Knitting Scarf Quotes

The best reason for a knitter to marry is that you can't teach the cat to be impressed when you finish a lace scarf.

If I gave my mother a knitted scarf she'd be worried I was wasting my time doing stupid stuff like knitting instead of school work. Presenting a homemade knitted object to my parents was actually like handing them a detailed backlog of my idleness.

imagine a scarf as an unlimited canvas

She had taught herself how to knit, and for the mare's scarf - it was green - she had given herself the best grade possible. And ...' 'That's silly!' Micha giggled. 'Well, who is the cliff queen, you or me?' Abel asked. 'It isn't my fault if you're giving yourself grades!

The scarf could go on and on and on and on, and it could be the harlot-red banner of shame that wrapped him up and kept him warm when the nights grew lonely and cold.

Slowly he took out the clothes in which, ten years beforem Cosette had left Montfermeil; first the little dress, then the black scarf, then the great heavy child's shoes Cosette could still almost have worn, so small was her foot, then the vest of very thich fustian, then the knitted petticoat, the the apron with pockets, then the wool stockings.... Then his venerable white head fell on the bed, this old stoical heart broke, his face was swallowed up, so to speak, in Cosette's clothes, and anybody who had passed along the staircase at that moment would have heard irrepressible sobbing.

Or, well, okay, the way Cora phrased it was, “You’re just like, oh my God, die, you fucking cocksucker scarf, screw this fucking knitting nonsense,” but.

When I was old enough to take baths in the bathtub, and to know I had a penis and a scrotum and everything, I asked her not to sit in the room with me. "Why not?" "Privacy." "Privacy from what? From me?" I didn't want to hurt her feelings, because not hurting her feelings is another of my raisons d'etre. "Just privacy," I said...She agreed to wait outside, but only if I held a ball of yarn, which went under the bathroom door and was connected to the scarf she was knitting. Every few seconds she would give it a tug, and I had to tug back--undoing what she had just done--so that she could know I was OK.

I think you’re better off without him.” Ashley didn’t lift her blue eyes from her scarf as she offered her thoughts; her long,straight brown hair was pulled into a clever twist. She was a nurse practitioner originally from Tennessee and I loved listening to her accent; “I never trust a Jon without an ‘h’. John should be spelled J-o-h-n, not J-o-n.

My mother taught me to knit when I was seven. I forgot about knitting until one day I saw Marion at the counter with hers and confessed that I knew how. Confessed is the right word. In those days, in the early 1980s, knitting was not a hobby a preteen would readily admit to. But Marion, every enthusiastic, pounced upon me and insisted that I show her something I'd made. I did -- a misshapen scarf -- which she priased exravagantly. she lent me a raspberry-colored wool for another project, a hat for myself. Since then I've been knitting pretty continuously. It's addictive and it's soothing, and fora a few minutes anyway, it makes me feel closer to my mother.

Maybe, just maybe, those six balls are a scarf and hat that get tucked away for years and long after I’m gone someone pulls them out and says, “Remember how Grammy was with all the wool? Remember how she knit all the time?” fingering the soft wool and pondering who I was and what I did while I was here.

I'm too busy duck farming to watch many movies, so I don't know: Is it ScarFace, or is it ScarfAce? Either way, I am a knitting gangster.

From that day the eldest princess quite changed toward Pierre and began knitting a striped scarf for him.

It has been a profitable three days. In the time to knit a fairly long scarf, I have learned about the universe.

I'd love to cook a stew for you, But I have no pot. Id love to knit a scarf for you, But I have no wool. I'd love to write a poem for you, But I have no pen. "It's called 'I Have Nothing'," Midori announced.

Now Rogan had to show up. The word of his previous failure to appear must’ve spread, because the entire family found their way to the kitchen one by one. Bern was reading a textbook in the corner. Grandma Frida sat next to me and attempted to knit something that was probably a scarf but looked like a brilliant attempt at a Gordian knot. My mother rearranged the tea drawer, which she’s never done since we’ve had one. Arabella sat across from me, her gaze glued to her cell phone. Catalina sat on my left, texting furiously. Zeus lounged under the table by my feet, and Cornelius was drinking tea across the table. Even Leon wandered in and leaned against the wall, waiting. Nobody was talking. “Just out of curiosity,” Cornelius said, “if Rogan doesn’t arrive, will all of you skin him alive?” “Yes,” everyone except me said at the same time. I sighed.

She knitted him a thick scarf to cover his face and he teased her about liking her warming him better. She told him impertinently that she had enough to do without that troublesome chore, and he chased her around the room. Cassie laughed out loud as they played. “Your sassy mouth makes me want to kiss you.” He caught her by the waist. “You know that, Cass. So you must want a kiss.” “I most certainly do.” She giggled as he kissed her soundly.

A week later, I was struggling through a scarf. I made a mess of it, randomly adding stitches, dropping stitches, then adding even more. When I showed up with this tangle of wool, Jen pulled it off the needle and all my mistakes were miraculously gone. Unlike life, at least this new life of mine – in which I was forced to keep moving forward through the mess it had become – knitting allowed me to start over again and again, until whatever I was making looked exactly like I wanted it to look.

the reverend bishop, knowing that Pelagia found it easier to think with her knitting in her hands, told her, “You may knit.” The pointed steel needles began clacking furiously and Mitrofanii frowned as he recalled what dreadful creations those deceptively deft hands brought into the world. At Eastertide the sister had presented the bishop with a white scarf adorned with the letters CA for “Christ is Arisen,” rendered so crookedly that they seemed already to have celebrated the ending of the fast with some gusto. “Who is this for?” His Grace

It was readily apparent that Millie was fond of geometric patterns. Today she wore double diamond checks. Her blouse in black and white, her skirt in bright teal. Around her neck she wore a scarf printed with random blocks of gray and gold. Out of sight, hanging in the tiny wardrobe of her room, were five striped blouses, two sweaters knit in intricate cables of intersecting colors. Also three tartan plaid skirts and one pair of unusual trousers, blue and yellow. She wore brown-and-white saddle shoes, which she constantly thought of decorating with fine black lines.

After she had gone through most of the songs she knew, she sang an old one that she said she had written herself. I’d love to cook a stew for you But I have no pot. I’d love to knit a scarf for you But I have no wool. I’d love to write a poem for you But I have no pen. “It’s called ‘I Have Nothing,’” Midori announced. It was a truly terrible song, both words and music. I listened to this musical mess with thoughts of how the house would blow apart in the explosion if the gas station caught fire. Tired of singing, Midori put her guitar down and slumped against my shoulder like a cat in the sun. “How did you like my song?” she asked. I answered cautiously, “It was unique and original and very expressive of your personality.” “Thanks,” she said. “The theme is that I have nothing.” “Yeah, I kinda thought so.

We were in Julie’s room one night, my eldest daughter and I, maybe a decade ago now. I wanted to show her how the canvas painting she had carefully labored over for her little sister's Christmas gift was framed and hung on the wall. I said, gazing at her masterpiece with no small amount of motherly pride, “Now it looks like a real work of art”. Bella looked at me quizzically, wondering yet again how her mother could possibly understand so little about the world. “Mama, every time you make something, or draw something, or paint something, it is already real art. There is no such thing as art that is not real” And so I said that she was right, and didn’t it look nice, and once again, daughter became guru and mother became willing student. Which is, I sometimes think, the way it was meant to be. ~~~~~ art is always real. all of it. even the stuff you don’t understand. even the stuff you don’t like. even the stuff that you made that you would be embarrassed to show your best friend that photo that you took when you first got your DSLR, when you captured her spirit perfectly but the focus landed on her shoulder? still art. the painting you did last year the first time you picked up a brush, the one your mentor critiqued to death? it’s art. the story you are holding in your heart and so desperately want to tell the world? definitely art. the scarf you knit for your son with the funky messed up rows? art. art. art. the poem scrawled on your dry cleaning receipt at the red light. the dress you want to sew. the song you want to sing. the clay you’ve not yet molded. everything you have made or will one day make or imagine making in your wildest dreams. it’s all real, every last bit. because there is no such thing as art that is not real.

Charlotte lies on the bed, in the knit scarf and underwear She's doing a quiz in a magazine: "ARE YOU HAVING A MID-TWENTIES CRISIS? ARE YOU FATIGUED? DO YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOUR CAREER IS GOING? DO YOU HATE MOST PEOPLE?

Now truly crimson, she thrust out what was possibly the ugliest scarf I`d ever seen. Its color could only be described as puce, and it appeared to have been knitted by a drunken spider.

But as her body moves, all the yarn in the room suddenly gains tension. There's a swift swishing sound as the lines pull taut. She feels everything in the room move at once, from the big ropey lines supporting her weight, down to the tiny interlocking stitches pressed against her skin. "She rests in mid-air, suspended above her bed by the network of yarn slicing around the room. It holds her, and at the same time it caresses her. She feels its touch through the stitches on her arms, her legs, her stomach. It feels as if her weight is held in its giant hand, and it contemplates her like Yorick's skull. Hundreds of strings and lines of yarn, ranging from individual strands up to thick knitted cables now move on her. She is wrapped by long meaty loops that move around her legs, and her arms, and her neck; and thin little strings that slip between her fingers. A loop circles her hair and pulls it gently into a pony tail, and it lifts to supports her head. "She hangs quietly and meditatively for a while, feeling the caress of the yarn, gently tightening and loosening, and sliding over her body. It feels along her body. And as it feels her, she feels it. She can feel its affection through the way the yarn touches her. The caresses slide up and down her arms, her legs, between her fingers, and around her neck. "She can feel all the different textures of the different yarns. The scratchy itch of cheap wool, and the smooth toughness of nylon and polyester strings. In places there's even some slick and soft rayon and silk. And she's sure she can tell just by the touch of it, that her foot has been wrapped in a small scarf she made of an extremely fine cashmere. "But the thing doesn't just want to hold her.

You’re the president. They need you.” He covered my foot with his. “And I need you. Without toi, there’s no moi.” AT HOME, I entered the sitting room, where Maman was knitting me a scarf.

It’s a scarf,” said Horace. “Miss P was able to smuggle me a pair of needles, and I knitted it while I was in my cell. I reckon that making it kept me from going mad in there.” I thanked him and unfolded it. The scarf was simple and gray with knotted tassels on the ends, but it was well made and even had my initials monogrammed in one corner. JP.

Every morning Papa brought in another pile of firewood and vines from the apple tree. Mama said they should keep busy knitting Papa’s Christmas presents. Josie finished Papa’s scarf and made one for Mama too. Katrina worked on Mama’s pincushion, but she just couldn’t concentrate on knitting Papa’s socks while he sawed and hacked away at the apple tree. She had ripped out the heel and started over so many times that she had all but ruined the yarn from Mrs. Wooly. “Well, I’ll miss the old apple tree,” said Mama, “but it will keep us warm this long winter.” “Yes, I’m thankful for the firewood,” said Papa. How could he be thankful, thought Katrina. Didn’t he know that he was chopping up her studio? Didn’t he know he was ruining her drawing board? Didn’t he know she couldn’t draw unless she were in the apple tree?

Its inky-early outside and I’m wearing my knitted scarf, like John Betjeman, poet of the British past.

Don’t save it for later. Wear the scarf now. Craw’ll knit for you. He’ll knit until his fingers shrivel, and when he can’t knit, I’ll knit, and Ariadne’s baby’ll knit. But don’t save love because it’s ‘too special’ to wear. You wear love every day, and it’ll never wear out.” Oh, he believed that. With every touch of his father’s hand to his mother’s face, he believed that about love.

Like she’s never completely sure if she’s doing or saying the right thing, only hopes that she is. The capture is framed from the shoulders up like one of her previous broadcasts, but the background is all wrong. Instead of the Tea room’s neat, orderly space, she’s standing in what looks like the interior of a house. There are picture frames on a dresser behind her, filled with a family he doesn’t recognize. “We’ve intercepted several messages like the one I’m about to play in the past two months, broadcast over open channels. Allow me to also preface this by saying, Chersky believes them to be clever digital forgeries. Our technicians are the best at what they do. However, I feel it prudent to get your unique perspective.” Another finger tap, and the video begins to play. “This is Rhona Long, former commander of McKinley base,” the woman begins. It must be cold where she is. Her breath mists, and her throat is wrapped in a thick hand-knit scarf. A small chain hangs over it, pendant out of frame. “I have made several attempts now to reach out to McKinley base but have received no response. It is my hope that other factions will receive this message and share it.” She then goes on to describe the events surrounding the missile strike on Calgary, masking the mission’s goal under the guise of “recovering crucial assets from the machines.” She warns against trusting the New Soviets but stops just sort of inciting insurrection, concluding with some now-outdated intelligence about the higher echelon’s movements in the region.

Seriously, every article of clothing she wore—beret, scarf, wool coat, knitted mittens—were all a shade of purple so bright my pupils had to adjust.

He would get out of the car to make sure her knitted scarf protected her nose and mouth against the wind. And they would climb the steps of the gray building labeled “Duxton Senior Center.” Inside, a blonde administrator would lead Roya to a hall where a man in a wheelchair sat by the window. And she would see once again the boy, whom she once believed would always be hers.

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Few people care that it took you three days to knit that ugly scarf; it’s still ugly and no one wants it. It doesn’t matter if the yarn is really expensive (since making it required someone else to do the work of hiking to the Andes to procure the fleece, which had to be washed, carded and

washed her face and dressed in a plain cotton day dress, wrapping a scarf around her butchered hair as she went downstairs. Vianne sat on the divan, knitting, an oil lamp lit beside her. In the ring of lamplight that separated her from the darkness, Vianne looked pale and sickly; she obviously hadn’t slept much this week, either. She looked up at Isabelle in surprise. “You’re up early.” “I have a long day of standing in lines ahead of me. Might as well get started,” Isabelle said. “The first in line get the best food.” Vianne put her knitting aside and stood. Smoothing her dress (another reminder that he was in the house: neither of them came downstairs in nightdresses), she went into the kitchen and then returned with ration cards. “It’s meat today.” Isabelle grabbed the ration cards from

I went a day. Spent that evening standing at the window lighting one cigarette off the last, after she’d gone, to keep myself from sitting and writing out the scene as freshly recalled. One week, thirty packs of cigarettes. Weeks. Without spooling out more of a tale, creating more to burn, knitting away at the front of the long knotted scarf that will have to be unraveled at the back. How helpless I feel before this flood of words, how ridiculous. A hundred times trying to shut off the flow. Under orders from Mother. From Frida and Diego, arms crossed, feet tapping, stop it. In the name of the law. Stop writing down everything, it makes me nervous. And something inside the boy cries out, Those are the only two choices: read, or dead.

Consider the author. Living or dead, they have all done the same thing: laid down word after word, making a story. They have many ways of doing it. Some create a story as though they are knitting a scarf. One stitch is made from the last. Quietly, slowly, through work and patience, a book – a scarf – grows. Some authors create their stories in a frenzy of activity, short and sharp and frantic, as though they and their idea are lovers reunited. Some treat their work with caution, and do not so much write as listen, sometimes for years, for whispers and words to set down. Some authors begin with a blueprint they have laboured over; others are chasing a thought or a feeling down on to the page; others yet write while hoping to excise the thing that squats in their belly and makes them separate to everyone else, however hard they try to fit in. There are authors who write for a ravenous, waiting public, and authors who put down word after word with no expectation that their work will ever be seen by someone else. The result is the same. There is a book in your hand. Behind it – maybe centuries behind it – stands an author. When you read their first sentence, you are completing their work. Not all authors care about readers. Some of them write for the good of their own souls, and some of them, for all of their vivid imaginings, could never see their work being published. But for others, many others, your gaze on the page of words they have written is the manifestation of a dream. Thank you.