Crimson Tide Quotes

I love you more than the tides love the moon. I'm as temperamental as the ocean, and just the same, I'm at your mercy. Give me a ship, and I will wreck it at your command.

The tides of history had shifted. She had never before believed in fate, but this she came to know with more and more certainty as each day passed: the script of the world was now wholly, inalterably colored by a brilliant crimson streak.

Life is brief, young maiden, fall in love; before the crimson bloom fades from your lips, before the tides of passion cool within your hips, for those of you who know no tomorrow. (Gondola no Uta)

Go wide, go wide, roll you Tide, we don’t run and we don’t hide, we’re the ’Bama Crimson Tide!

roles in True Romance and Crimson Tide—is a young, pre-Sopranos James Gandolfini. Glory, Marshall Herskowitz, 1989. Broadcast News, James L. Brooks, 1986.

Bullet Prince, star quarterback for the Crimson Tide, dived to the right and hid behind a staircase.

Her nightgown lay upon the snow as it might on a bed sheet, and the tracks that led from where it lay were never of human feet... An empty bed still waits for him as he lies in a crimson tide. Beware, beware, oh trapper men, beware of a griesly bride.

...And then it occurred to him to wonder whether you actually knew what a seduction involves. The details, I mean. I spread my wicked left hand over my face, but surely slices of crimson tide showed between my fingers. "You're right," I said. "That you're sorry?" "That I'm sorry." "What shall I tell your father?" said Eldric. "Don't tell him anything!" "You teased it out of me," said Eldric."You ought to answer. It has your fatehr worried, actually." "Tell him I read alot." I could almost hear the curling lion's smile in Eldric's voice.

My well-beloved was stripped. Knowing my whim, She wore her tinkling gems, but naught besides: And showed such pride as, while her luck betides, A sultan's favoured slave may show to him. When it lets off its lively, crackling sound, This blazing blend of metal crossed with stone, Gives me an ecstasy I've only known Where league of sound and luster can be found. She let herself be loved: then, drowsy-eyed, Smiled down from her high couch in languid ease. My love was deep and gentle as the seas And rose to her as to a cliff the tide. My own approval of each dreamy pose, Like a tamed tiger, cunningly she sighted: And candour, with lubricity united, Gave piquancy to every one she chose. Her limbs and hips, burnished with changing lustres, Before my eyes clairvoyant and serene, Swanned themselves, undulating in their sheen; Her breasts and belly, of my vine and clusters, Like evil angels rose, my fancy twitting, To kill the peace which over me she'd thrown, And to disturb her from the crystal throne Where, calm and solitary, she was sitting. So swerved her pelvis that, in one design, Antiope's white rump it seemed to graft To a boy's torso, merging fore and aft. The talc on her brown tan seemed half-divine. The lamp resigned its dying flame. Within, The hearth alone lit up the darkened air, And every time it sighed a crimson flare It drowned in blood that amber-coloured skin

THE STAGE: The stage is empty, and you watch as the figure of Medusa steps into the gas-light. Her body is dressed in a crimson traversed by the golden branches of willow trees, colour and light held into shape by sharp black borders. Lifting languidly her hands, she reaches towards you. Her emerald vipers, in the cohesive movements of unseen mechanisms, weave loops about her head. Music is beginning, and from the shadows off-stage the narrator speaks. “Medusa had a beautiful name and a lovely voice, though no one cared to listen; seeking only the gaze of those famous eyes.” Perseus walks onto the stage, cloaked as though he were the blazing sun. Now what you have to understand is his voice – it is like nothing you could tie down. It feels peaceful to hear it, to see him flow into the song with his fine, clear looks and his finer, clearer voice. Is the head quite forgotten? Not quite but the horror exists alongside the beauty and they flow like twin rivers, and neither is able to wash the other from you.

He bent and whispered against her ear. “Stay close, Erienne. The towel has come loose. If you step away, it is at your own risk.” Clenching her eyes tightly shut, she buried her face against his shoulder to hide the crimson tides that swept over her and clung to him with a panic born of desperation. Unable to see his face, she missed the smile that widened his lips. -Christopher & Erienne

Don´t cry" Sirius coos, lips curling up as he leans in kisses under one eye. "your tears control the tides, you know." He kisses under the other eye. "Why don´t we have a calm ocean tonight? No shipwrecks. Nothing worse than a sunken ship" "But thats where all the treasures are" Remus teases, smiling along helplessly, and Sirius looks pleased instantly. "You´re a treasure, Remus Lupin" Sirius mumurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My treasure, the treasure I found in this sunken ship of a city. You glinted in the dark like the moon lights in the sky, and I found you.

The Radaune pounded along against the muddy tide that knew but one direction, deftly avoiding sandbanks with the aid of constantly changing pilots. To right and left, beyond the dikes, the same flat landscape with occasional hills, already harvested. Hedges, sunken lanes, a hollow basin with broom, a level plain between the scattered farms, just made for cavalry attacks, for a division of uhlans to wheel in from the left onto the sand table, for hedge-vaulting hussars, for the dreams of young cavalry officers, for battles long past and battles yet to come, for an oil painting: tartars leaning forward, dragoons rearing up, Brethren of the Sword falling, grandmasters staining their noble robes, not a button missing from their cuirasses, save for one, struck down by the Duke of Mazowsze, and horses, no circus has horses so white, nervous, covered with tassels, sinews rendered with precision, nostrils flaring, crimson, snorting small clouds impaled by lowered lances decked with pennants, and parting the heavens, the sunset’s red glow, the sabers, and there, in the background—for every painting has a background—clinging tightly to the horizon, with smoke rising peacefully, a small village between the hind legs of the black stallion, crouching cottages, moss-covered, thatched, and inside the cottages, held in readiness, the pretty tanks, dreaming of days to come when they too would be allowed to enter the picture, to come out onto the plain beyond the Vistula’s dikes, like slender colts among the heavy cavalry.

like a black tide. With the sound of a thousand skittering spiders, the specter fled through the main entrance of the school and then disappeared completely. “Holy shit. That was seriously gross,” Aphrodite said. I was going to agree with Aphrodite when I heard the first, terrible cough. I felt the circle break before I saw her fall to her knees. She looked up at me and coughed again. Blood sprayed from her lips. “Didn’t think it would end like this,” she rasped. “I’m getting Thanatos!” Aphrodite called as she sprinted away. “No! This can’t be happening,” Shaunee said, dropping to her knees beside the already blood-soaked Erin. “Twin! Please. You’ll be fine!” Erin fell into her arms. Damien, Stevie Rae, and I shared a look, and then as one, we joined Shaunee while she held her friend. “I’m so sorry,” Shaunee sobbed. “I didn’t mean anything bad that I said to you.” “It’s—it’s okay, Twin.” Erin spoke slowly between wracking coughs as the blood bubbled in her throat and streamed crimson from her eyes and ears and nose. “It was my fault. I—I forgot how to feel.” “We’re here with you,” I said, touching Erin’s hair. “Spirit, calm her.” “Earth, soothe her,” Stevie Rae said. “Air, envelop her,” Damien said. “Fire, warm her,” Shaunee spoke through her tears. Erin smiled and touched Shaunee’s face. “It already has warmed me. I—I don’t feel cold and alone anymore. Don’t feel anything except tired…” “Just rest,” Shaunee said. “I’ll stay with you while you sleep.” “We all will,” I said, wiping tears from my face with the back of my sleeve. Erin smiled one more time at Shaunee, and then she closed her eyes and died in her Twin’s arms.

It is the only way I can express in words my clear and definite perception that one thing is quite distinct from another; that there is no logical connection between flying and laying eggs. It is the man who talks about “a law” that he has never seen who is the mystic. Nay, the ordinary scientific man is strictly a sentimentalist. He is a sentimentalist in this essential sense, that he is soaked and swept away by mere associations. He has so often seen birds lay and lay eggs that he feels as if there must be some dreamy, tender connection between the two ideas, whereas there is none. A forlorn lover might be unable to dissociate the moon from lost love; so the materialist is unable to dissociate the moon from the tide. In both cases there is no connection, except that one has seen them together. A sentimentalist might shed tears at the smell of apple-blossom, because, by a dark association of his own, it reminded him of his boyhood. So the materialist professor (though he conceals his tears) is yet a sentimentalist, because, by a dark association of his own, apple-blossoms remind him of apples. But the cool rationalist from fairyland does not see why, in the abstract, the apple tree should not grow crimson tulips; it sometimes does in his country.

Let me take a little second to tell you as we see a prophecy that came true You see we need to believe that He literally bled through The clothes on His back His sweat the day was just like crimson rain Crimson stains tide bounty and the devil can't wash these stains away Who's He you ask, He's a friend of me Cause my inability He was sent for me I hear birds and trees they're all telling me It's a good thing He won Gethsemane Cause this enemy is too much for me And this flesh and world is triple teaming me It seems to be the very end I scream please oh please pass this cup from me! The thing is it did pass And it passes every day He took my cup from me and gracefully He drank the grave And I don't mean to speak of blasphemy when I say But I am speaking of the day when my God passed away, Okay? No wait wait wait no that's not it no that's not all I don't wanna leave you hanging This stories banging Against my throat and against these walls It can't be contained no it won't stay in here it will thrive Cause stories just don't die when the dead come alive

He eases himself down to die. He thinks, others can do it and so can I. He inhales something: sweet raw smell of sawdust; from some-where, the scent of the Frescobaldi kitchen, wild garlic and cloves. He sees the movement from the corner of his eye as the spectators kneel and avert their faces. His mouth is dry, but he thinks, while I breathe I pray. 'All my confidence hope and trust, is in thy most merciful goodness...’ In the sky he senses movement. A shadow falls across his view. His father Walter is here, voice in the air. 'So now get up.' He lies broken on the cobbles of the yard of the house where he was born. His whole body is shuddering. 'So now get up. So now get up.' The pain is acute, a raw stinging, a ripping, a throb. He can taste his death: slow, metallic, not come yet. In his terror he tries to obey his father, but his hands cannot get a purchase, nor can he crawl. He is an eel, he is a worm on a hook, his strength has ebbed and leaked away beneath him and it seems a long time ago now since he gave his permission to be dead; no one has told his heart, and he feels it writhe in his chest, trying to beat. His cheek rests on nothing, it rests on red. He thinks, follow. Walter says, ‘That's right, boy, spew everywhere, spew everywhere on my good cobbles. Come on, boy, get up. By the blood of creeping Christ, stand on your feet?' He is very cold. People imagine the cold comes after but it is now. He thinks, winter is here. I am at Launde. I have stumbled deep into the crisp white snow. I flail my arms in angel shape, but now I am crystal, I am ice and sinking deep: now I am water. Beneath him the ground upheaves. The river tugs him; he looks for the quick-moving Pattern, for the flitting, liquid scarlet. Between a pulse-beat and the next he shifts, going out on crimson with the tide of his inner sea. He is far from England now, far from these islands, from the waters salt and fresh. He has vanished; he is the slippery stones underfoot, he is the last faint ripple in the wake of himself. He feels for an opening, blinded, looking for a door: tracking the light along the wall.

I am in a two-stoplight town in the Alabama hill country, in the heart of the Bible Belt and Crimson Tide football mania, listening to an old-fashioned, heated argument between Cubans like the ones I've heard in Little Havana in Miami, but the moment very quickly loses its sense of strangeness and cultural dissonance. This is what America is like now-- North America, I mean, the United States. The craziness of cubanos and mexicanos and guatemaltecos can find you just about anywhere

He could fuck her hard until her screams rendered her hoarse, or make crazy-slow, sweet love to her until she was a quivering mess beneath him, all of that was easy to do. But what he couldn’t do, was make her acknowledge her feelings him – no matter how much he wished he could.

He’d tried to make her realize the depth of her feeling by overwhelming her with every level of seduction he knew. At different times, in different places, and he was done with it. His bag of carnal tricks empty, he now only had himself left to give. If he was never going to be enough for her to love, then that was a nightmare he’d have to face when the time came. But from here on out, he would simply adore her the way his heart told him to and the broken pieces would just have to fall where they may.

I love you, Charia.” … “There’s nothing more I can do. This is my heart talking, declaring how it feels about you.” He lifted a hand and cupped her cheek. “I can’t be without you, it’s as simple as that.

He’d learned that love meant holding on, as much as letting go. That love was not a controlling grip to protect, as he’d done with Jameson, but a caring hand in support for when one might fall. The overwhelming love his heart harboured for Charia was precious, and something he’d fight for until his very last breath.

They were two broken people, himself and Charia, and yet, together they’d created perfection. He’d offered her his love and she’d blossomed it into a life.

She didn’t want it to end. This is what a blissfully content life could feel like. Being with people who made you forget about the bad times and who you could create wonderful new memories with. But it was an unattainable dream. She would never be able to walk away from her past. The good times would never be that great that it could wipe her slate clean, and that was something she was going to have to live with.

I’m captivated by you, Red. … “I intend to keep asking. You can share whatever you feel comfortable with or tell me to fuck off, but either way, I’m content with simply being around you.

Talk to me, baby. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how hard you push.

She was going to have her horizons broadened to experience unrushed, deliberate and maddeningly pleasurable sex. He was going to make her feel the difference between giving and receiving. By the time he was done with her, she was going to know what it feels like to be treasured…and he was just the man to show her.

The real Charia would be making an inevitable comeback and she hated the thought of him possibly witnessing, or worse, experiencing, that dark side of her again. Until then, she simply wanted to remain in this secluded bubble with him.

They’d call me the Crimson Tide. Saving foofs one flow at a time.

Cŵn Annwn are like any other policing force across history—inclined to abuse their power over the very people they supposedly protect.

I might love this woman. Soft and sweet, harsh and commanding. The very picture of contradictions.

Maeve is right that I’m not particularly skilled when it comes to charm, so I order a round of beer for us and sit back and watch her work. She’s a master at it. I can see why the rebellion recruited her, because people of every gender and age immediately melt upon exchanging words with her. If I were a different person, jealousy might flicker through me in response to how they flock to her, bees to a particularly intoxicating flower.

I learned a long time ago that putting one foot in front of the other, literally or not, is the only way to get through the most fucked-up experiences.

That’s the problem with the sea. There’s too many fucking ways to die and nowhere near enough methods to stay alive.

My team is the Alabama Crimson Tide. Growing up a Tide fan in the 1970s gave me an unrealistic sense of what it means to be a fan, for the simple reason that in the 1970s Alabama won, and being a sports fan is largely about learning to cope with losing. In most sports there is just one champion per year - every four years if you're into a sport like World Cup soccer - so for the overwhelming majority of fans, losing at least once a season is a near certainty. In my childhood, this small kink in the works of the fan's life went more or less unexposed.

academic requirements, helping them navigate

requirements,

scholarship student athletes. This includes preparing

It was a beautiful, clear day, and the road was crowded with ’Bama faithful headed to the game. Every other car seemed to have a ROLL TIDE bumper sticker or Crimson Tide flag stuck to the windows. Halfway to Tuscaloosa, we stopped in one of the many gas station–grocery store combinations that sold fried chicken and barbeque. Above the counter was a large sign: AT ALABAMA, WE DON’T REBUILD, WE RELOAD! My father nudged me, nodding to the sign. Then he said to the woman behind the counter, “We’re Auburn fans.” She was punching out a complicated request for a lottery ticket and didn’t look up. “Honey, the good Lord blesses all sinners.” My father laughed. “That he does.” She

The

Coaches never talked about winning the national championship. It was understood that such rewards would come if Crimson Tide players could win enough individual moments.

The crimson tide of the moment engulfed us; Serapis did prognosticate the coming. Sometimes it takes ages to understand that which comes to us in a moment. Millions of tiny moments make up a lifetime. But for some, a tiny moment is their entire lifetime!

I admire thee, master of the tides, Of the Yore-flood, of the year's fall; The recurb and the recovery of the gulf's sides, The girth of it and the wharf of it and the wall; Staunching, quenching ocean of a motionable mind; Ground of being, and granite of it: past all Grasp God, throned behind Death with a sovereignty that heeds but hides, bodes but abides; With a mercy that outrides The all of water, an ark For the listener; for the lingerer with a love glides Lower than death and the dark; A vein for the visiting of the past-prayer, pent in prison, The-last-breath penitent spirits—the uttermost mark Our passion-plungèd giant risen, The Christ of the Father compassionate, fetched in the storm of his strides. Now burn, new born to the world, Doubled-naturèd name, The heaven-flung, heart-fleshed, maiden-furled Miracle-in-Mary-of-flame, Mid-numbered he in three of the thunder-throne! Not a dooms-day dazzle in his coming nor dark as he came; Kind, but royally reclaiming his own; A released shower, let flash to the shire, not a lightning of fíre hard-hurled. Dame, at our door Drowned, and among our shoals, Remember us in the roads, the heaven-haven of the Reward: Our Kíng back, Oh, upon énglish sóuls! Let him easter in us, be a dayspring to the dimness of us, be a crimson-cresseted east, More brightening her, rare-dear Britain, as his reign rolls, Pride, rose, prince, hero of us, high-priest, Our hearts' charity's hearth's fire, our thoughts' chivalry's throng's Lord.

Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John’s face in a crimson tide.

At the end of most streets of Edinburgh's Old Town rises the crimson wall of Salisbury Craigs, a lesson in the unimaginable forces and lapses of time which have gone to shape the world. The Craigs are a basalt intrusion, a fossil tide of volcanic rock which surged through the foundations of a dead volcano some 200 million years ago. Geology and paleontology, with their revelations of deep time and alien life-forms, towered up wherever 19th century Scots turned their eyes. the 'testimony of the rocks' threatened their moral universe, its narrative incompatible with a creation myth or even a creator... Old Edinburgh is shaped like a gigantic lecture theatre with the end wall covered by a chart of the earth's origins.