Pin Drop Silence Quotes

But let me have silence always, in the centre of the shouting—that is essential! Let me have silence so that no pin may drop and not be heard, and not a whisper escape us for all our spouting, nor the needle's scratching upon this gramophone of a circular cosmic spot. Hear me! Mark me! Learn me! Throw the mind's ear open—shut up the mind's eye—all will be music!

Well, it was so quiet you could have heard a molecule fart three states away.

Hypothetically speaking,” Robert said, “if the attack happens, and Roland retaliates, what will you do about it?” “She is a princess of Shinar.” My aunt burst into existence in the middle of the kitchen. “It is by the grace of her mercy you are still breathing.” Robert stumbled back. Raphael’s hands went to his knives. Andrea bared her teeth, cradling Baby B. You could hear a pin drop. “I have family in town for the wedding,” I said into the silence. “My aunt, Eahrratim, the Rose of Tigris.” Curran covered his face with his hand.

When God decides who should live or die, he is immoral. When you decide who should live or die, it's your moral right.” There was a pin-drop silence.

And then I awoke, and just as Auden did when he awoke from his dream of the croquet match, I felt that I had been vouchsafed a vision. It was a feeling of utter elation and goodwill—in other words, a feeling of agape. I felt bathed in the warm, golden glow of this feeling. Some year later my wife and I were having dinner with psychiatrist friends in an Edinburgh restaurant. The talk turned to dreams, and I recounted my dream. Unfortunately, as I did so, there was a lull in the conversation at nearby tables, with the result that others heard what I had to say. At the end there was silence. Then one of the psychiatrists said: “I know what your dream is about.” A pin could have been heard to drop. “Mrs. MacGregor is your mother.

Those clothes are Susie's,' my father said calmly when he reached him. Buckley looked down at my blackwatch dress that he held in his hand. My father stepped closer, took the dress from my brother, and then, without speaking, he gathered the rest of my clothes, which Buckley had piled on the lawn. As he turned in silence toward the house, hardly breathing, clutching my clothes to him, it sparked. I was the only one to see the colors. Just near Buckley's ears and on the tips of his cheeks and chin he was a little orange somehow, a little red. Why can't I use them?' he asked. It landed in my father's back like a fist. Why can't I use those clothes to stake my tomatoes?' My father turned around. He saw his son standing there, behind him the perfect plot of muddy, churned-up earth spotted with tiny seedlings. 'How can you ask me that question?' You have to choose. It's not fair,' my brother said. Buck?' My father held my clothes against his chest. I watched Buckley flare and light. Behind him was the sun of the goldenrod hedge, twice as tall as it had been at my death. I'm tired of it!' Buckley blared. 'Keesha's dad died and she's okay?' Is Keesha a girl at school?' Yes!' My father was frozen. He could feel the dew that had gathered on his bare ankles and feet, could feel the ground underneath him, cold and moist and stirring with possibility. I'm sorry. When did this happen?' That's not the point, Dad! You don't get it.' Buckley turned around on his heel and started stomping the tender tomato shoots with his foot. Buck, stop!' my father cried. My brother turned. You don't get it, Dad,' he said. I'm sorry,' my father said. These are Susie's clothes and I just... It may not make sense, but they're hers-something she wore.' ... You act like she was yours only!' Tell me what you want to say. What's this about your friend Keesha's dad?' Put the clothes down.' My father laid them gently on the ground. It isn't about Keesha's dad.' Tell me what it is about.' My father was now all immediacy. He went back to the place he had been after his knee surgery, coming up out of the druggie sleep of painkillers to see his then-five-year-old son sitting near him, waiting for his eyes to flicker open so he could say, 'Peek-a-boo, Daddy.' She's dead.' It never ceased to hurt. 'I know that.' But you don't act that way.' Keesha's dad died when she was six. Keesha said she barely even thinks of him.' She will,' my father said. But what about us?' Who?' Us, Dad. Me and Lindsey. Mom left becasue she couldn't take it.' Calm down, Buck,' my father said. He was being as generous as he could as the air from his lungs evaporated out into his chest. Then a little voice in him said, Let go, let go, let go. 'What?' my father said. I didn't say anything.' Let go. Let go. Let go. I'm sorry,' my father said. 'I'm not feeling very well.' His feet had grown unbelievably cold in the damp grass. His chest felt hollow, bugs flying around an excavated cavity. There was an echo in there, and it drummed up into his ears. Let go. My father dropped down to his knees. His arm began to tingle on and off as if it had fallen asleep. Pins and needles up and down. My brother rushed to him. Dad?' Son.' There was a quaver in his voice and a grasping outward toward my brother. I'll get Grandma.' And Buckley ran. My father whispered faintly as he lay on his side with his face twisted in the direction of my old clothes: 'You can never choose. I've loved all three of you.

No, there's fifteen francs somewhere, which nobody gives a damn about anymore and which nobody is going to get in the end anyhow, but the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of things and rather than listen to one's own voice, rather than walk out on the primal cause, one surrenders to the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the more cowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day when the bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and the stretcher-bearers pick up the maimed and bleeding heroes and pin medals on their chest.

He turned then and dove on Kane who yelped, “I'm sick! You can't hit me.” I cackled as I watched Alec bring Kane to the ground and pin him. “You fat bastard!” Kane snapped. “Get off me!” Alec slapped Kane's face and the look of shock on his face sent me into a fit of laughter. “You... you slapped me,” Kane said. He blinked at Alec in disbelief. “You cock blocked me,” Alec replied. “Be happy it's nothing harder.” Kane continued to blink, then a fleeting moment later his shock evaporated and rage twisted his handsome face. I felt my jaw drop open when Kane lifted his hands to Alec’s arms and flipped him off his body. Kane quickly rolled to the side and slammed Alec onto his back and got in his face. “Hit me now,” he growled. I was stunned to silence. “How did you do that?” I asked Kane, but he was too busy to answer me. Alec grunted in Kane's hold. “You motherfucker... sick my ass.

Mo Ran only let the bestial savagery in his eyes slip for a moment, but Chu Wanning caught a glimpse of it. He glanced at Mo Ran’s face, his own graceful, scholarly mien completely devoid of expression. “What are you thinking about?” Shit! Tianwen hadn’t yet been withdrawn! Mo Ran once again felt the vine binding him squeeze and twist, making his organs feel like they were going to wrench into mush. He screamed in agony, letting loose the thoughts in his mind. “Chu Wanning! You think you’re so tough?! Watch me fuck you to death !” Silence fell. Chu Wanning was speechless. Even Xue Meng was dumbfounded. Tianwen abruptly returned to Chu Wanning’s palm, transforming into specks of golden light before eventually disappearing out of sight. Tianwen manifested from Chu Wanning’s essence, and it could appear when summoned and disappear at will. Xue Meng’s face was pale as he stammered, “Sh-Sh-Shizun…” Chu Wanning didn’t speak. His long, inky, delicate lashes were lowered as he looked at his own palm for a long moment. Then he raised his eyes, face unmoved other than for how it had become slightly icier than before. For a long moment, he pinned Mo Ran with a glare that said, “This beastly disciple deserves death.” Then he spoke, voice low: “Tianwen is broken. I’m going to fix it.” After dropping this statement, Chu Wanning turned and left. Xue Meng wasn’t a bright child. “H-how can a holy weapon like Tianwen be broken?” Chu Wanning heard him. He turned and once again used that “this beastly disciple deserves death” gaze to glance at him. Xue Meng felt a chill run down his spine.

The man who had him pinned kicked him over again and pointed down at the tire. "Stay down, you little bastard, or we'll rape your mum and skin her alive." Chris clamped his hands over Michael's ears. When Dean edged the truck forwards, Tommy's eyes jumped from his face. "Mum! Mummy! Help me, Mummy! Mum!" The engine bellowed, Tommy cried, Marie screamed, Frank roared, and Chris' pulse thumped in his ears. Locked in a maniacal fit, Dean cackled at the sky, his pointy nose and gaunt face making him look like a satanic Mr. Punch. He edged forward again. As Michael fought against Chris' restraint, he eased off a little. Should he just let him go? Were the images in his mind worse than those outside? When the truck moved forward again, the thick treads of the huge tires biting into the back of Tommy's head, he squeezed tightly once more. No mind could create anything worse than that. Chris looked away too.  Tommy's scream was so shrill Chris thought all of the glass in the cul-de-sac would crack, and he fought harder against his thrashing son to keep him restrained. When he felt like he couldn't fight the boy's will any more, he let go.  Instead of looking outside, Michael fell to the floor in a ball, scuttled beneath some blankets, and covered his ears. From beneath the sheets, Chris heard his small voice singing, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Nudging his boy, Chris waited for him to resurface and put a finger to his lips again. They couldn't afford for the looters to hear them no matter how much it took his son away from their dark reality. The sound of a beeping horn was accompanied by Dean howling and laughing, the vehicle's engine releasing a war cry under the weight of his heavy foot. The cacophony of chaos outside got louder. Frank wailed, Marie let out louder screams, the engine roared, the horn beeped, Dean laughed, and Tommy shrieked. Looking outside again, Chris kept his eyes away from Tommy. Instead, he watched George. If there was anyone who would save them, it was him.  Crunch! Crash!  The truck dropped by six inches. Tommy stopped screaming.  When Dean cut the engine, silence settled over the cul-de-sac, spreading outwards like the thick pool of blood from Tommy's crushed head. Marie's face was locked in a silent scream. Frank slumped further and shook with inaudible sobs. The men, even the weasel with the tennis racket, stood frozen. None of them looked at the dead boy.  Turning away from the murder, Chris looked down to find Michael staring back at him. What could he say to him? Tommy was his best friend. Then, starting low like a distant air-raid siren, Marie began to wail.  After rapidly increasing in volume, it turned into a sustained and brutal cry as if she was being torn in two. Chilled

When people maintain pin-drop silence at your life, you are almost dead and when people maintain non-stop noise in your life, you are utmost alive

Uh, Jill?” Rowan interrupted. He stood in the bathroom doorway. His pants were on, but a crisp white shirt hung open, revealing his taut abdominal muscles. “Can you button my shirt? I can do it, but—” “Sure.” Jill didn’t let him finish. He had no need to be embarrassed. Most of the time, she forgot Rowan operated with a big handicap. He was so strong and capable; it was hard to think of him not being good at anything. She stepped over to him, and found the first button, starting with the top. “Get the very top one,” he said. “I’m wearing a tie. And I’ll need your help with that too if you know how to tie a tie.” “No problem.” She shut her mouth and concentrated on closing his buttons without running her fingers against his skin. She was on button number four when her vision started wavering from arousal. The steamy heat of the bathroom and Rowan’s nearness made her whole body tighten with need. She wasn’t alone feeling it. As she hit the final bottom button, it was impossible to miss his erection jutting from his unbuttoned dress pants. She said nothing but stepped back when she finished. “Thanks,” he said, and started to turn away to tuck his shirt in. Something crazy inside her dared her to step forward and reach for his zipper. There was shocked silence from both of them. “I’ll tuck you in,” she murmured. Only the sound of them breathing could be heard as she carefully lowered his zipper and pushed the white dress shirt into his trousers. Her palm rubbed his body with each tuck. She started at her right, his left, and worked her away around until she came to the front. “I’ll do that,” he said in a strangled voice. She met his gaze for the first time. “Let me?” He didn’t answer but dropped his arm and stood passively letting her caress his cock under the guise of tucking his shirt. His body swelled under her hand, and she wanted to squeeze him and reach behind the elastic of his underwear to feel his hot flesh. “Jill.” “Mm?” “You have to stop.” She froze with her hand in place. His arousal pulsed against her hand. “I’m sorry.” She yanked her hand free and tried to turn away, but he spun her back and pinned her against the sink counter with a fierce kiss. She welcomed his body, pushing back against him, undulating against his hips which sought hers. The kiss overwhelmed her and she strained to capture more of his mouth, more of his body. She forgot where she was and where they were going. Anything he asked for, she was ready to give. And then he pulled back. Cold air slapped at her front where he’d warmed her. “Brother’s wedding,” he muttered. “Can’t miss it.” He helped her off the sink, and in a daze she turned to the mirror to fix her hair and makeup. “Got your lipstick on me,” Rowan said. She looked in the mirror at his reflection. “I like it.” A pink stain was smudged on one side of his lips. Lips she wanted to keep kissing. “Let’s get my tie, then we gotta go.

Kestrel set her cup on its saucer. “I didn’t ask to see you,” she said. “Too bad.” Arin claimed the chair across from her table in the library in a manner unbearably familiar to her. It was as if the chair had always been his. He slouched in his seat, tipped his head back, and looked at her from beneath lowered lids. The morning light fired his profile. “Worried, Lady Kestrel?” He spoke in Valorian, his accent roughening his voice. He always pronounced his r’s too low in his throat, so that when he spoke in her tongue everything came across as a soft growl. “Dreading what I’ll say…or do?” He smiled a grim little smile. “No need. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.” He tugged at his cuffs. It was only then that Kestrel noticed that they came too short on his arms and showed his wrists. It pained her to see his self-consciousness, the way it had suddenly revealed itself. In this light, his gray eyes were too clear. His posture had been confident. His words had had an edge. But his eyes were uncertain. Arin fidgeted again with his cuffs as if there was something wrong with them--with him. No, she would have said. You’re perfect, she wanted to say. She imagined it: how she would reach out to touch Arin’s bare wrist. That could lead nowhere good. She was nervous, she was cold. Her stomach was a flurry of snow. She dropped her hands to her lap. “No one’s here anyway,” Arin said, “and the librarians are in the stacks. You’re safe enough.” It was too early for courtiers to be in the library. Kestrel had counted on this, and on the fact that if anyone did turn up and saw her with the Herrani minister of agriculture, such a meeting would excite little interest. One with Arin, however, was an entirely different story. It was frustrating: his uncanny ability to unsettle her plans--and her very sense of self. She said, “Pressing where you’re not invited seems to be a habit with you.” “And yours is to put people in their place. But people aren’t gaming pieces. You can’t arrange them to suit yourself.” A librarian coughed. “Lower your voice,” Kestrel hissed at Arin. “Stop being so--” “Inconvenient?” “Frankly, yes.” His smile came: quick, true, surprised by itself. Then changing, and slow. “I could be worse.” “I am sure.” “I could tell you how.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” “Arin, how is it for you here, in the capital?” He held her gaze. “I would rather talk about what we were talking about.” She arranged her fingers along the studs that pinned green leather to the tabletop. She felt each cool, small, hard nail. The silence inside her was like those nails. What it held down was something sheer: a feeling like fragile silk, billowing up at the sound of his voice. If she and Arin were to talk about what they had been talking about, that silk could tear free. It would float up. It would catch the light, and cast a colored shadow. What color would it be, Kestrel wondered, the silk of what she felt? What would it be like to let it go, let it canopy above her?

Maybe you just don’t have it. Maybe Romanolli was wrong about you? Promise, but no follow through…” She turned and began to walk away. “You know what, Kathy,” I said, spinning around in my chair and standing up, all in one motion. “FUCK YOU.” The silence that spread through the floor was immense. A pin-drop. A mouse-fart. Pick your idiom. I expected the full wrath of Kathy Bohane in that moment. I expected the ax. I expected fire and brimstone and Sodom and Gomorrah. But I received silence. I sat back down, stared into the black emptiness of the typewriter keys in front of me, and churned out 489 words on raising a daughter as a single father in New York. I left in on Kathy’s desk and walked out of The Times building that night, knowing that I’d have to find another career. The next day, those 489 words were on the front page of The New York Times.

What I say is my business. How you react to it is your business To ascertain someone’s true character, don't listen to what they say, look at what they do The more intelligent you are, the more of an individual you are (same with creativity). Memory is the prison and imagination the key that frees us from our prejudice and preconceptions Attention addiction is the most pernicious of addictions. People will destroy themselves and the lives of others around them, just to get or keep attention focused on them and their need for its drug like dependency Sensitive people are more present than the insensitive, which is why the former jump at the sound of a pin dropping and the latter, not even to a ton weight falling beside them What you admire you mourn the passing of. What you despise, you are glad to see the back of Memory and perception depends upon silence and stillness as forgetting depends upon noise and motion (concentration / dispersal of energy and attention) Reality is not open to discussion. It is not something that changes with your opinion. It works how it works because that is how it works. The laws of reality are the laws of reality and that is it. If seeing is believing, is hearing deceiving (Being told the Emperor has got new clothes, versus seeing he hasn’t)? Stillness and silence is about staying present in the present. Noise and motion is abandonment (moving away from your position in time and space). Discovery is live, that is of the present. Memory is of the dead past (a recording). The first is always a surprise to you, the second is not. People mistake where consciousness is directed as being consciousness itself, which it isn’t If we think that we can't solve a problem, we want to eradicate it instead (stop it dead). If we can find a solution, we want to pat ourselves on the back for our creativity or understanding (keeping life / existence moving on, instead of it grinding to a halt). Culture, habit is that which reinforces our sense of identity Concentration is control because you are being present Thinking is an individual task, it is not a discussion with others, which is an exchange of ideas (other people’s thoughts) You will never understand a problem and resolve it, without exploring it and in depth. To some, yesterday is the nightmare and tomorrow the dream, to others it is the reverse Everything seems crazy until you understand it, when it instantly makes sense, even if you you still don’t think it’s sensible

》Insidious《 "Why are you so cold hearted", she asks. Words of wise say 'There is a pagoda inside every human being'. I want to see. She drops a destination pin twisted at end. In his silence, she sinks into abyss inside him, travelling canyons, caverns and reaches a red dead barren land like amidst of kangaroo country. The only things one see here are Zigzag paths created by Horned vipers, young barrel cactus and corpus of human emotions. "Come under the shelter of this Uluru hill", a thunderous voice she hears. This is blood which trickles like sand in hour glass. The lightning in anonymity is the veins where it flows. That dark clot moving towards mind is sudden anger, spreading in entire body and generates uncontrolled hypertension. Deceit, dishonesty, falsity and hypocrisy of travellers from ages has evolved this place. "But.. but where is that heart soft as fairyfloss? Let me go inside that rock" she urges. You don't need to go there. Purify your heart as of a child in cradle. You will inhale the fumes of fragrance approaching you like incense stick. Then again visit and observe this place, no less than Garden of Eden.

I kept on holding the telephone receiver in my hand knowing that it was my call, and she would not put her receiver down first. There was pin-drop silence on both sides but still, I could hear her heartbeats as if it wasn't a telephone receiver but a stethoscope in my hand. After a brief moment spread over centuries,I heard a sound, the sound of something breaking. It was eerily similar to the sound when a star, being pulled by two equally powerful black holes and unable to decide which one to choose, falls apart, breaking into pieces like a glass I put the receiver back; a soft click sound indicated disconnection. The last means of communication between us had been disconnected as if the doctor had just pulled the cable from ventilator which had kept the terminally ill patient alive. I felt a deep lump in my throat, legs failing to carry my weight; I fell down on the nearby sofa like a log of wood

I am going to appear here and stay here the entire scene.” You could have heard a pin drop. “I . . . am the king of the Gods,” he pronounced in his deep baritone. “I don’t move for anyone. I sit, and people come to me.” I smiled to myself. Of course. His declaration met with an astounded silence. There was no argument for that. They relit the scene, and from then on Josh deferred to Quinn for blocking every scene he was in.

In the taut silence, Zachary opened his eyes and watched as Holly picked up a glass bottle and shook a few drops of some clear liquid into her palm. “What is that?” he asked. “Pomade.” “I don't like pomade,” he muttered. “Yes, I'm aware of that.” There was a touch of amusement in her voice. She rubbed her hands together, distributing the stuff evenly over her fingers and palms. “I'll only use a bit. But you can't go to a formal occasion with your hair falling over your forehead.” Resigned, he sat still beneath her ministrations. He felt her damp fingers moving through his hair, gently rubbing the hot scalp beneath, smoothing the pomade through his rebellious black locks. “Everyone in your family has the same hair,” Holly commented, a smile lingering in her voice. “It has a will of its own. We had to use two entire racks of pins to make Elizabeth's hair behave.” Racked with pleasure and exquisite tension, Zachary couldn't reply. The feel of her hands on his head, the soft massage of her fingertips, was nothing less than torture. She combed his hair neatly, guiding it back from his forehead, and by some miracle it stayed in place. “There,” Holly said in satisfaction. “Very gentlemanly indeed.” “Did you ever do this for him?” Zachary heard himself ask hoarsely. “For George?” Holly went still. When their gazes met, he saw the surprise in her warm brown eyes. Then she smiled faintly. “Well, no. I don't believe George ever had a hair out of place.

In the pin-drop silence a taxi comes up with an unaccompanied girl in it. I can tell it’s a taxi, I can tell it’s a girl, and I can tell she’s unaccompanied; I can tell all three just by her introductory remark. “Benny,” she says. “Will you come over and pay this for me?