Ferryman Quotes

Some people believe that when you die, you cross the River of Death and have to pay the ferryman. People don’t seem to worry about that these days. Perhaps there’s a bridge now.

People who have recently lost someone have a certain look, recognizable maybe only to those who have seen that look on their own faces. I have noticed it on my face and I notice it now on others. The look is one of extreme vulnerability, nakedness, openness. It is the look of someone who walks from the ophthalmologist's office into the bright daylight with dilated eyes, or of someone who wears glasses and is suddenly made to take them off. These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning in the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.

It was one of the ferryman’s greatest virtues that, like few people, he knew how to listen.

It is related that Sakyamuni [the historical Buddha] once dismissed as of small consequence a feat of levitation on the part of a disciple, and cried out in pity for a yogin by the river who had spent twenty years of his human existence learning to walk on water, when the ferryman might have taken him across for a small coin.

..How the numbness in my fingertips travelled to my heart and I never even knew it. I had crushes, I had lovers, I had orgasms. My trilogy of desire, I liked to call it, but I'd no great love after him, not really. Love and sex became separated by a wide river and one the ferryman refused to cross.

I have transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to them, as it has become sacred to me.

The problem with Fate is that no matter how many times you call out to her, she has her own timing that’s irrelevant to whatever anyone else happens to be doing

We get sombre about death. Think about Charon the ferryman rowing the souls across the Styx to the Isle of the Dead. Pretty grim stuff. Unless you think that, perhaps, at times, old Charon rows souls back to the land of the living too. Perhaps I have merely gone to rest awhile…

Kit: Gone on where? Is he in Heaven? I mean, it seems so unlikely. Jessamine: Christopher! Kit: Seriously, You didn't know him. Jessamine: I don't know what comes after death. Tessa used to come and ask me too. She wanted to know where Will was. But he didn't linger - he died happy and at peace, and he went on. I am not like Charon. I am no ferryman. I cannot say what lies on the other side of the river. Kit: It could be awful. It could be torture forever. Jessamine: It could be. But I don't think so.

Death is permanent. There’s no coming back if you get off the ferryman’s boat.

She fed him scraps from her ragbag because words were all that were left now. Perhaps he could use them to pay the ferryman. Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. The world is charged with the grandeur of God. Full fathom five thy father lies. Little lamb, who made thee? Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie. On that best portion of a good man's life, his little nameless unremembered acts of kindness and of love. Farther and farther, all the birds of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. The air rippled and shimmered. Time narrowed to a pinpoint. It was about to happen. Because the Holy Ghost over the bent world broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

All I want is this, this and nothing else. Ever.

Vasudeva listened with great attention. Listening carefully, he let everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning, all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among the ferryman's virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew how to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience, did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening. Siddhartha felt, what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to burry in his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.

I have a choice. That’s why I’m still here.

Time marches on while mothers weep, each one wondering why the world hasn't stopped to mourn.

I’m doing the best I can. Getting old, that’s what it is. I’ll be fifty-three at the feast of Saint Michael. I’m no longer as strong as you are, young sirs,’ said the ferryman.

I try to remember the shepherd-ferryman, to eat cheese between meals, and to do my best to become rather than to obsessively seek and control.

Smiling, Siddhartha felt happiness at the friendship and friendliness of the ferryman. He is like Govinda, he thought, smiling. All the people I meet upon my way are like Govinda. All of them are grateful, though they themselves have cause to expect gratitude. All of them are deferential, all are eager to be a friend, to obey and think little. People are children.

These people who have lost someone look naked because they think themselves invisible. I myself felt invisible for a period of time, incorporeal. I seemed to have crossed one of those legendary rivers that divide the living from the dead, entered a place in which I could be seen only by those who were themselves recently bereaved. I understood for the first time the power in the image of the rivers, the Styx, the Lethe, the cloaked ferryman with his pole. I understood for the first time the meaning in the practice of suttee. Widows did not throw themselves on the burning raft out of grief. The burning raft was instead an accurate representation of the place to which their grief (not their families, not the community, not custom, their grief) had taken them.

Continue to fill the underworld, and the ferryman's pockets, and don't even bother trying to wash away the blood of thousands that already stains your hands. Meanwhile, I'll be over here, growing old in comfort, warmed by my home's hearth and my lover's gentle arms. So, carry on, dear. And when the ships' shadows creep over the horizon, when the chariots thunder across the sand and fire rains down from the sky, ask yourself, which would be the better way to die?

You will learn it,” spoke Vasudeva, “but not from me. The river has taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. The river knows everything, everything can be learned from it. See, you’ve already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is becoming an oarsman’s servant, the learned Brahmin Siddhartha becomes a ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You’ll learn that other thing from it as well.” Siddhartha

The Ferryman will transport us across the moat,” Chris informed. “Yeah. This seems legit,” Gabriella quipped as Chris helped her onto the boat. Andrew followed behind. “Are you sure this isn’t a trick?” Egnatious asked. Again, uncertainty filtered into Chris’s blue eyes, but he nodded anyway. “This is the only way.

If I could talk and teach, I might be a sage, but I am only a ferryman, and my task is to ferry people across this river. I have ferried many across, thousands, and for all of them my river has been nothing but a hindrance in their travels. They traveled for money and business, to weddings and on pilgrimages, and the river was in their way, and the ferryman was there to get them swiftly across that hindrance. But for a few among the thousands, a very few, four or five, the river was no hindrance, They heard its voice, they listened to it, and the river became sacred for them, as it is for me. Let us now retire for the night, Siddhartha.

It takes a woman to get a job done right. Some men can't even die properly without the help of a woman.

Do you believe that evil and tragedy are always planned? You don’t think Fortune has anything to do with it?

Fortune frowns as often as he smiles, and you don’t want to be in his line of sight when he does.

Funny weather today,’ said the ferryman, bending slowly to his oars. ‘In the morning you wake up to such a mist that you can’t see two fathoms distance. And then about ten o’clock out comes the sun. One says to oneself “Here’s spring on the way”. And no sooner said than hailstorms set in for the afternoon. And now the wind’s getting up, and there’s going to be quite a blow, that’s certain. Funny weather.

I sware unto you my furtherance if I prevailed. But now is mine army passed away as wax wasteth before the fire, and I wait the dark ferryman who tarrieth for no man. Yet, since never have I wrote mine obligations in sandy but in marble memories, and since victory is mine, receive these gifts: and first thou, O Brandoch Daha, my sword, since before thou wast of years eighteen thou wast accounted the mightiest among men-at-arms. Mightily may it avail thee, as me in time gone by. And unto thee, O Spitfire, I give this cloak. Old it is, yet may it stand thee in good stead, since this virtue it hath that he who weareth it shall not fall alive into the hand of his enemies. Wear it for my sake. But unto thee, O Juss, give I no gift, for rich thou art of all good gifts: only my good will give I unto thee, ere earth gape for me." ... So they fared back to the spy-fortalice, and night came down on the hills. A great wind moaning out of the hueless west tore the clouds as a ragged garment, revealing the lonely moon that fled naked betwixt them. As the Demons looked backward in the moonlight to where Zeldornius stood gazing on the dead, a noise as of thunder made the firm land tremble and drowned the howling of the wind. And they beheld how earth gaped for Zeldornius.

I didn't like the looks of those other grave robbers. You were the first women who's noticed me in years and I thought you were beautiful." "Are you flirting?" "If I were alive, perhaps," he replied, "but as it is, I don't think we could be more than friends.

Where are you taking me?” Andrew demanded, whirling on the Ferryman. His muscles tensed, hands curling in and out of fists. “To my master.” The voice was ghostly, whispers of black ash and death, words cold and detached. He had an idea who that was but asked anyway: “And who is your master?” No answer came. Andrew’s insatiable rage rose up and swallowed his grief like a yawning ocean mouth, the darkest depths surging to the surface to form a mighty tidal wave. He closed the distance and seized the Ferryman’s gaunt wrist. There was no substance, no life beneath the cloak. The Ferryman slowly turned his hooded head, and Andrew found himself looking into the black hole of a self-contained night. The olfactory of decay was a punch in the face. Andrew released the Ferryman’s wrist and hastily stepped back, rocking the boat as he put distance between him and the unnatural wind spilling from the gaping orifice. Andrew shivered, the tiny hairs on his neck saluting. The cloaked head faced forward again, and the wind died away.

There can be a sadness when you move from one state to another, as we often find comfort in what we know best and what we have become accustomed to. Transition can bring with it fear, as well as a desire to look to another for aid, just as the child looks to the ferryman. The Six of Swords, being in the suit of the mind, on a higher level represents the journeys of the mind and the transition to new ideas and ways of thinking; on a lower level, it relates to any transition we undergo that involves leaving something behind. We can imagine that the woman and child in the boat are being ferried to a new life, away from something in the past that may have hurt or threatened them. The ferryman may be the father of the child, or he may be a stranger they have hired for help in getting across the river. We can see that, whilst they do not have all of their possessions with them on this journey to a new life, they have retained a few chests that contain some belongings. When we move to a new state of mind or being, or undergo a spiritual transition or a physical move, we never truly leave the past behind; the trick is being able to differentiate between good baggage and bad baggage. Sometimes we can use the past, and all we have learned and gained from it, to propel us forward in momentum across the river to the other side. Sometimes we cling only to the baggage from the past that weighs us down, and in that case the weight may be too heavy for the boat and start to sink it. It is, ultimately, our choice as to what we pack in the chests that we take with us on the journey.

What happens to the souls who deserve to be brought to Tartarus and die before they can be delivered?” I asked, thinking of all those who had escaped punishment during Mab’s reign. “They linger in the Void, becoming something twisted and monstrous. They cannot move on to the afterlife, not when they are not worthy of The Father or The Mother’s embrace. The ferryman keeps them trapped within the river, so that they cannot harm the souls who deserve peace.

Mirrors are considered portals. It was originally a Roman custom. Reflective water also had to be covered in the ancient world after death as well as coins put on the eyelids for payment to the ferryman, Charon. Southern people still cover mirrors as well as Jews who do it out of respect for the dead. Some Europeans put coins on the eyes to this day,” I replied.

Pain was the coin that paid the ferryman.

How long have you been here?" "I don't know. You just stole my watch," he said with a shrug.

ferryman’s hefty Africans pace short reciprocating arcs on the deck, sweeping and shoveling the black water of the Charles Basin with long stanchion-mounted oars, minting systems of vortices that fall to aft, flailing about one another, tracing out fading and flattening conic sections that Sir Isaac could probably work out in his head. The Hypothesis of Vortices is pressed with many difficulties. The sky’s a matted reticule of taut jute and spokeshaved tree-trunks. Gusts make the anchored ships start and jostle like nervous horses hearing distant guns.

You and a select few of your ancestors, including your mother, are special protectors of your realm, here on earth. You are here to keep balance between what is right and wrong, good and evil. You and you alone are the Keeper of a deadly sword, known as the Ferryman. You must learn to wield the Ferryman and protect your world from destruction.

He could find humor in anything. He taught me that the Craft can be light hearted as well and that if something funny happens you are allowed to laugh. So many people take themselves so seriously. There are so many Craft people who never smile. I don't understand it. The Craft is supposed to be joyful. Galetea pauses and then says quietly, 'But magical work was never a joke -Alex taught me that when you do it, you do it seriously.

Far below, the purple mist parted and an ornate tram rose out of the fug. It was a work of art, as exquisite as anything Nita might have found in her own land. Looping gold-plated filigree covered the outside. The brass-work was polished to a glorious sheen, and the wood was flawless ebony. “It’s… magnificent.” “What did you expect?” “Well, from the way you’ve described them, I expected a ferryman guiding something from the gates of hell.” “Mmm. And who’s to say this ain’t what that looks like?” The

A large lantern appeared in one of Charun's hands. It glowed, illuminating him, me, and the immediate area. I saw him all the better for it, a tall rangy man, dressed in black jeans and a black and red plaid western shirt. He also wore snakeskin cowboy boots. Never had I imagined Charun, the Ferryman of the River Styx, dressed like that. He should be riding off into the sunset; not ferrying souls to the Elysian Fields.

Awake in peace, you of back-turned face, in peace, You who looks backward, in peace, Sky's ferryman, in peace, Nut's ferryman, in peace, Ferryman of gods, in peacel! Unas has come to you That you may ferry him in this boat in which you ferry the gods. Unas has come to his side as a god comes to his side, Unas has come to his shore as a god comes to his shore. No one alive accuses Unas, No dead accuses Unas; No goose accuses Unas, No ox accuses Unas If you fail to ferry Unas, He will leap and sit on the wing of Thoth.s Then he will ferry Unas to that side Utterance 270 Antechamber, South Wall The king summons the ferryman

Awake in peace, you of back-turned face, in peace, You who looks backward, in peace... Unas has come to you That you may ferry him in this boat in which you ferry the gods. Unas has come to his side as a god comes to his side, IInas has come to his shore as a god comes to his shore Utterance 270 Antechamber, South Wall The king summons the ferryman