#grave

One half of my life has put the other half in the grave. ↗

— Pierre Corneille

#half #life #my life #one half #other

Much literary criticism comes from people for whom extreme specialization is a cover for either grave cerebral inadequacy or terminal laziness, the latter being a much cherished aspect of academic freedom. ↗

— John Kenneth Galbraith

#aspect #being #cerebral #cherished #comes

The Papacy is not other than the Ghost of the deceased Roman Empire, sitting crowned upon the grave thereof. ↗

— Thomas Hobbes

#deceased #empire #ghost #grave #other

The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame or blame. ↗

— Thomas Hobbes

#blame #clean #grave #holy #light

I am a soul. I know well that what I shall render up to the grave is not myself. That which is myself will go elsewhere. Earth, thou art not my abyss! ↗

— Victor Hugo

#am #art #earth #elsewhere #go

Loyalty is a fine quality, but in excess it fills political graveyards. ↗

— Neil Kinnock

#fills #fine #graveyards #loyalty #political

THE BARROW In this high field strewn with stones I walk by a green mound, Its edges sheared by the plough. Crumbs of animal bone Lie smashed and scattered round Under the clover leaves And slivers of flint seem to grow Like white leaves among green. In the wind, the chestnut heaves Where a man's grave has been. Whatever the barrow held Once, has been taken away: A hollow of nettles and dock Lies at the centre, filled With rain from a sky so grey It reflects nothing at all. I poke in the crumbled rock For something they left behind But after that funeral There is nothing at all to find. On the map in front of me The gothic letters pick out Dozens of tombs like this, Breached, plundered, left empty, No fragments littered about Of a dead and buried race In the margins of histories. No fragments: these splintered bones Construct no human face, These stones are simply stones. In museums their urns lie Behind glass, and their shaped flints Are labelled like butterflies. All that they did was die, And all that has happened since Means nothing to this place. Above long clouds, the skies Turn to a brilliant red And show in the water's face One living, and not these dead." — Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree ↗

— Anthony Thwaite

#burial #death #funeral #grave #living

He muttered something foul and then climbed the stairs, rapping twice on Timmie’s door. “Right, then, mate, terribly sorry for my unspeakable rudeness, and I do beg your pardon,” he said with admirable humbleness when Timmie cracked it open. Only I could pick up the slight edge to his voice as he went on. “I can only say that it was caused by my natural affront to the notion of her as my sister. Since I’ll be shagging her tonight, you can imagine how I’d be distressed at the thought of rogering my sibling.” “You schmuck!” I burst as Timmie’s jaw dropped. “The only thing you’ll be shagging tonight is yourself!” “You wanted sincerity,” he countered. “Well, luv, I was sincere. ↗

— Jeaniene Frost

#night-huntress #imagination

Oh, I have feelings for him, all right. I'd like to put him in the ground myself, believe me. Still, it would be wrong. Promise me." "Fine. I promise I won't kill him." He said it too easily. My eyes narrowed. "Promise me right here and now that you will also never cripple, maim, dismember, blind, torture, bleed, or otherwise inflict any injury to Danny Milton. Or otherwise stand by while someone else does as you watch." "Blimey, that's not fair!" he protested ↗

— Jeaniene Frost

#torture

Well, I think the main message is there is more to your story. There is more than what happens between the crib and the grave, and that is what I am really trying to speak to, this idea that all of life is this life and that there is nothing more than what we see and experience right here on this earth. ↗

— Max Lucado

#between #crib #earth #experience #grave