Ikon Quotes

I once saw a convict who had been twenty years in prison and was being released take leave of his fellow prisoners. There were men who remembered his first coming into prison, when he was young, careless, heedless of his crime and his punishment. He went out a grey-headed, elderly man, with a sad sullen face. He walked in silence through our six barrack-rooms. As he entered each room he prayed to the ikons, and then bowing low to his fellow prisoners he asked them not to remember evil against him.

Clouds overlaid the sky as with a shroud of mist, and everything looked sad, rainy, and threatening under a fine drizzle which was beating against the window-panes, and streaking their dull, dark surfaces with runlets of cold, dirty moisture. Only a scanty modicum of daylight entered to war with the trembling rays of the ikon lamp. The dying man threw me a wistful look, and nodded. The next moment he had passed away.

Was that how he'd died, she wondered, among dreams, crushed by the only ikon in the house?

From this skull-rock strange golden roots throw Ikons and incidents; the man in the mask Manipulates. I am the fool that falls And never learns to wait and watch, Icarus eternally damned, the dupe of time…

Carlo’s basement apartment was on Grant Street in an old red-brick rooming house near a church. You went down an alley, down some stone steps, opened an old raw door, and went through a kind of cellar till you came to his board door. It was like the room of a Russian saint: one bed, a candle burning, stone walls that oozed moisture, and a crazy makeshift ikon of some kind that he had made. He read me his poetry.

From this skull-rock strange golden roots throw Ikons and incidents; the man in the mask Manipulates. I am the fool that falls And never learns to wait and watch, Icarus eternally damned, the dupe of time . . .

crammed from floor to ceiling with religious images, crucifixes and ‘pathetic, cheap little tin ikons’.8 On every shelf and table top in her private sitting room the tsaritsa had set out yet more knick-knacks and photographs of her children and her darling Nicky. Personal possessions were few and surprisingly trivial – useful domestic items such as a gold thimble, sewing materials and embroidery scissors, as well as cheap toys and trinkets – ‘a china bird and a pincushion

Jesus nunca disse, «Ide e criai uma igreja.» Isso foi S. Mateus - um cobrador de impostos com inclinação para o dinheiro e um muito especial talento para a organização.

Privately now, I would like to comment to you on the Noble Bitch in Trace 32. Why this eltchl, this conservative from the halls of the ikons and holy rollers, the pluckers of rondeaux and smellers of lilies, why this spalpeen should set himself up as a special critic of literary know-how is more than I can dispense with with a quodlibet. I need a stronger antiseptic.

[A]ber auf einmal gerät einer von ihnen ins Zentrum der Aufmerksamkeit, wird zum Symbol, zur Ikone. Warum? Aus vielerlei Gründen: durch die Art und Weise, wie Medien ihre Nachrichten auswählen und verbreiten, weil Menschen das Bedürfnis haben, das Gute, das sie in sich fühlen, auf etwas zu richten, an das es sich zu glauben lohnt, und dafür auch auf die Straße zu gehen.

Todas as religiões falam da mesma coisa, todas veneram o mesmo Deus! Todavia, os respectivos seguidores são mantidos separados pelas manipulações da religião organizada. Bem, estou farto disso tudo.

Hoje em dia, sou a favor da insubordinação individual contra qualquer seita ou autoridade religiosa que exija fé cega. A religião organizada afasta simplesmente as pessoas, tornado-as inimigas umas das outras.

The match scratched and popped. Sylder meditated in the windshield the face of the man cast in orange and black above the spurt of flame like the downlidded face of some copper ikon, a mask, not ambiguous or inscrutable but merely discountenanced of meaning, expression. In the flickery second in which Sylder's glance went to the road and back the man's eyes raised to regard him in the glass, so that when Sylder looked back they faced each other over the cup of light like enemy chieftains across a council fire for just that instant before the man's lips pursed, carplike, still holding the cigarette, and sucked away the flame.

------The Aqyn's Song------- I have come from the edge of the world. I have come from the lungs of the wind, With a thing I have seen so awesome Even Dzambul could not sing it. With a fear in my heart so sharp It will cut the strongest of metals. In the ancient tales it is told In a time that is older than Qorqyt, Who took from the wood of Syrghaj The first qobyz, and the first song-- It is told that a land far distant Is the place of the Kirghiz Light. In a place where words are unknown, And eyes shine like candles at night, And the face of God is a presence Behind the mask of the sky-- At the tall black rock in the desert, In the time of the final days. If the place were not so distant, If words were known, and spoken, Then the God might be a Gold ikon, Or a page in a paper book. But It comes as the Kirghiz Light-- There is no other way to know It. The roar of Its voice is deafness, The flash of Its light is blindness. The floor of the desert rumbles, And Its face cannot be borne. And a man cannot be the same, After seeing the Kirghiz Light. For I tell you that I have seen It In a place which is older than darkness, Where even Allah cannot reach. As you see, my beard is an ice-field, I walk with a stick to support me, But this light must change us to children. And now I cannot walk far, For a baby must learn to walk. And my words are reaching your ears As the meaningless wounds of a baby. For the Kirghiz Light took my eyes, Now I sense all Earth like a baby. It is north, for a six-day ride, Through the steep and death-gray canyons, Then across the stony desert To the mountain whose peak is a white dzurt. And if you have passed without danger, The place of the black rock will find you. But if you would not be born, Then stay with your warm red fire, And stay with your wife, in your tent, And the Light will never find you, And your heart will grow heavy with age, And your eyes will shut only to sleep.

Svjetionici imaju zajedničkih crta sa samostanima, koje prosvijećeni laici ne bi smjeli potcjenjivati. Spomenimo samostane ili manastire koji nadvisuju more: još ih ima na otocima; u Grčkoj ih zovu meteorima; u Antiohiji i Kapadociji dobili su odavno druga imena. Nekad su bili ugledni na rubu pustinje, pokraj mora, od Libije do Sirije, u Egiptu i u Palestini: na takvim mjestima (posjetio sam neka od njih, govorit ću o njima) spajaju se pogled na pučinu i pustinjska molitva. O monaškim redovima i bratovštinama, te razlikama među njima na istočnim i zapadnim mediteranskim obalama, malo tko govori bez pristranosti. Mogli bi se razvrstavati samostani ili manastiri i po tome koliko je u njihovim riznicama i aulama, klaustrima i kapitulima ostalo važnih stvari, svetih i svjetovnih: kao što su stari libri, evangelistari, manuskripti i prijepisi, kronike, likaruše, iluminacije, vezeni ornati (na kojima je najvažniji sam vez), obrađeno zlato ili srebro (gdje je obrada vrednija od plemenita metala), te kaleži nalik na pehare, ikone i liturgijski napjevi koji se ne mogu ni s čim usporediti. Po takvim ostavštinama, više nego i po čemu drugom, mediteranski se samostani i manastiri razlikuju od drugih. U nekim krajevima (na istočnoj jadranskoj obali koju najbolje poznajem, na Egejskom moru koje sam nastojao bolje upoznati, na dva ili tri mjesta u Španjolskoj i Italiji) izgledaju nekako prozračniji ili čišći nego drugdje, premda su upravo tu bliži nagosti i grijehu. Mediteran je stalno iskušenje, zemaljsko more.

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The Jes Grew crisis was becoming acute. Compounding it, Black Yellow and Red Mu'tafikah were looting the museums shipping the plunder back to where it came from. America, Europe's last hope, the protector of the archives of "mankind's" achievements had come down with a bad case of Jes Grew and Mu'tafikah too. Europe can no longer guard the "fetishes" of civilizations which were placed in the various Centers of Art Detention, located in New York City. Bootlegging Houses financed by Robber Barons, Copper Kings, Oil Magnets, Tycoons and Gentlemen Planters. Dungeons for the treasures from Africa, South America and Asia. The army devoted to guarding this booty is larger than those of most countries. Justifiably so, because if these treasures got into the "wrong hands" (the countries from which they were stolen) there would be renewed enthusiasms for the Ikons of the aesthetically victimized civilizations.

You are for me. That was my answer for him. The soft words in Russian I gave to him through the Mind Gift. Remember. Who were you before you came here? Before they hurt you? Go back. Go back to the ikon. Go back to the Face of Christ if need be.

The split in him was between the monastery with its ikons and its penance on the one hand, and his father, the robust hunter who had dragged him away from the monastery that fatal day.

How, if you were the Church, did you justify a single gold-collared ikon, with two thousand five hundred diamonds set upon its thick hammered surface? How, if you were the Tsar, did you vindicate your annual tribute, bartered for rich cloths and finer jewels for your treasurehouse? How, if you were a man from a softer land, where debate was instructed and free, and all the scholars and books from antiquity were there to correct and advise you, could you accept in your turn such a tribute, and use it to clothe the body and house of your mistress?

An amazing thing happened to me today. We were in Loreto, where Franco Terilli was praying to his patron, one of the popes. In Loreto there is a famous cathedral (rather like Lourdes) in the middle of which stands the house in which Jesus was born, transported here from Nazareth. While we were in the cathedral, I felt it was wrong that I can't pray in a Catholic cathedral; not that I cannot, but that I don't want to. It is, after all, alien to me. Then later, quite by chance, we went into a little seaside town called Porto Nuovo, and into its small, tenth century cathedral. And what should I see on the altar but the Vladimir Mother of God Apparently some Russian painter had, at some time, given the church this copy of the Mother of God of Vladimir, evidently painted by him. I couldn't believe it: suddenly to see an Orthodox ikon in a Catholic country, when I had just been thinking about not being able to pray at Loreto. It was wonderful.

Kekuatan ketenaran. Seperti semua ikon pop yang pernah dilihatnya di media sosial, yang bisa mengatakan sepatah kata dan mendapatkan jutaan "disukai" dan "bagikan".

But in the end the least misleading ikon is to be found, not in the physical world outside us, but in the human heart. The

Aegean Islands 1940-41 Where white stares, smokes or breaks, Thread white, white of plaster and of foam, Where sea like a wall falls; Ribbed, lionish coast, The stony islands which blow into my mind More often than I imagine my grassy home; To sun one's bones beside the Explosive, crushed-blue, nostril-opening sea (The weaving sea, splintered with sails and foam, Familiar of famous and deserted harbours, Of coins with dolphins on and fallen pillars.) To know the gear and skill of sailing, The drenching race for home and the sail-white houses, Stories of Turks and smoky ikons, Cry of the bagpipe, treading Of the peasant dancers; The dark bread The island wine and the sweet dishes; All these were elements in a happiness More distant now than any date like '40, A. D. or B. C., ever can express.

Moramo imati veru i poverenje u delanje Božije umesto da sudimo na osnovu našeg ograničenog, smrtničkog razumevanja. Da li se sećaš kako je g. Armandopulos počeo da slika Jevanđeliste u crkvi? Sećaš se kako si, na osnovu onoga što si u početku mogao da vidiš, tvrdio kako ikone neće biti ništa drugo do zamrljane slike? Sada pak satima stojiš pred njima i diviš se njihovoj lepoti. Ako dakle, imaš poverenja u umetnika, čekaćeš dok ne vidiš dovršenu sliku umesto da budeš pod uticajem delimično dovršenog dela.

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If we find ourselves offended or disturbed by elements of the Ikon services, we might ask ourselves whether the disruption of a disturbing liturgy is necessary at times to arouse people like us from the religious slumbers that so frequently overtake us - like the bizarre characters in a Flannery O'Connor novel or short story, for example - to jolt us into the realization that we routinely tolerate the intolerable in the ways we speak of God.