Cement Pot Quotes

As he breathed the black and grey air into his body he no longer thought of anything as lovely, the way the retiring trees of his boyhood had been; for everything was made up of dirt-clods; and you do construct a mountain from molehills or other over-codified facts. If only the cities had been dynamited before it was too late for him! -- That Pol Pot sure had the right idea, blowing down those ticky-tacky rice paper offices and illuminating the middlemen with bullets of vanguardist light so everyone could get back to the country, don’t you think? -- As things stood, even had Bug been able to cover the earth again with forests, after having lived so long in the excremental piles of cement and rusted steel he never could have seen trees as more than tedious identical dirty giant toothpicks unfit to be taken into the mouth’ his summer camp, as a dishwasher jail where you breathed in the steam of bad food; and the islands to which he had rowed, as sad unwholesome protuberances, polyps and land-cancers still in the stink of the outhouse -- and all the girls had long since grown up completely to make travesties of their lives, even though some inherited great riches as we used to reckon riches in those days. -- But surely this change in him was necessary, for without wretchedness and degradation of self one will never accomplish anything.

Chapter Eight Jack shifted his gaze between the packet and Fabien’s pale face, then slowly got to his feet. Go to the police, that was what they should do. Let them deal with it. But what kind of trouble would that land Fabien in? “I’ll sort it.” Jack made his way up to the chimney, stuffed the packet into the black bin liner he found up there, and wedged it between the pots. That would buy them some time to think about how to help Fabien. He returned to the others. Fabien was still looking green and shaky, but was on his feet and putting on his hat. “I’ll help you get down to the street,” said Beth. “It’s okay. I’ll go back through the attic. Grandad will be wondering where I am.” The boy hobbled up the incline, back the way he’d come, and they heard him stagger down the other side. Jack banged his fist against the chimney wall, sending loose cement dust showering onto the tiles. “I wish he’d told me what was going on. I could have helped. I wondered why he wanted me to teach him shadow jumping.” “He’s scared,” said Beth. “Don’t be too hard on him. Kai’s got him where he wants him. It’s Kai you should be angry with, not Fabien.” “Who’s Kai working for?” Jack let out a worried breath. “I mean, he might be a thug, but he’s not got a lot of brains, has he?” Beth pressed her lips together in thought. “You’re right. He can’t be doing this alone.” Jack’s encounter with Kai from a few months ago was inked on his memory like a tattoo. He touched his ribs as if the bruising was still there, but of course the physical injuries were gone. Not so for Fabien, Jack thought, remembering the livid mark blooming on the

Soft washed river sand is still the best toy ever invented for children. It serves countless other purposes too. It cannot be beat for scouring dirty pots and pans and for cleaning wooden floors. Mixed with burnt powdered clam shells, you have the finest cement. Take a smooth slab of wood and cover it with tree or bush resin, sprinkle different colored river sand on the sticky resin to form colored pictures. River sand laid under animal traps prevent them from freezing down even in the coldest weather. River sand makes fine sidewalks and good insulation under buildings.

Obama also realized that the beer drinking, pot smoking, and cocaine snorting that Oxy, like Punahou, offered him, and that had cemented his reputation as “a hard-core party animal” to some friends, was incompatible with any self-transformation into a more serious student and person.

You better ignore this. You better staple your eyes shut and put pot-lids over your ears and pinch your nose with vice grips and cement your mouth shut with real cement and while you're at it or in it or whatever cut off your hands for good measure

Fifty years earlier, before its sandstone blocks were carried off to serve as the foundations of a factory in a nearby town, the ruins of a little temple had stood upon that hill. And it was there, in the footings of a vanished temple, by the remnants of a prehistoric shrine, that Quibell and Green uncovered a vast agglomeration of courtly objects, a cache such as had not been seen before and has never since been equalled in all of Egypt: a pair of beautiful life-sized pharaonic statues made of sheets of beaten copper; a golden image of a hawk with glittering obsidian eyes still standing in its ancient shrine; two splendidly engraved cosmetic palettes; some prehistoric slaughtering knives; a remarkable collection of stone vases; a heap of mace heads piled like potatoes, some of which were vividly engraved in a manner similar to the cosmetic palettes. And in amongst all this, suffused by ground-water and penetrated by the roots of thorn and halfa grass, lay a mass of ivories which, Quibell remarked, ‘resembled potted salmon’, but on inspection proved to be hundreds of separate and delicately carved objects from the time of the first kings but which were so cemented and decayed that they are still under restoration to this day.