lay before them, so unconcernedly silent and vast. I learn it every day of my life, learn it with pain I am grateful for: patience is everything!