Kaftan Quotes

There is a remarkable picture called 'Contemplation.' It shows a forest in winter and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. he stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking: he is "contemplating." If anyone touched him he would start and look bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has hidden within himself, the impression which dominated him during that period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and he probably hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage. Or he may suddenly set fire to his native village. Or he may do both.

Or at least, he thought they were specially made, until we played a gig and he saw someone wearing exactly the same kaftan as him. He stopped in the middle of a song and started shouting angrily at him – ‘Where did you get that shirt? That’s my shirt!’ This, I felt, rather ran contrary to the kaftan’s associations with peace and love

Her hands wrapped around his back, bunching the folds of his kaftan, and they stayed like this, connected, as dusk settled over the market.

Even in this age of religious fervour, foreigners were amazed by the ritualistic piety of the Russians and their severe code of behaviour. Russian men wore long beards, as sacred tribute to God, and long robes, kaftans, with pleated sleeves that hung almost to the floor, on their heads sable or black-fox hats. Musical instruments and smoking were banned and noblewomen, whether virgins or wives, were restricted to their family terem, the separate living quarters of Muscovite women, where they were veiled and hidden

Terry Allen and a larger portion of his 1st Division descended on Oran from the sandstone hills above St. Cloud, a key crossroads east of the city, and the salt lakes farther south. Children in dirty kaftans shouted “Hi yo, Silver!” or flung stiff-arm Fascist salutes to liberators they presumed to be German. Veiled Berber women with indigo tattoos peered through casement shutters, and in cafés men wearing fezzes looked up from their tea glasses long enough to applaud the passing troops, African-style: arms extended, clapping hands hinged at the wrists, no pretense of sincerity. A war correspondent seeking adjectives to describe the locals settled on “scrofulous, unpicturesque, ophthalmic, lamentable.” Exhausted

Tova said, “Leah planned to change into her own kaftan someplace out of the way. But with my little mishap, she didn’t have a chance.” Both women were still dressed

She fiddled with the fluorescent gems on her kaftan’s neckline, wishing that these launch events had not become her own personal Met Gala, everyone asking for months in advance what she would be wearing, reminiscing about outfits past. If only she could get away with the chic navy roll-neck dress Nikki, as usual, was looking elfin and effortless in.

+ Tebriz'e bir elçi göndermek istiyoruz. Tarafımızdan sen gider misin, oğlum? - Ben mi? + Evet. - Ne münasebet? + Aradığımız gibi bir adam bulamıyoruz da... - Ben şimdiye kadar devlet memuriyetine girmedim. + Niçin girmedin? Muhsin Çelebi biraz durdu. Yutkundu. Gülümsedi: "Çünkü ben boyun eğmem, el etek öpmem." dedi, "Halbuki zamanın devletlileri mevkilerine hep boyun eğip, el etek, hatta ayak öpüp, bin türlü yaltaklık ve ikiyüzlülükle çıktıklarından, etraflarına daima hep bu kötü geçmişlerinin, çirkin hareketlerini tekrarlayanları toplarlar. Gözdeleri, yardımcıları, korudukları hep ikiyüzlü yalancılardır. Mert, dürüst, hür, vicdanının sesine kulak veren bir adam gördüler mi, hemen kötülük yaparlar.

There is a remarkable picture called Contemplation. It shows a forest in winter and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking: he is “contemplating.” If anyone touched him he would start and look bewildered. In time he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has hidden within himself, the impression which dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and he probably hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage. Or he may suddenly set fire to his native village. Or he may do both. — FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY RUSSIAN NOVELIST

Hal böyleyken, ölüm bu kadar yakınındayken, illa da bir şey olacaksa, kaftan olmalıydı insan, kaftanı taşıyan değil; yahut altın olarak doğmalıydı insan, altını takan olmak için değil.

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Afgaande op mijn aangezicht in de spiegel kan men mij een verbitterd mens noemen. Maar ik geloof zelf niet dat ik verbitterd ben. Wel ben ik trots: dat mijn geest altijd vrij is gebleven van dwalingen, dat ik in mijn stervensuur niet de behoefte voel me vast te klampen aan de kaftan van Sabbatai Zwi, de jurk van Jezus Christus of welk gewaad dan ook van andere valse verlossers. Dat ik me nooit in de raadsels van de kabbala heb verloren.

The trouble is, I have a thing for each and every one of his red flags. I want them. Have to have them. Want them all. Want to collect them and stitch them all into one giant red flag. Then I want to cut a neat slit in the middle of that big ole red flag and drape it over my head so I can wear it as a kaftan.

There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called “Contemplation.” There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is “contemplating.” If any one touched him he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many “contemplatives” among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.

There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called “Contemplation.” There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is “contemplating.” If any one touched him he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many “contemplatives” among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why.

There is a remarkable picture by the painter Kramskoy, called “Contemplation.” There is a forest in winter, and on a roadway through the forest, in absolute solitude, stands a peasant in a torn kaftan and bark shoes. He stands, as it were, lost in thought. Yet he is not thinking; he is “contemplating.” If any one touched him he would start and look at one as though awakening and bewildered. It's true he would come to himself immediately; but if he were asked what he had been thinking about, he would remember nothing. Yet probably he has, hidden within himself, the impression which had dominated him during the period of contemplation. Those impressions are dear to him and no doubt he hoards them imperceptibly, and even unconsciously. How and why, of course, he does not know either. He may suddenly, after hoarding impressions for many years, abandon everything and go off to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage for his soul's salvation, or perhaps he will suddenly set fire to his native village, and perhaps do both. There are a good many “contemplatives” among the peasantry. Well, Smerdyakov was probably one of them, and he probably was greedily hoarding up his impressions, hardly knowing why

Though the stakes and consequences of their respective affiliations differed considerably, the methods used to assert such power—to create community and solidarity, to establish an “us” and a “them,” to align collective values, to justify questionable behavior, to instill ideology and inspire fear—were uncannily, cultishly similar. And the most compelling techniques had little to do with drugs, sex, shaved heads, remote communes, drapey kaftans, or “Kool-Aid” . . . instead, they had everything to do with language.

Outside the closed doors to the throne room, Sharif the high elder waited, holding a kaftan robe of red silk and velvet in one hand and a long spear nearly twice his height in the other. Jasmine's heart beat faster as she recognized the gold trim and signature jewels lining the robe, the ancient craftsmanship of the spear. These had belonged to Cyrus the Great, the first ruler of the empire. And in mere moments, she would be the first woman to feel them against her skin. Nadia untied Jasmine's peacock cape while the high elder held out the red robe. "Today you shed the persona of Jasmine, the princess," he said, "and step into the skin of a sultana." Jasmine took a deep breath, slipping her arms into the preserved silk. The material was more fragile than anything she'd worn before, and she was conscious that one wrong step, one tear of the fabric, would be rip through history. Yet she felt stronger in the cape too, as though Cyrus were transferring his power through it to her. When Sharif handed her Cyrus's spear, she could barely contain her awe.

Ruhtan gelen yaşantıyı, salt egodan gelen yaşantıdan ayıran üç şey vardır. Yeni yöntemleri hissetme ve ögrenme yeteneği, kötü de olsa yoldan ayrılmama azmi ve zamanla derin sevmeyi ögrenme sabrı. Ego ise, şiddetli bir ögretmenden kaçınma isteği ve eğilimine sahiptir. Ego sabır için biçilmiş kaftan değildir.

until after I can form a truce with the kaftan-wearing granny responsible for the melee.

Jeśli mnie, na przykład, dotychczas mówiono: "miłuj bliźniego", to ja go miłowałem, cóż jednak z tego wynikało? [...] Ano tylko to, że rwałem swój kaftan na kawałki i starałem się okryć nimi bliźnich, w rezultacie czego- wszyscy byliśmy nadzy, co było ilustracją naszego rosyjskiego przysłowia: "Nie złapiesz zająca, jeśli uganiać się będziesz za kilkoma". Nauka zaś powiada: zanim pokochasz innych, musisz najpierw miłować samego siebie, albowiem na tym świecie wszystko się zasadza na trosce o samego siebie.

It’s never too hot.’ I ran my hands under her kaftan, felt the warmth of her stomach, the damp of her bikini. I buried my face in her neck, toying at the drawstring with my teeth. ‘You’re too hot.

of others who would have been Beatles if they could’. There was no resentment of their wealth or fame: their apparently effortless journey from proletarian drabness to aristocratic gaiety promised a similar transfiguration for their admirers. Where the Beatles led, millions were content to follow. Moustaches, kaftans, military tunics, cannabis, Indian ragas, flowers, universal peace and love: none of these was invented by the Beatles, but the group were the conduit by which the symbols of the age reached the outside world.