Plague Of Doves Quotes

When we are young, the words are scattered all around us. As they are assembled by experience, so also are we, sentence by sentence, until the story takes shape.

What happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough? It becomes your entire history.

Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.

I am part of what she thinks is her illness, a symptom of which she thinks she has been cured. She, on the other hand, is what I was looking for.

Freedom, I found is not only in the running but in the heart, the mind, the hands.

There are ways of being abandoned even when your parents are right there.

What men call adventures usually consist of the stoical endurance of appalling daily misery.

He was a bad thing waiting for a worse thing to happen.

She had a talent for looking at a person with no expression - you filled in whatever you felt guiltiest about.

The music was more than music- at least what we are used to hearing. The music was feeling itself. The sound connected instantly with something deep and joyous. Those powerful moments of true knowledge that we have to paper over with daily life. The music tapped the back of our terrors, too. Things we'd lived through and didn't want to ever repeat. Shredded imaginings, unadmitted longings, fear and also surprisingly pleasures. No, we can't live at that pitch. But every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware. And this realization was in the music, somehow, or in the way Shamengwa played it.

But if there was embellishment, it only had to do with the facts.

The present was enough, though my work in the cemetery told me every day what happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough: it becomes your entire history.

I knew each person's delusion, the places their records had scratched, where the sounds repeated.

The whiskey had its own mind. Or spirit, he said. A cunning spirit. Sometimes it fooled him. Sometimes it set him free.

We'd better get there soon," said Corwin. "They're probably building new streets in Paris right this minute." "What if I don't want to, being a lesbian?" Corwin fell silent; after a while he spoke. "So you think it might be permanent?

Our individual consciousnesses were sieves of the divine. We could only know what our minds could encompass safely.

So I was, like most artists, deformed by my art.

The gun jammed on the last shot and the baby stood holding the crib rail, eyes wild, bawling.

She was a woman of reserve.

The whole time we made love, in deepening light, we watched each other's faces as the expressions came and went. We saw the pleasure and the tenderness. We saw the helplessness deepen. We saw the need that was a beautiful sickness between us.

In Erling Nicolai Rolfsrud’s compendium of memorable women and men from North Dakota, “Mustache” Maude Black, for that was the name of my grandparents’ benefactress, is described as not un-womanly, though she dressed mannishly, smoked, drank, was a crack shot and a hard-assed camp boss. These

I’d found my purpose. A Mothman. An Unseelie. A demonic plague doctor. All three of them had captured me, stolen my wings, and dragged me down into the darkness of their world…I was their dove and they were my demons— and we were the freaks of nature who had found love where no one else could.

I took a step toward her, but she turned from me and stomped back to her car. I watched her drive off. After a moment, I walked up the limestone steps and through the phantom oak-and-glass front doors of the house where I grew up. I paced the hall, entered the long rectangle of dining room, rested a hand on the carved cherrywood mantel, then passed into the kitchen. The house was so real around me that I could smell the musty linen in the cedar closet, the gas from the leaky burner on the stove, the sharp tang of geraniums that I had planted in clay pots. I lay down on the exact place where the living room couch had been pushed tight under the leaded-glass windows. I closed my eyes and it was all around me again. The stuffed bookshelves, the paneling, the soft slap of my mother's cards on the table. I could see from the house of my dark mind the alley, from the alley the street leading to the end of town, its farthest boundary the lucid silence of the dead. Between the graves my path, and along that path her back door, her face, her timeless bed, and the lost architecture of her bones. I turned over and made myself comfortable in the crush of wild burdock. A bee or two hummed in the drowsy air. The swarm had left the rubble and built their houses beneath the earth. They were busy in the graveyard right now, filling the skulls with white combs and the coffins with sweet black honey.

The music was more than music— at least what we are used to hearing. The music was feeling itself. The sound connected instantly with something deep and joyous. Those powerful moments of true knowledge that we have to paper over with daily life. The music tapped the back of our terrors, too. Things we'd lived through and didn't want to ever repeat. Shredded imaginings, unadmitted longings , fear and also surprising pleasures. No, we can't live at that pitch. But every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware. And this realization was in the music, somehow...

Mankind - proud conqueror and king swings its flag of primal glory to the winds Titans of the power-myth that failed Neanderthal hunger for the flesh of war so frail So weak, so hollow-minded the primat flock responds the jester race submits For each day of war is a failure for man, enslaved in her mordial genes Illusions bleed from their fetid cores, bent to their rotten extremes We, the plague of Terra Firma, nature's grand and last mistake plant the poisoned seed of cancer, set the severed fruits awake Burning like frozen relics in god's archaic graveland Burn the visionaire Kill the ideaologies Mankind must die The doves and the angels return to their graves with flames on their pestilent wings while mushroom-clouds haunt their virginwhite skies to rape their utopian dreams Living the last days of evolution's end from the nest of humanity, the graveland vultures rend

Drugs now travel the old fur trade routes, and where once Corwin

Unable to stand my thoughts any longer, I swung from the bed and dropped to the floor beside my husband. He breathed, slow and rhythmic. Peaceful. Nightmares didn’t plague his sleep. Slipping beneath the blankets, I pressed close to him. Rested my cheek against his back and savored his warmth as it seeped into my skin. My eyes fluttered shut, and my breathing slowed to match his. In the morning. I would deal with everything in the morning. His breathing faltered slightly as I drifted to sleep

Over the past four months, she'd been plagued by annoying dreams in which she was chased by a giant, silver-papered cupcake with strawberry frosting. In every dream, the huge cupcake chased her through the tree-lined streets of Dove Pond to the highest point of Hill Street. The dream always ended with her standing alone and terrified in front of the Stewart house. She might have been able to ignore those dreams, but every time she had one, sometime after the dream ended, strawberry frosting would appear somewhere on her arms or legs. Sometimes it showed up as a plump rose, perfectly made, as if ready for a wedding cake. Sometimes, like just now, it showed up in a long, delicate curlicue. The frosting was always pink, always smelled like strawberry, and was always annoying.

What is the difference between the influence of instinct upon a wolf and history upon a man? In both cases, justice is prey to unknown dreams.

I do my work. I do my best to make the small decisions well, and I try not to hunger for the great things, for the deeper explanations. For I am sentenced to keep watch over this small patch of earth, to judge its miseries and tell its stories. That’s who I am.