Marina Song Quotes

Black as--the centre of an eye, the centre, a blackness that sucks at light. I love your vigilance Night, first mother of songs, give me the voice to sing of you in those fingers lies the bridle of the four winds. Crying out, offering words of homage to you, I am only a shell where the ocean is still sounding. But I have looked too long into human eyes. Reduce me now to ashes--Night, like a black sun.

At the Unitarian Universalist Christmas pageant in Cambridge, Massachusetts, it didn't matter that Mary insisted on keeping her nails painted black or that Joseph had come out of the closet. On December 25 at seven and nine p.m., three wise women would follow the men down the aisle -- one wearing a kimono and another, African garb; instead of myrrh they would bring chicken soup, instead of frankincense they'd play lullabies. The shepherds had a line on protecting the environment and the innkeeper held a foreclosure sign. No one quite believed in God and no one quite didn't -- so they made it about the songs and the candles and the pressing together of bodies on lacquered wooden pews.

Well, you don′t know fuck about my family Could never tell you what happened The day I turned seventeen The rise of a king, and the fall of a queen

I talked a lot in my car. Thousands of words and songs and swears are absorbed in its fabric, just like the orange juice I spilled on my way to the dentist. It knows what happened, when Allie went to Puerto Rico, understands the difference between the way I look at Nick and the way I look at Adam, and remembers the first time I experimented with talking to myself.

In The Invention of Literature (1999), the classical scholar Florence Dupont reminds us that many of the greatest works of human imagination were created to be performed, to be heard. Before the printing press and mass literacy, the written versions existed as blueprints or records of performances, recitals, speeches, songs, and other forms of oral communication. Voicing was an art of living creators, and the voice of the storyteller was

With a feeling of despondency so intense that it was almost pleasurable, he got out his guitar. So this was to be his condition now.What was he but a fragment of broken churned-up humanity washed up on this faraway shore? This was where his journey had brought him.... There mus be a song in this...

Since the tragedy of Marina’s death, her parents have heard from strangers around the globe surprised to find themselves writing to share the impact of “meeting” Marina through her words: Jewish teenagers visiting a series of concentration camps while on “The March of the Living” and finding specific comfort and renewed purpose in her writings; college peers living more mindfully; musicians writing songs inspired by her; older readers making midlife recalibrations and career changes, whether they are returning to school or shifting to a nonprofit or finishing that manuscript; people simply rediscovering a sense of hope. These new life paths all build from Marina’s own sense that it’s never too late to change, that we must take action, that we are indeed “in this together.

The biggest fight in my relationship with Danny regards his absurd claim that he invited the popular middle school phenomenon of saying "cha-cha-cha" after each phrase of the Happy Birthday song- an idea his ingenious sixth-grade brain allegedly spawned in a New Jersey Chuck E. Cheese and watched spread across 1993 America with an unprecedented rapidity.

If there were captions explaining their history next to these dedications they would be proof of the richness of relationships in Panikkar’s life and of how my collection came from many directions. In order to sing my glories, I will select names of several famous authors who gave their books with dedications to Panikkar and to me: Francesco Alberoni, Hans Urs von Balthasar, Bettina Baümer, Massimo Cacciari, Enrico Castelli, Emil Cioran, Victoria Cirlot, Oscar Cullman, Jacques Albert Cuttat, Henri e Lubac, Mircea Eliade, Jean Guitton, Alois Maria Haas, Martin Heidegger, Johannes Kakichi Kadowaki, Károly Kerényi, Ursula King, Serge Latouche, Javier Meloni, Salvador Pániker, Octavio Paz, Emanuele Severino, Raniero La Valle, Amador Vega, Uma Marina Vesci,

her.     “I was cold,” Michelle drawled, fully equipped with a Georgian drip. “And I wanted to hear the radio.”     In no mood for a fight, Benny said nothing. His face tightened.     “Do you want me to drive you home or not?” Michelle asked.     “Yes, please drive me home, rookie.” Benny relaxed as he decided it wouldn’t have mattered if she had honked the horn to the beat of the radio songs while flashing the high beams on and off. The guy he was looking for didn’t show. Nobody was out in this rain.     “Do you want to go to your house or the boat?”     “The boat.”     The beat of the windshield wipers hypnotized Benny. The rain frizzled in his ears. He snapped out of it as they rode over the speed bump that accompanied the thirteen mile an hour sign at the entrance of the marina. “Do you want me to come in tonight?” Michelle asked.     “Not tonight, I’m beat,” Benny answered. Jesus Christ, I only slept with you once. It was a mistake. Can’t we just forget it?     Once home, Benny’s eyes found the clock on the microwave as he dropped his umbrella and shoes inside the door. His pupils narrowed in surprise as he realized it was past two o’clock in the morning. The

At sea, the darker the night the closer you will get to your past. The music you decide to play is the radio dial of your history. Van Morrison’s “Have I Told You Lately” played as I stared at the setting moon. This is a song that always transports me to a New Hampshire backroad of my youth. Her name was Katie. She was tall, blond, and wore the girl next door look like an angel. She was smart, funny, and kind. She infatuated me from the moment I met her at Wentworth Marina. She was the daughter of two well-to-do doctors from upstate New York. It was her plan to sail around the world, and she wanted me to join her. “Just to mate” she would always say with a wink. She told me, “Pull over, pull over. I love this song. We have to dance.” So I found myself with goosebumps despite dancing in the warmth of the summer air. The sky around us filled with the flashing luminance of fireflies, and it seemed like we were dancing in the heavens above. You could almost touch the music as it drifted out of my truck windows. I will never forget the look in those crystal-blue eyes as we danced to that song alongside my Dodge Ram pickup. Little did I know it would be the last night I would ever get to look into them again.