Swallowing Stones Character Quotes

And all the names of the tribes, the nomads of faith who walked in the monotone of the desert and saw brightness and faith and colour. The way a stone or found metal box or bone can become loved and turn eternal in a prayer. Such glory of this country she enters now and becomes a part of. We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into and swum up as if rivers of wisdom, characters we have climbed into as if trees, fears we have hidden in as if caves. I wish for all of this to be marked on my body when I am dead. I believe in such cartography—to be marked by nature, not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience. All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

I winced as he pushed the dagger harder into my flesh and I felt a small trickle of blood slide down my neck. "Okay, okay, th-the truth is my name is Elizabeth Burrough. I'm from twenty-first century America. I have no idea how I got here. All I know is I fell asleep reading my favourite book - _this_ book - and when I woke up, I was inside of it. You, Stone, William, Lord Gallagher, all of you - you're all characters from the book. _That's_ how I know everything that's going to happen, _that's_ why I keep telling you I don't belong here, and _that's_ why I insist that you hurry to the deck before William loses his balance and goes flying over the railing where he'll be swallowed by a whale." I stared at him, breathing hard. _Please, don't hurt me._ He was silent for a moment as if he couldn't tell whether I was joking or not. His eyes burned into mine. I couldn't read the expression on his face and had no clue what the next words out of his mouth would be. Finally, he said, "There are no whales here this time of year.

I sit with the ponderosa pine, next to Big Stump. As the angle and quality of light vary through the day and through the seasons, the hue and luminance of the colors change, animated by the touch of the Sun. Before the volcanic flow, this redwood was seventy meters tall and more than seven hundred years old. Now it is fragmented stone column three meters tall and ten meters around. For such a long dead creature, the stump is an acoustically lively character. In the summer violet-green swallows wheel around the exposed trunk, chattering as they ambush insects. Mountain bluebirds gather on the stump to feed their squalling youngsters, to purr at mates, and to snap their bills at rivals. A hummingbird buzzes face first against the stump, investigating a streak of flower like orange in the rock. Fewer animal sounds enliven winter’s air. The wail of ponderosa needles dominates, interspersed with the kok-kok of passing ravens. Wind bends spent grass stems to the ground, as they move, their sharp tips etch curved lines on the snow’s surface, the scratch of a pen on rough paper. Snows falls in clumps from pine needles, a hiss, then a muffled blow.