An Unkindness Of Ravens Quotes

BELOVED, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with merry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There the Loves a circle go, The flaming circle of our days, Gyring, spiring to and fro In those great ignorant leafy ways; Remembering all that shaken hair And how the wingèd sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while; For there a fatal image grows That the stormy night receives, Roots half hidden under snows, Broken boughs and blackened leaves. For all things turn to barrenness In the dim glass the demons hold, The glass of outer weariness, Made when God slept in times of old. There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, to and fro, Cruel claw and hungry throat, Or else they stand and sniff the wind, And shake their ragged wings; alas! Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: Gaze no more in the bitter glass. - The Two Trees

I would like that very much. You have a bargain, lady. I will find you here among the lost souls, trapped women, and birds. I find that my own state has improved, if only slightly. Where I was once likely to travel in the presence of a murder of crows, I find I will only be burdened by an unkindness of ravens. It gives me heart." - A. E. Poe in Nevermore

So, I went to the place where I always felt safe and happy—the library.

It makes you more interesting,” Jean said, and watched the way Jeremy’s jaw worked on silent protests. That he wouldn’t even defend himself said worlds to how disappointed he was in his thoughtlessness; he didn’t want Jean to like this side of him. Jean finally took pity on him and explained, “Not your capacity for unkindness, but how fiercely you fight against it.”​It wasn’t the answer Jeremy was expecting, judging by the look on his face, but this was not the time or place to get into it.

I don’t know if I ever liked you,” I say, and bathroom acoustics being what they are, the declaration is magnified and that much more unkind, which makes me feel bad until I see that he is missing a shoe, and I feel it anew, this terrible disappointment in myself that I am happy to take out on him. He is the most obvious thing that has ever happened to me, and all around the city it is happening to other silly, half-formed women excited by men who’ve simply met the prerequisite of living a little more life, a terribly unspecial thing that is just what happens when you keep on getting up and brushing your teeth and going to work and ignoring the whisper that comes to you at night and tells you it would be easier to be dead. So, sure, an older man is a wonder because he has paid thirty-eight years of Con Ed bills and suffered food poisoning and seen the climate reports and still not killed himself, but somehow, after being a woman for twenty-three years, after the ovarian torsion and student loans and newfangled Nazis in button-downs, I too am still alive, and actually this is the more remarkable feat. Instead I let myself be awed by his middling command of the wine list.

What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look through your young eyes, or look at your young self? Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent, or that there are people with more talent? Do you walk on moving walkways? Should it make any difference that you knew it was wrong �as you were doing it? Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter? Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone? How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month of your life? What would you tell your father, if it were possible? Which is changing faster, your body, or your mind? Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis? Are you in any way angry at your phone? When you pass �a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, look at your reflection, or neither? Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it? If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make �you any small bit happier, would you still want more money? What has �been irrevocably spoiled for you? If your deepest secret became public, �would you be forgiven? Is your best friend your kindest friend? Is it in any way cruel to give a dog a name? Is there anything you feel a need to confess? You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again? What is it about death that you’re �afraid of? How does it make you feel to know that it’s an “unkindness �of ravens”?

the case of her following his directions and taking the footpath

Burden thought irrelevantly that Wendy Williams must be attracted by bald men, first Rodney with his exaggerated forehead, naked as an apple, then this pebble-head.

Since we are on the topic of ravens, a collective noun for ravens is an unkindness. This is somewhat puzzling to Thought and Memory.

The manor ravens were on the move. One by one, they glided across the lawn and took up posts in the trees that fringed the property. It was rare to see so many at once. And what was that called? “Unkindness,” I said. “An unkindness of ravens.” Rubbing my chilled arms, I rose from the bench and took a last look at the scene below. “Unkindness and murder,” I whispered.

An unkindness of ravens flew from the north and landed in a rustle in the surrounding trees with varied sounds of begging and recognition. Years ago, the local ravens had figured out that Lorth not only walked with death but also left portions of his kills for his eldritch companions. The creatures always seemed to know where he was, a sense born of thousands of years of hunting with wolves.

What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look though your young eyes, or look at your young self? Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent, or that there are people with more talent? Do you walk on moving walkways? Should it make any difference that you knew it was wrong as you were doing it? Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter? Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone? How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month of your life? What would you tell your father, if it were possible? Which is changing faster, your body, or your mind? Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis? Are you in any way angry at your phone? When you pass a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, look at your reflection, or neither? Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it? If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make you any small bit happier, would you still want more money? What has been irrevocably spoiled for you? If your deepest secret became public, would you be forgiven? Is your best friend your kindest friend? Is it any way cruel to give a dog a name? Is there anything you feel a need to confess? You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again? What is it about death that you’re afraid of? How does it make you feel to know that it’s an “unkindness of ravens”?

She's so pretty, isn't she? Beautiful, really. That prefect skin, those long legs. And that hair! It's so black. Black as a raven's feather, that's what my mother used to say. Do you know, Ellie, what a group of ravens is called? [...] It's called an Unkindness. Isn't that strange? An Unkindness. Well... it's something to think about.

There were only more ravens. A whole unkindness of them. He smirked at the thought. Evie had once told him about the various names used to describe groupings of birds. It had taken her nearly an hour to recite them all.

A vast unkindness of haematic ravens Arose to feast as spirits reached their havens.

My eyes started to well up. I’ve always thought tears were the only thing standing between me and homicidal mania. When I was mad enough, I cried. But this was not productive.

She has a story in her head that’s not in the book, one of an icy world and a dying town and a great wheeling congregation of birds. Not an unkindness, say the voices from her other dream, but a kindness of ravens.

The truth is often an unkind conspiracy.

Ravens and Larks {Couplet} An unkindness of ravens sat in the Cimmerian dark, envying the light and exaltation of larks.

Ravens together merited the term “unkindness of ravens.” While I liked the intelligence of ravens, most cultures in human history had identified with eagles. Because of the eagle’s raw power? Because intelligence unchecked is always suspect? Or because humans were still hardwired from a million years of hardscrabble existence to respect strength?

We remember England’s “terms of venery”— the jargon of hunting— for giving us specific words for groups of animals, such as a school of fish or a pride of lions , and also for such quaintly forgotten phrases as “a tiding of magpies” and “a kindle of cats.” Experts suggest that many of the terms that amuse us today—“ an unkindness of ravens,” “a shrewdness of apes,” “a disworship of Scots”— were fanciful even in their own time and never in common use. The true language of venery, however, did more than describe beasts by the bunch; it richly evoked their behavior. The lark’s habit of flying into the air to sing was known as “exalting.” The nocturnal song of nightingales was called “watching,” from the idea of keeping a watch through the darkness. Venery’s description of animal sounds was poetic, but also accurate: weasels really do “squeak,” mice really do “cheep.” Goldfinches chirm, boars girn, starlings murmur, geese creak. The seemingly slow, ambling walk of bears was referred to as “slothing.” Ordinary life in the past had an intimacy with other species that today we mainly associate with trained biologists and dedicated naturalists.

No one knows how the woman survived in her light clothes, what she ate and drank, or what she thought when she looked up into the unkindness of ravens, their loops, their green and purple iridescence flashing—

a rafter of turkeys, a murder of crows, an exaltation of larks… an unkindness of ravens.

Do you know the right name for a flock of ravens?” Tóti shook his head. “A conspiracy, Reverend. A conspiracy.” Margrét raised an eyebrow, challenging him to disagree. Tóti watched the ravens settle on the eaves of the cattle barn. “Is that so, Mistress Margrét? I thought they were called an unkindness.

You know what the mortals call a gathering of our kind?” Mary asked with a derisive laugh. “An Unkindness. Well deserved, don’t you think? Me and you.

unkindness of ravens

The Chinese Shawl, the Patricia Wentworth

Harriet Vane in Gaudy Night dozing in her alma mater’s library after spending nights patrolling for mysterious vandals.

recommended The Mysterious Benedict Society

Gaudy Night. Sayers

Jayne Ann Krentz. White Lies and Smoke in Mirrors

picked up a book by Lawrence Block and met Bernie Rhodenbarr, gentleman thief,

The e-mail was a booklist I had sent to Joanna on Monday morning. Several items had been highlighted. She’d asked for books for her daughters that featured girls who accomplished more than simply catching Prince Charming.

The e-mail was a booklist I had sent to Joanna on Monday morning. Several items had been highlighted. She’d asked for books for her daughters that featured girls who accomplished more than simply catching Prince Charming. Joanna had come in late one night the previous week, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, radiating righteous indignation. She marched up to the reference desk and promptly launched into a diatribe against fairy tales, kids’ movies in general and Disney in particular, the prevalence of purple, pink, and sparkle in little girls’ clothing, and marketing aimed at children. She wound up with a brief thanks for Hermione Granger, “a smart, competent character the girls can grow up with,” and bemoaned the fact that it would be years before her kids were ready for Katniss Everdeen.

Gregor Demarkian mystery.

So many birds. How unclean,” Andras commented as he squinted at them. “What is the term for a group of them? A nest, a colony . . . A murder is for crows. . . .” “An unkindness of ravens,” Claire muttered. “Apt.” “They seem kinda pretty to me,” Brevity offered as Claire placed her foot on the first step. That was a mistake.

unkindness of ravens

I learned to be kind by watching my father be so unkind to my brother. My dad was an example of what I never wanted to be.