Ellipsis In Quotes

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . .

The key to a successful relationship isn’t just in the words, it’s in the choice of punctuation. When you’re in love with someone, a well-placed question mark can be the difference between bliss and disaster, and a deeply respected period or a cleverly inserted ellipsis can prevent all kinds of exclamations.

And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up. It is a door left open. It is drifting off to sleep.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . .

Eons of loneliness, and then one day your ellipsis peaks toward that of another planet and there is a gasp of nearness. Wouldn’t you try to make the most of it? Wouldn’t you, too, combust and flare and explode if you had to?

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . . —BENTON JAMES KESSLER

I don't think anyone would think that an ellipsis represents doubt or anything. I think it's more, you know, hinting at the future. What lies ahead.

There is a sweet little horror story that is only two sentences long: 'The last man on Earth sat along in a room. There was a knock at the door…' Two sentences and an ellipsis of three dots. The horror, of course, isn't in the story at all; it's in the ellipsis, the implication: what knocked at the door. Faced with the unknown, the human mind supplies something vaguely horrible.

I recently heard of someone studying the ellipsis (or three dots) for a PhD. And, I have to say, I was horrified. The ellipsis is the black hole of the punctuation universe, surely, into which no right-minded person would willingly be sucked, for three years, with no guarantee of a job at the end.

Death is the period at the end of a sentence. Someone gone, but still out there, is an ellipsis...or a question to be answered.

I love you, and I would walk through fire a thousand more times if I needed to if it meant you were safe" She put her head down on my chest as if she was checking to see if I was breathing. "But..." She lifted her head with worry. "One thousand and one is where I draw the line." - Ellipsis: Creators of six book one.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . . —

Our goodbye felt less like an end and more like a pause –– an ellipsis rather than a period.

The clock ticks; the taunting rhythm serving as a reminder that forward is the only way we can go. The mechanical heartbeat of the darkness, a cold ellipsis, punctuating years gone by. Arising unchained. No glorious hymn, just the steady beat of the illusion of time. We heal or we carry forward the weight of our wounds... To believe otherwise is the mendacity of desperation. Arising honestly. The miles behind are littered with the weight of nostalgia, but too many miles lay ahead us to carry the weight. In the end, even echoes fade away. Pen in hand... Arising to write the next chapter. (MU Articles 2013, Dedication to Joey)

It's expression was solemn, its complexion muddy.

Space was full of questions, life was a sentence always ending in an ellipsis or a question mark. You couldn't answer everything. You could only believe there were answers at all.

I'm trying to decide what's worse. Someone being gone, but still out there, or someone being gone forever, dead. I think someone being gone, but still out there, might be worse. Then there’s always the chance, the hoping, the wondering if things might change. If maybe one day he’ll come back. There’s also the wondering about what his new life is like. The life without you. Is he happier? And if he is, you’re left being sad, wondering what it would be like if you were happy with him. But when someone is dead, he’s dead. He’s not coming back. There is no second chance. Death is a period at the end of a sentence. Someone gone, but still out there, is an ellipsis…or a question to be answered.

It's a situation doomed enough to laugh at, but he thinks of what he used to tell his students. Imagine being a planet. Don't laugh, he'd tell them. Try to imagine it. Eons of loneliness, and then one day your ellipsis peaks toward that of another planet and there is a gasp of nearness. Wouldn't you try to make the most of it? Wouldn't you, too, combust and flare and explode if you had to?

Not a period, An ellipsis. A to-be-continued.

what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up.

Under the crust of that portion of Earth called the United States of America—"from California . . . to the Gulf Stream waters"—are interred the bones, villages, fields, and sacred objects of American Indians. They cry out for their stories to be heard through their descendants who carry the memories of how the country was founded and how it came to be as it is today. [opening lines of the Introduction; ellipsis sic].

Remove the exclamation point, replace it with an ellipsis; the real delusion is believing there is a beginning and an end, an Alpha and an Omega, when really they are just sugar pills force fed in excess by those who crave control, power, and the next form of "obsession". Instead of collapsing with the rest of them, be the one who shatters the mold, breach this world's security and spread the word that there is no end...there is only the horizon and beyond...

Prose—it might be speculated—is discourse; poetry ellipsis. Prose is spoken aloud; poetry overheard. The one is presumably articulate and social, a shared language, the voice of “communication”; the other is private, allusive, teasing, sly, idiosyncratic as the spider’s delicate web, a kind of witchcraft unfathomable to ordinary minds.

L'Avventura,' Dad said, 'has the sort of ellipsis ending most American audiences would rather undergo a root canal than be left with, not only because they loathe anything left to the imagination-we're talking about the country that invented spandex-but also because they are a confident, self-assured nation. They know Family. They know Right from Wrong. They know God-many of them attest to daily chats with the man. And the idea that none of us can truly know anything at all-not the lives of our friends or family, not even ourselves-is a thought they'd rather be shot in the arm with their own semi-automatic rifle than face head-on. Personally, I think there's something terrific about not knowing, relinquishing man's feeble attempt to control. When you throw up your hands, say, "Who knows?" you can get on with the sheer gift of being alive.

Sanitized, cleaned, my house was a mausoleum and the ghost it housed was me.

So bitter is the taste in my mouth, when I remember making that choice.

My mind is a sacred cow / bleeding in the ellipsis.

That kiss, like a piece of long-awaited punctuation. Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a closed parenthesis, an end.

Nothing is more natural to drunken men than ellipses. The ellipsis is the zig-zag of the phrase.

Madeline: You didn’t write to me either. Olly: you didn’t want me to Madeline:... Olly: does the ellipsis mean we’re having an awkward silence or that you’re thinking?

The sexual eagle exults he will gild the earth once more his descending wing his ascending wing sways imperceptibly the sleeves of the peppermint and all the water's adorable undress Days are counted so clearly that the mirror has yielded to a froth of fronds of the sky i see but one star now around us there is only the milk describing its dizzy ellipsis from which sometimes soft intuition with pupils of eyed agate rises to poke its umbrella tip in the mud of the electric light then great reaches cast anchor stretch out in the depths of my closed eyes icebergs radiating the customs of all the worlds yet to come bron from a fragment of you fragment unkown and iced on the wing your existence the giant bouquet escaping fr4om my arms is badly tied it didgs out walls unrolls the stairs of houses loses its leaves in the show windows of the street to gether the news i am always leaving to gather the news the newspaper is glass today and if letters no longer arrive it's that the train has been consumed the great incision of the emerald which gaave birth to the foliage is scarred for always the sawdust of blinding snow and the quarries of flesh are sounding along on the first shelf reversed on this shelf i take the impression of death and life to the liquid air

And when he gets up to go, Bea kisses his cheek, and he pulls Robbie in for a hug, and Robbie says he better not miss his show, and Henry promises he won’t, and then they are going, they are gone. And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up. It is a door left open. It is drifting off to sleep.

I'm attracted to ellipsis, to the unsaid, to suggestion, to eloquent, deliberate silence. The unsaid, for me, exerts great power: often I wish an entire poem could be made in this vocabulary. It is analogous to the unseen; for example, to the power of ruins, to works of art either damaged or incomplete. Such works inevitably allude to larger contexts they haunt because they are not whole, though wholeness is implied. . .

Home is more of an ellipsis point than a period, a continuation rather than a conclusion. It tends to be an ongoing list of people and places and experiences that have mattered, that have changed us one way or another.

Addie has said so many hellos, but that was the first and only time she got to say good-bye. That kiss, like a piece of long-awaited punctuation. Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a close, parenthesis, an end.

A fool falls in love. One who dwells in indifference dwells at a distance from love, from its unexpected currents and the lonesome tumbling that causes a person to fall on her knees, if she falls. And there is never any reason to fall, to become so attached to another that one is driven to say, “I once fell in love,’ followed by an ellipsis, ‘…’, a trail leading down a path into—what? Some fatal dream? One grows weak from conflating the future and past, and the ellipsis, ‘…’, always leads into an exposed empty vat, the interior of an urn whose lid has been removed, whose ashes have been spread into water where, in time, everything dissolves, giving way to the past.

Despite the beliefs and opinions of some psychologists, nothing related to human psychology and behavior is absolutely quantifiable.

I’ll only kiss you when you ask me to. When your breathless with how much you need me to kiss you. Then, and only then, will I kiss you

There is the sanity you feel, and there is the sanity you display. Most people don’t really care about the first one; they just wanted permission to avoid your crisis.

Tell me, are you a sinner, or are you sin herself?

Senlin loved nothing more in the world than a warm hearth to set his feet upon and a good book to pour his whole mind into. While an evening storm rattled the shutters and a glass of port wine warmed in his hand, Senlin would read into the wee hours of the night. He especially delighted in the old tales, the epics in which heroes set out on some impossible and noble errand, confronting the dangers in their path with fatalistic bravery. Men often died along the way, killed in brutal and unnatural ways; they were gored by war machines, trampled by steeds, and dismembered by their heartless enemies. Their deaths were boastful and lyrical and always, always more romantic than real. Death was not an end. It was an ellipsis. There was no romance in the scene before him. There were no ellipses here. The bodies lay upon the ground like broken exclamation points.

Though I could guess which doorknob was for Wendell's kingdom, I could not resist trying the loveliest first: the tiny turquoise sea. Hardly daring to breathe, I turned the doorknob, and the door swung open with a gentle sigh. Salt wind spilled into the faerie's house. Before me stretched a dry, rocky coastline punctuated by groves of yellowish trees. The turquoise sea was endless and far too bright, broken only by an ellipsis of rugged islands. Just beyond the door was a spindly olive tree and a cairn of white pebbles. Largely to see if I could, I reached through and took one--- the sun beat down upon my arm, a most curious sensation, while the rest of me felt only the cozier warmth of the faerie's alpine home. I closed the door. "Greece," I murmured. "I think. It looks to be situated either in the mortal world or a place of overlap, like Poe's door. I had no idea the nexus led there--- they have no stories of tree fauns in Greece. Perhaps they do not use it much?

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick. Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived. Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness. Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

As I finished my rice, I sketched out the plot of a pornographic adventure film called The Massage Room. Sirien, a young girl from northern Thailand, falls hopelessly in love with Bob, an American student who winds up in the massage parlor by accident, dragged there by his buddies after a fatefully boozy evening. Bob doesn't touch her, he's happy just to look at her with his lovely, pale-blue eyes and tell her about his hometown - in North Carolina, or somewhere like that. They see each other several more times, whenever Sirien isn't working, but, sadly, Bob must leave to finish his senior year at Yale. Ellipsis. Sirien waits expectantly while continuing to satisfy the needs of her numerous clients. Though pure at heart, she fervently jerks off and sucks paunchy, mustached Frenchmen (supporting role for Gerard Jugnot), corpulent, bald Germans (supporting role for some German actor). Finally, Bob returns and tries to free her from her hell - but the Chinese mafia doesn't see things in quite the same light. Bob persuades the American ambassador and the president of some humanitarian organization opposed to the exploitation of young girls to intervene (supporting role for Jane Fonda). What with the Chinese mafia (hint at the Triads) and the collusion of Thai generals (political angle, appeal to democratic values), there would be a lot of fight scenes and chase sequences through the streets of Bangkok. At the end of the day, Bob carries her off. But in the penultimate scene, Sirien gives, for the first time, an honest account of the extent of her sexual experience. All the cocks she has sucked as a humble massage parlor employee, she has sucked in the anticipation, in the hope of sucking Bob's cock, into which all the others were subsumed - well, I'd have to work on the dialogue. Cross fade between the two rivers (the Chao Phraya, the Delaware). Closing credits. For the European market, I already had line in mind, along the lines of "If you liked The Music Room, you'll love The Massage Room.

For whole generations, a certain pessimism is associated with the historical failure of revolutions. That pessimism is a thing of pathos. The other less sentimental, fiercer type comes from recognizing how ideal things are, the perfection and exactitude of our freedom and the absolute availability of the simplest solutions. For example, the resolution of the famine problem in Ireland by killing off the young children. You could not do better; there is no more elegant solution. It is a stroke of wit. The stroke of wit also despairs of language, but from that despair it always derives a brilliant solution, drawing a line between two diametrically opposed poles. A diabolical simplification; everything is in the ellipsis. There is no crueller trick you can play on reality than to idealize it just as it is. It never recovers from that (whereas it can easily cope with being denounced). Deify power right where it is and it can't believe its eyes. Take the people who marched through Red Square with placards reading 'We are happy in the Soviet Union! The Soviet Union is the land of happiness.

A lineate is a Magnitude more then long. A New forme of doctrine hath forced our Authour to use oft times new words, especially in dividing, that the logicall lawes and rules of more perfect division by a dichotomy, that is into two kindes, might bee held and observed. Therefore a Magnitude was divided into two kindes, to witt into a Line and a Lineate: And a Lineate is made the genus of a surface and a Body. Hitherto a Line, which of all bignesses is the first and most simple, hath been described: Now followeth a Lineate, the other kinde of magnitude opposed as you see to a line, followeth next in order. Lineatum therefore a Lineate, or Lineamentum, a Lineament, (as by the authority of our Authour himselfe, the learned Bernhard Salignacus, who was his Scholler, hath corrected it) is that Magnitude in which there are lines: Or which is made of lines, or as our Authour here, which is more then long: Therefore lines may be drawne in a surface, which is the proper soile or plots of lines; They may also be drawne in a body, as the Diameter in a Prisma: the axis in a spheare; and generally all lines falling from aloft: And therfore Proclus maketh some plaine, other solid lines. So Conicall lines, as the Ellipsis, Hyperbole, and Parabole, are called solid lines because they do arise from the cutting of a body. 2. To a Lineate belongeth an Angle and a Figure. The common affections of a Magnitude were to be bounded, cutt, jointly measured, and adscribed: Then of a line to be right, crooked, touch'd,

In the words of the master: infinity but without melody. In the second place, with regard to the overthrowing,--this belongs at least in part, to physiology. Let us, in the first place, examine the instruments. A few of them would convince even our intestines (--they _throw open_ doors, as Handel would say), others becharm our very marrow. The _colour of the melody is_ all-important here, _the melody itself_ is of no importance. Let us be precise about _this_ point. To what other purpose should we spend our strength? Let us be characteristic in tone even to the point of foolishness! If by means of tones we allow plenty of scope for guessing, this will be put to the credit of our intellects. Let us irritate nerves, let us strike them dead: let us handle thunder and lightning,--that is what overthrows.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} But what overthrows best, is _passion_.--We must try and be clear concerning this question of passion. Nothing is cheaper than passion! All the virtues of counterpoint may be dispensed with, there is no need to have learnt anything,--but passion is always within our reach! Beauty is difficult: let us beware of beauty!{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} And also of _melody!_ However much in earnest we may otherwise be about the ideal, let us slander, my friends, let us slander,--let us slander melody! Nothing is more dangerous than a beautiful melody! Nothing is more certain to ruin taste! My friends, if people again set about loving beautiful melodies, we are lost!{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} _First principle_: melody is immoral. _Proof_: "Palestrina". _Application_: "Parsifal." The absence of melody is in itself sanctifying.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~} And this is the definition of passion. Passion--or the acrobatic feats of ugliness on the tight-rope of enharmonic--My friends, let us dare to be ugly! Wagner dared it! Let us heave the mud of the most repulsive harmonies undauntedly before us. We must not even spare our hands! Only thus, shall we become _natural_.{~HORIZONTAL ELLIPSIS~}

Here's just one of Ramanujan's many provocative formulas: (1+1/2^4) * (1+1/3^4)*(1+1/5^4)*(1+1/7^4)*(1+1/next prime number^4)x...= 105/pi^4. The infinite product on the left side of this equation is based on successive prime numbers raised to the 4th power. Primes are integers greater than 1 that are evenly divisible only by themselves and 1. Thus, 3 is a prime, but 4 isn't because it's evenly divisible by 2. The first nine primes are 2,3,5,7,11,13,17,19, and 23. The primes go on forever, which accounts for the ellipsis at the end of the product in Ramanujan's formula. This formula shows a deep connection between pi and the prime numbers.

Plume" Transfixed to the, by the, on the congruities, who is herself a vanishing point coming to closure — dusky flutter — trilling away like a watchdog on drugged sop, channeling her mother and grandmother who’ve engraved on her locket phrases in script: “glide on a blade” and “rustling precedes the shuck.” This is not my teeming fate, my rind, my roiling ellipsis or valedictory spray of myrrh. Always it’s morning, afternoon or evening — the loot of hours — a magic sack grasping vacuum but heavy in the hand, and from which, together, we pull a swarm of telepathic bees, melons beached in a green bin, a lithograph of the city from its crumbling ramparts, crackled pitchers and the mouth of a cave. Perhaps this is my open weave, my phantom rialto or plume of light. We bow to each other in the mash of flickering things. We are completely surrounded.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis …

She "loved me" in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis...

She "loved me" in quotations she kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . .

She “loved me” in quotations she kisses me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis…

Yet, the universe has a way of striking balance instead of cleaving them apart.

An ellipsis bomb?" she muttered to herself. "Maybe I should have been an Editor. That was awesome.

Magical Girl of Time...transform!" "A comma instead of an ellipsis this time!" "Magical Girl of Time, transform!" A light surrounded my talisman and then...stopped. "Look, it's happening! You must be some kind of genius! We might even finish this today!

The Finder stopped knowing how to tell herself the story of her life. Where there had been a future, or at least the promise of one, there was now an ellipsis: dot dot dot.

The ellipsis is where you lose your house, or your job, or your health, or your appetite, or your ability to sleep. Maybe you lose twenty pounds. Maybe you lose your ability to make small talk, to act like everything is fine, to say “fine” when people ask you how you are. Maybe… Dot dot dot.

Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a closed parenthesis, an end. An end. That is the thing about living in the present, and only the present, it is a run-on sentence.

And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up.

In fact, the sentence seemed to feel that it had done its bit, promptly packing up the rest of the letters available and sauntering jauntily off, scooping up the ellipsis as it went and leaving only a full stop behind.

Hanya ellipsis pada bibir saya.

Kadıköy is ellipsis at the end of life.

However high, wide, long, or deep your faith may grow through the years, always leave an ellipsis at every point of your spiritual compass. Anything attainable by human understanding is a mere shadow of the reality. Every time you grasp a new concept about God, try thinking, “He’s this … and more.

It’s a strange thing, life. It feels like life is an endless ellipsis More and more unspoken, and mostly misunderstood.

Today is just full of ellipsis.

One would have to be literally deaf not to hear the ellipsis in that.

She "loved me" in quotations. She kissed me in bold. I TRIED T KEEP HER in all caps. She left with an ellipsis...

You are the one who does the denying, love. Not me. There is nothing I would deny you. Nothing I wouldn't give you.

Sometimes it's easier to prefer the death of a dreamer than the dream itself.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis…

Apparently the rules are that a sentence can’t come right out and tell its writer what it is or wants to be, so the sentence gives the writer little clues, charade-style. The writer just keeps churning/blurting things out, groping at the answer, trying out every possible assemblage. It’s a sentence about a man! It’s a sentence about a woman! About a house? It’s a long sentence. It’s a short sentence? It’s a sentence connected to another sentence by an ellipsis! Three syllables, first syllable starts with L. Um . . . luminous! Oh, second syllable starts with an L. Alacrity? The sentence is elegant and light! The sentence has something to do with a pear? Forget it, I have no idea. Start over.

Between the frozen sea and the snowbound earth, she’s a stick figure moving between white and white, leaving behind an extended ellipsis on a blank page, a Pollockian dribble against an empty canvas.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis… —BENTON JAMES KESSLER

He paused to kiss me and I think he meant it as a dash or an ellipsis or some other temporary punctuation, but I pressed up on my toes and made it an exclamation point.

I watched the little ellipsis dance. Three gray dots, doing the worm at the bottom of my iPhone screen, carrying on their round backs an entire world of either happiness or despair.

the spaces between stanzas the suspenses of pregnant pauses, the ellipsis at the end of unfinished sentences thoughts, is where I am given permission to breathe. -ON

While the flesh-and-blood lecturer is speaking, his double looms up behind him on a giant screen, and his words spool out like a cartoon speech bubble. Where do the concepts and figures of analysis come from? Are they not purely and simply the metaphysical expression of a set of character traits, of an unfitness for reality and a fitness only for illusion and disillusion? Denial of reality, duplicity and intelligence of evil, ellipsis of the will and fatal strategies - might these things not all be faked? But isn't it a success to be one more spiral in the simulation?

always trailing behind the rest of the family like an ellipsis at the end of a sentence.

Cigarettes are the punctuation marks of life. Now I live without punctuation, without rhythm. My life is a stupid avant-garde poem. I live without cigarettes to mark a question. Without cigarettes that end as we get happily or dangerously close to an answer. Or to the absence of one. Exclamation cigarettes. Ellipsis cigarettes. I would like to smoke with the elegance of a semicolon.

It is a long time now since the credits started going further than the films themselves in audacity, humour and the elliptical art of handling images. And if the difference is not so great as it was, that's because the films themselves have taken a lead from the credits. Behind the pile of information, we can hardly see what is going on in the firmament of current affairs. But what is happening in the firmament of the not so-current? There is no critical distance any more, there is only pure distance. And this is not engendered by any objection to means or ends, but by an effect of the destruction of causes. Pure distance results from a withdrawal of the object into radical objectivity. New passions are emerging, and those which shine out brightest are humour, objective chance, astronomical complexity, fascination, allegory, ellipsis, indifference and impatience.

She “loved me” in quotations She kissed me in bold I TRIED TO KEEP HER in all caps She left with an ellipsis . . . —BENTON JAMES KESSLER

He knows what all therapists know: That the presenting problem, the issue somebody comes in with, is often just one aspect of a larger problem, if not a red herring entirely. He knows that most people are brilliant at finding ways to filter out the things they don’t want to look at, at using distractions or defenses to keep threatening feelings at bay. He knows that pushing aside emotions only makes them stronger, but that before he goes in and destroys somebody’s defense — whether that defense is obsessing about another person or pretending not to see what’s in plain sight — he needs to help the patient replace the defense with something else so that he doesn’t leave the person raw and exposed with no protection whatsoever. As the term implies, defenses serve a useful purpose. They shield people from injury … until they no longer need them. It’s in this ellipsis that therapists work.

The worst is what happens when you’re blithely going about the dogged routine of your life, those moments when you’ve forgotten to have a guard up at all.

Yet risk feels particularly complicated in the context of the stories of white firearm. Lessons seem hard to cull when the support groups are comprised only of grieving loved ones because the primary victims do not live long enough to tell you what was going through their minds. Knowledge about best practices is fleeting because Congress effectively blocks federally funded research on gun-related risk, leading to a knowledge vacuum unlike anything ever seen for every other leading cause of injury and death. Ultimately, risk is embodied not in the imagined intruder but in the person who already lives in the house. Risk then becomes at once prevalent and invisible. Risk is an ellipsis, an evanescent void.

The words he couldn’t quite say out loud, would spill out in amber, copper, and red from the mouth of his brush. His paintings said I love you. I love you and I won’t leave you.

As humans, our sense of doom is grossly overstated in literature and movies.

Theory, as Gayatri Spivak writes, is at best provisional generalization: I am tracking patterns to enable my readers to see them elsewhere or to not see them, and to invent other explanations. I am interested in lines of continuity and in the ellipsis, with its double meaning of what goes without saying and what has not yet been thought.

Reality must be caught in the trap, we must move quicker than reality. Ideas, too, have to move faster than their shadows. But if they go too quickly, they lose even their shadows. No longer having even the shadow of an idea. ... Words move quicker than meaning, but if they go too quickly, we have madness: the ellipsis of meaning can make us lose even the taste for the sign. What are we to exchange this portion of shadow and labour against -- this saving of intellectual activity and patience? What can we sell it to the devil for? It is very difficult to say. We are, in fact, the orphans of a reality come too late, a reality which is itself, like truth, something registered only after the event.

A pregnancy that ended before it could truly begin. A missed period that turned into an ellipsis of a promise, then an interrupted dash.

ellipsis, he’d been told, could literally be translated as ‘to hide behind silence’. It’s fascinating stuff, he said.

we don’t talk about friendship breakups enough they’re less concrete less definite less written in ink sometimes you just drift away there’s no fight no closure no real ending all you get is an ellipsis