Mills Lane Quotes

There is a sense of danger in leaving what you know, even if what you know isn’t much. These mill towns with their narrow lanes and often narrow minds were all I really knew and I feared that if I left it behind, I would lose it and not find anything to replace it. The other reason I didn’t want to go was because I wanted to be the kind of person who stays, who builds a stable and predictable life. But I wasn’t one of the people, nor would I ever be. I had a vision for my life. It wasn’t clear, but it was beautiful and involved leaving my history and my poverty behind me. I wasn’t happy about who I was or where I was, but I didn’t worry about it. It didn’t define me. We’re always in the making. God always has us on his anvil, melting, bending and shaping us for another purpose. It was time to change, to find a new purpose.

The river - with the sunlight flashing from its dancing wavelets, gilding gold the grey-green beech-trunks, glinting through the dark, cool wood paths, chasing shadows o'er the shallows, flinging diamonds from the mill-wheels, throwing kisses to the lilies, wantoning with the weirs' white waters, silvering moss-grown walls and bridges, brightening every tiny townlet, making sweet each lane and meadow, lying tangled in the rushes, peeping, laughing, from each inlet, gleaming gay on many a far sail, making soft the air with glory - is a golden fairy stream.

For brick and mortar breed filth and crime, With a pulse of evil that throbs and beats; And men are whithered before their prime By the curse paved in with the lanes and streets. And lungs are poisoned and shoulders bowed, In the smothering reek of mill and mine; And death stalks in on the struggling crowd— But he shuns the shadow of the oak and pine

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man with no feet.” —PERSIAN PROVERB If You Lie Down with Dogs

pushing his keys into Gandalf’s hands, and running as fast as his furry feet could carry him down the lane, past the great Mill, across The Water, and then on for a mile or more.

If you drive to the end of Little Harbor Road, in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, it will take you to the ocean, but you won’t find the sandy lane to Camp Wyndham. I made the place up. Many other features of the area, however, are much as I presented them: South Street Cemetery, South Mill Pond, the Piscataqua Bridge. Here and there I have changed features to suit the needs of the story.

...he stayed on the balcony for a while, the throbbing energy of the chawls filling his veins as he watched traffic ebb and flow. Shutters veiled the shops on the ground floor across the lane, and only a few lights flickered here and there, probably other mill workers like his father. (from Aam Papad)

from where it turns off a two-lane

You see, it was largely a matter of tariffs. Export and import duties. Silk and cotton goods had seventy or eighty per cent tax slapped on them, and we were not allowed to retaliate.’ Nazneen had drifted. She straightened the dining chairs and shivered at some remembered pleasure. ‘The Dhaka looms were sacrificed,’ said Chanu, ‘so that the mills of Manchester could be born.’ Nazneen came round to her duties. ‘They were closed down by the British?

Istare down at Hunter’s big hand swamping my smaller one as we walk towards the meadow instead of the forest. He didn’t make me put any shoes on when we passed them by at the back door. He glanced down at my bare toes, and I swear I saw him smile as he pulled me out the door. I like feeling the dirt beneath my feet.

I don’t want to be saved. Make me hurt.

And in this moment, I know I’d tear it from the fucking sky for her if she wanted me to. Fuck the rest of the world. Let it descend into chaos around us. I’m going to give this delicately, unusual girl every fucking thing she ever wanted and everything she didn’t know she did.

Painting of love This afternoon I saw a painting hanging on the wall, It was of a maiden in the prime of her beauty, The background was painted in rainbow colours, one and all, I had every reason to admire the artists sagacity, Her form looked perfect worthy of every appreciation, Her eyes interacted with mine, Her lips had a strong and intense red sensation, And from her arose feelings divine, Although it was just a portrait, A still painting hanging on the still wall, She was a feeling that moved through eyes into the heart without any freight, And in me, just like other mesmerised onlookers, she did feelings of life and love install, Maybe I only felt so, maybe I wanted to feel so, Because her eyes, her form, her everything reminded me of someone, And I imagined her in this painting on the wall, and I allowed my mind to believe so, As long as she did not remind me of anyone, or everyone, but just her, my special someone, So I sat there looking at the painting on the wall, I admired the salient aspects of her colourful beauty, And now I too was still, still like the painting and still like the dead wall, Now, not the painting, but the stillness it exuded had become my new propensity, Like a flower that is beautiful in the presence of the beauty that holds itself within it so still, A state where all conflicts are exhumed and everything that represents profanity dies, That is when this painting with million joys my heart fills in the life’s unforgiving mill, And recreates her colourful visions within me, and now my life just on them relies, So, I often visit the painting on the wall, still hanging there, And maybe it will be so always, Until one day I find it everywhere, Because I wish to love her in a million ways, in the narrow lanes, on the byways and all the highways!

What was true was true, and what wasn't, wasn't.

upscale community of Mountain View, a street called Mill Lane—

Albert Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.

What the superior person seeks is in himself; what the small person seeks is in others.” —CONFUCIUS

Small minds discuss people, average minds discuss things, but great minds discuss ideas?

Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” —MARK TWAIN

lanes. The mill wheel on the horizon turning its daily grind as chimneys breathed tendrils of smoke into the Wiltshire sky and smartly attired gentlemen played cricket on the Barley Field. Nothing now. Not even the distant din of agricultural equipment ploughing the fields. Just silence. Heavy. Oppressive. I glimpsed something then, a quick movement at the very edge of my field of vision. There were enough trees in the churchyard; it might easily have been a branch stirring on the wind . . . I looked to the great elm tree at the far end of the churchyard and saw, in the shadow cast by its overhanging branches, an ornate memorial stone fashioned from smooth white marble in the shape of a lamb. On either side of the lamb were two stone urns. Something told me there was only one family in Imber who could have afforded such a monument. With weather-worn angels looming on all sides of me, I crossed the churchyard to examine the impressive monument, and wasn’t surprised to find I was right. IN LOVING MEMORY OF PIERRE HOWISON HARTWELL APRIL 1925 – OCTOBER 1930

new situation Lily was

along Keene Mill Road. Another mile and a half along the two-lane road that bisected Springfield, Virginia, and they'd reach the Beltway girdling