Revolving Door Love Quotes

Being different is a revolving door in your life where secure people enter and insecure exit.

Physicists say we are made of stardust. Intergalactic debris and far-flung atoms, shards of carbon nanomatter rounded up by gravity to circle the sun. As atoms pass through an eternal revolving door of possible form, energy and mass dance in fluid relationship. We are stardust, we are man, we are thought. We are story.

Even as I hold you I think of you as someone gone far, far away. Your eyes the color of pennies in a bowl of dark honey bringing sweet light to someone else your black hair slipping through my fingers is the flash of your head going around a corner your smile, breaking before me, the flippant last turn of a revolving door, emptying you out, changed, away from me. Even as I hold you I am letting go.

Do not neglect to bring your revolver, Russell. It may be needed, and it does us no good in your drawer with that disgusting cheese." "My lovely Stilton; it's almost ripe, too. I do hope Mr. Thomas enjoys it." "Any riper and it will eat through the woodwork and drop into the room below." "You envy me my educated tastes." "That I will not honour with a response. Get out the door, Russell.

Dear Fathers of the Fatherless Children, Your children are tired of being a part of the central axis in your “revolving doors” as the turning of confusion is never-ending.

Fathers of the fatherless children, your revolving doors mold your children’s emotional identity for life.

Part-time fathers of the fatherless sons and daughters, it is pathetic that you all do not see that your revolving doors are a problem. The continuous cycle has to stop!

Dear Fathers of the Fatherless Children, There isn't such a thing as a part-time father. Why would you want to be a revolving door father? It's either all-or-none.

Part-time fathers of the fatherless sons and daughters, it is pathetic that you all do not see that your revolving doors are a problem. The continuous cycle has to stop! It destroys your son’s and daughter’s identity.

Do you want to kill his love for you? What sort of existence will he have if you rob him of the fruits of his ambition, if you take him from the splendour of a great political career, if you close the doors of public life against him, if you condemn him to sterile failure, he who was made for triumph and success? Women are not meant to judge us but to forgive us when we need forgiveness. Pardon, not punishment, is their mission. Why should you scourge him with rods for a sin done in his youth, before he knew you, before he knew himself? A man's life is of more value than a woman's. It has larger issues, wider scope, greater ambitions. A women's life revolves around curves of emotions. It is upon lines of intellect that man's life progresses. Don't make any terrible mistake, Lady Chiltern. A woman who can keep a man's love, and love him in return, has done all the world wants of women, or should want of them.

In our society today, we have what I call the “revolving door” fathers that come in and out of their children’s lives, and who are known as the part-time fathers of the fatherless sons and daughters. They aren’t any better than the fathers who simply disappeared.

Part-time fathers of the fatherless sons and daughters, it is pathetic that you all do not see that your revolving doors are a problem. The continuous cycle has to stop! It destroys your son’s and daughter’s identity. Man up, and take care of your children. As they become wiser and older you will not have anyone to blame but yourself when they are filled with resentment.

Fathers of the fatherless children, eliminating your presence or being a “revolving door,” you are pulling your children under to the point that their confidence is shattered. Your children are unsure where they stand and feel out of place with the many different experiences they battle constantly. Their private thoughts are signs of not feeling wanted, loved, or accepted.

Dear Fathers of the Fatherless Children, Sad, but inevitable, you play the victim when your children don’t want to be bothered. They are tired of being a part of the central axis in your “revolving doors” as the turning of confusion is never-ending. Your sons and daughters are tired of their spirits being lifted by your false lies. Once again, over and over repeatedly, you disappoint and drop them at any giving moment without considering their feelings. Little do you know, they become lost and buried in their emotional identity.

My first trip to New York City, when I was seven, was a whirlwind of Macy's, the Empire State building, and club sandwiches at a diner. On a whim, my parents took us there for the day, and my strongest memory is a revolving doors. It seemed to me than that to enter anywhere in Manhattan, you had to step into one and spin.

My first trip to New York City, when I was seven, was a world wind of Macy's, the Empire State building, and club sandwiches at a diner. On a whim, my parents took us there for the day, and my strongest memory is a revolving doors. It seemed to me than that to enter anywhere in Manhattan, you had to step into one and spin.

what I had to live with, the rest of the world must never see, for it separated me from them, as it had just done with my former best friends and with my one long love, Berry. There was rage and rage and rage, coating all like crude oil coating gulls. They had hurt me, bad. For now, I had no faith in the others of the world. And the delivery of medical care? Farce. BUFF ’n’ TURF. Revolving door. I wasn’t sitting at the end of the ambulance ride, no. There was no glamour in this. My first patient of the New Year was a five-year-old found in a clothes dryer, face bloodied. She had been hit by her pregnant mother, hit over and over with a bludgeon of pantyhose stuffed with shards of broken glass. How could I survive?

I’m just commenting on that sort of belief. The trouble is that it might make discussion difficult. If somebody believes so strongly in one particular solution to the world’s problems, then it may obscure the nuances. That’s all I was saying.” Elspeth paused. “They may not see that there are others who have a different view. You can love things in a whole lot of different ways, can’t you?

However she redefined herself, that part of one that made for the core of the self, that part that we think of as the ultimate, inner being—that was ineradicable Scottish. That part spoke with a Scottish voice; that part looked out through Scottish eyes; and it was that part that now welled within her as she gazed out through the window of the descending plane and saw below her the rolling Borders hills…

On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous" i Tell me it was for the hunger & nothing less. For hunger is to give the body what it knows it cannot keep. That this amber light whittled down by another war is all that pins my hand to your chest. i You, drowning                         between my arms — stay. You, pushing your body                          into the river only to be left                          with yourself — stay. i I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after backhanding mother, then taking a chainsaw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls. And so I learned that a man, in climax, was the closest thing to surrender. i Say surrender. Say alabaster. Switchblade.                    Honeysuckle. Goldenrod. Say autumn. Say autumn despite the green                    in your eyes. Beauty despite daylight. Say you’d kill for it. Unbreakable dawn                    mounting in your throat. My thrashing beneath you                    like a sparrow stunned with falling. i Dusk: a blade of honey between our shadows, draining. i I wanted to disappear — so I opened the door to a stranger’s car. He was divorced. He was still alive. He was sobbing into his hands (hands that tasted like rust). The pink breast cancer ribbon on his keychain swayed in the ignition. Don’t we touch each other just to prove we are still here? I was still here once. The moon, distant & flickering, trapped itself in beads of sweat on my neck. I let the fog spill through the cracked window & cover my fangs. When I left, the Buick kept sitting there, a dumb bull in pasture, its eyes searing my shadow onto the side of suburban houses. At home, I threw myself on the bed like a torch & watched the flames gnaw through my mother’s house until the sky appeared, bloodshot & massive. How I wanted to be that sky — to hold every flying & falling at once. i Say amen. Say amend. Say yes. Say yes anyway. i In the shower, sweating under cold water, I scrubbed & scrubbed. i In the life before this one, you could tell two people were in love because when they drove the pickup over the bridge, their wings would grow back just in time. Some days I am still inside the pickup. Some days I keep waiting. i It’s not too late. Our heads haloed             with gnats & summer too early to leave any marks.             Your hand under my shirt as static intensifies on the radio.             Your other hand pointing your daddy’s revolver             to the sky. Stars falling one by one in the cross hairs.             This means I won’t be afraid if we’re already             here. Already more than skin can hold. That a body             beside a body must ma

But shall we inspect what we see beyond?” he went on. “Please, after you…” Elspeth thought: I am so fortunate. I am married to a man who says “Please, after you.” How fortunate is that? And she thought of a friend who did not even have a husband, although she dearly would have loved one, and how her life would be transformed, would be made perfect, if she had one who said, “Please, after you” or indeed by one who did not even say that, who said nothing, in fact. Bless you, my darling, she thought. And thank you for this: for this house, for our marriage, for our three boys, for bothering to say “Please, after you.

When I was a boy, not yesterday of course, When life, I thought, was a whole lot More certain than it is today, I made a list of those I thought Liked me as much as I liked them – For at that age we’re loved By just about everybody Whom we care to love; how different It is in later years, when affection Has no guarantee of reciprocation, When we may spend so very long Yearning for one who cannot Love us back, or cares not to, Or who lives somewhere else And has forgotten our address And the way we looked or spoke. The remarkable thing about love Is that it is freely available, Is as plentiful as oxygen, Is as joyous as a burn in spate, And need never run out. And yet, for all its plenitude, We ration it so strictly and forget Its curative properties, its subtle Ability to make the soul-injured Whole again, to make the lonely Somehow assured that their solitude Will not last forever; its promise That if we open our heart It is joy and resolution That will march in triumphant Through the gates we create. When I look at Scotland, At this country that possesses me, I wonder what work love Has still to do; and find the answer Closer at hand than I thought – In the images of contempt and disdain, That are still there, as stubborn As human imperfections can be; In the coldness of heart That sees nothing wrong In indifference to want, in dislike Of those who are different, In the cutting, dismissive Turn of phrase, in the sneer. Love is not there, in all those places, But it will be; love cannot solve Every human problem, but it makes A start on a solution; love Is the only compass-point We need to learn; we need not Be clever to know it, nor endowed With unusual vision, love Comes free, at least in those forms Worth having, lasts as long As anything human may last. May Scotland, when it looks Into its heart tomorrow If not today, see the fingerprints Of love, its signature, its presence, Its promise of healing.

what I had to live with, the rest of the world must never see, for it separated me from them, as it had just done with my former best friends and with my one long love, Berry. There was rage and rage and rage, coating all like crude oil coating gulls. They had hurt me, bad. For now, I had no faith in the others of the world. And the delivery of medical care? Farce. BUFF ’n’ TURF. Revolving door.

When did loving her become a chore? When did my love, become a revolving door?

...But I do like the idea of household gods--shall we get some? A set of little statues and bring the boys up to believe in them?" "I hope they believe in something," said Elspeth. 'Imagaine believing in nothing at all--not even in love, or justice, or any of the things that can make people passionate." "Such as a country?" Elspeth thought about this. "I suppose there are lots of people who believe in Scotland. Or the European Union, for that matter. Their belief anables them to ... well, to talk about the future with enthusiasm. They don't like things as they are and they are convinced that things will be much improved once they are otherwise." "Well, why not?" asked Matthew. "I didn't say there was any reason why not. I'm just commenting on that sort of belief. The trouble is that it might make discussion difficult. If somebody believes to strongly in one particular solution to the world's problems, then it may obscure the nuances. That's all I was saying." Elspeth paused. "They may not see that there are others who have a different view. You can love things in a whole lot of different ways, can't you?

A major factor influencing the nation’s dietary policies is the revolving door that shuttles industry leaders into roles as legislators and government regulators, then back into industry. Members of the USDA have had known associations with the National Cattlemen’s Beef Association, the National Pork Board, the National Livestock and Meat Board, the American Egg Board, ConAgra Foods, the National Dairy Council, and Dairy Management Inc.4,5 In other words, health care, nutrition policy, and agribusiness are all tucked cozily together in a king-size bed.

Life, if you keep chasing it so hard, will drive you to death. Time—when pursued like a bandit—will behave like one; always remaining one county or one room ahead of you, changing its name and hair color to elude you, slipping out the back door of the motel just as you’re banging through the lobby with your newest search warrant, leaving only a burning cigarette in the ashtray to taunt you. At some point you have to stop because it won’t. You have to admit that you can’t catch it. That you’re not supposed to catch it. At some point, as Richard keeps telling me, you gotta let go and sit still and allow contentment to come to you. Letting go, of course, is a scary enterprise for those of us who believe that the world revolves only because it has a handle on the top of it which we personally turn, and that if we were to drop this handle for even a moment, well—that would be the end of the universe. But try dropping it, Groceries. This is the message I’m getting. Sit quietly for now and cease your relentless participation. Watch what happens. The birds do not crash dead out of the sky in mid-flight, after all. The trees do not wither and die, the rivers do not run red with blood. Life continues to go on. Even the Italian post office will keep limping along, doing its own thing without you—why are you so sure that your micromanagement of every moment in this whole world is so essential? Why don’t you let it be?

Thomas Jefferson JOB: Given a choice, he once said, he would have rather been a gardener than president. He imported plants from other countries to study them, and while conventional wisdom of the time said tomatoes were poisonous, he grew and ate them for dinner. He was also an inventor and was responsible for the development of the dumbwaiter, the lazy Susan, an automatic closing door the design of which is still—fundamentally—in use on buses today, the revolving chair, the folding chair, and a machine that enabled him to make a duplicate copy of a letter as he wrote it. He was also an inventive chef and created both Baked Alaska and Chicken à la King (which George Washington loved!).

Poetry is raw, real, and pure; it is the spirit under the chaos and the very real dragons battled within. The demons and angels and the voices are often heard and necessary to field the conflicts of understanding, the dance of relationships, the revolving translucent doors leading to infinity; the prose is endless.

Maybe you wanted me to hate you Cause God knows I love you Maybe you hate me too Cause why else would you Walk in and out of my life Like you were in a revolving door?

It all seems like a dream, now. Gray, old men ambling about a bookstore in the old Jewish quarter of Paris. As everything is suddenly soaked a dark stain, we duck inside a door stoop. I gently pull you closer and look into your eyes, azure pools that invite me to sink into their sensuous depths. Time slows as everything revolves around us and planets, stars and constellations slowly turn like clockwork, as we dream our love, our universe — together. As darkness drains from the early morning sky, I pull you up to my chest and whisper, "Do you remember when we were caught in the rain in Paris?" You squeeze my hand. It all seems like a dream, now. One love, one dream, one universe, with only you and me, together, dreaming our love forever.