Tomb Sweeping Quotes

The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds - the cemeteries - and they're a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres- palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay - ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who've died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn't pass away so quickly here. You could be dead for a long time. The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of those places you go back to and that don't have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there's a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There's something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can't see it, but you know it's here. Somebody is always sinking. Everyone seems to be from some very old Southern families. Either that or a foreigner. I like the way it is. There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better. There's a thousand different angles at any moment. At any time you could run into a ritual honoring some vaguely known queen. Bluebloods, titled persons like crazy drunks, lean weakly against the walls and drag themselves through the gutter. Even they seem to have insights you might want to listen to. No action seems inappropriate here. The city is one very long poem. Gardens full of pansies, pink petunias, opiates. Flower-bedecked shrines, white myrtles, bougainvillea and purple oleander stimulate your senses, make you feel cool and clear inside. Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn't move. All that and a town square where public executions took place. In New Orleans you could almost see other dimensions. There's only one day at a time here, then it's tonight and then tomorrow will be today again. Chronic melancholia hanging from the trees. You never get tired of it. After a while you start to feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, like you're in a wax museum below crimson clouds. Spirit empire. Wealthy empire. One of Napoleon's generals, Lallemaud, was said to have come here to check it out, looking for a place for his commander to seek refuge after Waterloo. He scouted around and left, said that here the devil is damned, just like everybody else, only worse. The devil comes here and sighs. New Orleans. Exquisite, old-fashioned. A great place to live vicariously. Nothing makes any difference and you never feel hurt, a great place to really hit on things. Somebody puts something in front of you here and you might as well drink it. Great place to be intimate or do nothing. A place to come and hope you'll get smart - to feed pigeons looking for handouts

Lying there in her cramped room, in her small bed, Fufu, now eighteen, feels as though her world is the least significant seed in a pomegranate. She yearns for the whole fruit.

We stopped you from going, didn't we? Me and Shiva. Our birth?" Don't be silly. Can you imagine me giving up this?" he said sweeping his hand to indicate family, Missing, the home he'd made out of a bungalow. "I've been blessed. My genius was to know long ago that money alone wouldn't make me happy. Or maybe that's my excuse for not leaving you a huge fortune! I certainly could have made more money if that had been my goal. But one thing I won't have is regrets. My VIP patients often regret so many things on their deathbeds. They regret the bitterness they'll leave in people's hearts. They realize the no money, no church service, no eulogy, no funeral procession no matter how elaborate, can remove the legacy of a mean spirit. Of course, you and I have seen countless deaths among the poor. Their only regret surely is being born poor, suffering from birth to death. You know, in the book of Job, Job says to God, 'You should've taken me straight from the womb to the tomb! Why the in-between part, why life, if it was just to suffer?' Something like that. For the poor, death is at least the end of suffering.

Remember me. I will be with you in the grave on the night you leave behind your shop and your family. When you hear my soft voice echoing in your tomb, you will realize that you were never hidden from my eyes. I am the pure awareness within your heart, with you during joy and celebration, suffering and despair. On that strange and fateful night you will hear a familar voice -- you'll be rescued from the fangs of snakes and the searing sting of scorpions. The euphoria of love will sweep over your grave; it will bring wine and friends, candles and food. When the light of realization dawns, shouting and upheaval will rise up from the graves! The dust of ages will be stirred by the cities of ecstasy, by the banging of drums, by the clamor of revolt! Dead bodies will tear off their shrouds and stuff their ears in fright-- What use are the senses and the ears before the blast of that Trumpet? Look and you will see my form whether you are looking at yourself or toward that noise and confusion. Don't be blurry-eyed, See me clearly- See my beauty without the old eyes of delusion. Beware! Beware! Don't mistake me for this human form. The soul is not obscured by forms. Even if it were wrapped in a hundred folds of felt the rays of the soul's light would still shine through. Beat the drum, Follow the minstrels of the city. It's a day of renewal when every young man walks boldly on the path of love. Had everyone sought God Instead of crumbs and copper coins T'hey would not be sitting on the edge of the moat in darkness and regret. What kind of gossip-house have you opened in our city? Close your lips and shine on the world like loving sunlight. Shine like the Sun of Tabriz rising in the East. Shine like the star of victory. Shine like the whole universe is yours!

Is the sky painted?” Isidore asked. “Are there really brush strokes that show up under magnification?” “Yes,” Mercer said. “I can’t see them.” “You’re too close,” Mercer said. “You have to be a long way off, the way the androids are. They have better perspective.” “Is that why they claim you’re a fraud?” “I am a fraud,” Mercer said. “They’re sincere; their research is genuine. From their standpoint I am an elderly retired bit player named Al Jarry. All of it, their disclosure, is true. They interviewed me at my home, as they claim; I told them whatever they wanted to know, which was everything.” “Including about the whisky?” Mercer smiled. “It was true. They did a good job and from their standpoint Buster Friendly’s disclosure was convincing. They will have trouble understanding why nothing has changed. Because you’re still here and I’m still here.” Mercer indicated with a sweep of his hand the barren, rising hillside, the familiar place. “I lifted you from the tomb world just now and I will continue to lift you until you lose interest and want to quit. But you will have to stop searching for me because I will never stop searching for you.” “I didn’t like that about the whisky,” Isidore said. “That’s lowering.” “That’s because you’re a highly moral person. I’m not. I don’t judge, not even myself.” Mercer held out a closed hand, palm up. “Before I forget it, I have something of yours here.” He opened his fingers. On his hand rested the mutilated spider, but with its snipped-off legs restored. “Thanks.” Isidore accepted the spider.

emporter /ɑ̃pɔʀte/ I. vtr 1. (prendre avec soi) [personne] to take [objet, vêtement, vivres, document]; [vent] to sweep away [feuilles mortes] • n'oublie pas d'~ un parapluie/à manger | don't forget to take an umbrella/something to eat • ~ qch avec soi | (controv) to take sth with one [objet, vêtement, vivres, document] • pizzas à ~ | takeaway pizzas 2. (transporter) (lit) [ambulance, sauveteurs] to take [sb] away [blessé, cadavre]; [bateau, train, avion] to carry away [passager, fret] • se laisser ~ par son élan | (fig) to get carried away • se laisser ~ par la colère | to let one's anger get the better of one • se laisser ~ par son imagination | to let one's imagination run riot 3. (arracher) [vent, rivière] to sweep away [personne, maison, embarcation, arbre, pont]; [obus, balle] to take [sth] off [oreille, bras] • emporté par le courant | swept away by the current 4. (causer la mort) • une leucémie l'a emporté | he died of leukaemia 5. (conquérir) to take [position] • ~ l'accord de qn | to get sb's agreement • ~ l'adhésion de qn | to win sb over 6. (voler) [personne] to steal [bijoux, argenterie, tableau] • il est parti en emportant la caisse | he ran off with all the money 7. (triompher) l'emporter • [équipe, candidat] to win; [idée, bon sens] to prevail • l'~ sur qn | [équipe, candidat] to beat sb • l'~ sur qch | to overcome sth • le bon sens l'a emporté | common sense prevailed • l'~ avec 38% des suffrages/par 2 buts à 1/de 4 points | to win with 38% of the votes/by 2 goals to 1/by 4 points • l'~ sur son adversaire avec 57% des voix | to defeat one's opponent by getting 57% of the votes voir aussi: paradis, tombe II. vpr (s'énerver) [personne] to lose one's temper • il s'emporte facilement | he loses his temper easily III. Idiome • emporter la bouche (informal) or gueule (very informal) | [épices, plat, alcool] to take the roof off one's mouth (familier)

You can’t live without good water or air - that’s why people are so unhealthy in China these days. They have to go around wearing masks all the time, but the masks don’t do anything.

Never does a day pass where majesty fails to slip past the barest edges of our souls. Yet, we refuse to reach out and seize it because we have locked ourselves into the sarcophagus of lesser things. And we do that for fear that seizing the hem of majesty might sweep us off to places entirely marvelous, yet frighteningly unknown. And because it is the audacious nature of majesty to settle for nothing less than just such a journey, we find ourselves locked in a tomb for which we were not made ever-longing for a journey for which we were.

What does it mean to be mixed up?' i asked, thinking of my grandfather's accusations. The medium laughed softly, as though to blanket a cry. 'I don't know,' he said. He drew a circle in the sand with his bare toes. 'I don't like to think of myself that way. I like, instead, to think that my parents put me in perfect symmetry with this country's history. Perhaps it's better to think that people like me are not mixed up, as some might say, but that we have access to more than one side of the story.

It seems, in this case, he who grows up without want has the luxury of satisfaction. She who grows up wanting is never satiated.

In the direct glare of his feeling, I realized how broken Waigong had been. Though my grandfather was only twelve during the Battle of Singapore, he remembered the fear and the chaos and the hate and the revenge for the rest of his life.

Everything hit her. She was different, she was foreign, she was illegal. She couldn't qualify for the loans and scholarships to afford college. What had been the point of following the rules? Of doing well in school? Of obeying everyone when, technically, her existence itself was illegitimate?

Sweetly the summer air came up to the tumulus, the grass sighed softly, the butterflies went by, sometimes alighting on the green dome. Two thousand years! Summer after summer the blue butterflies had visited the mound, the thyme had flowered, the wind sighed in the grass. The azure morning had spread its arms over the low tomb; and full glowing noon burned on it; the purple of sunset rosied the sward. Stars, ruddy in the vapour of the southern horizon, beamed at midnight through the mystic summer night, which is dusky and yet full of light. White mists swept up and hid it; dews rested on the turf; tender harebells drooped; the wings of the finches fanned the air—finches whose colours faded from the wings how many centuries ago! Brown autumn dwelt in the woods beneath; the rime of winter whitened the beech clump on the ridge; again the buds came on the wind-blown hawthorn bushes, and in the evening the broad constellation of Orion covered the east. Two thousand times! Two thousand times the woods grew green, and ring-doves built their nests. Day and night for two thousand years—light and shadow sweeping over the mound—two thousand years of labour by day and slumber by night. Mystery gleaming in the stars, pouring down in the sunshine, speaking in the night, the wonder of the sun and of far space, for twenty centuries round about this low and green-grown dome. Yet all that mystery and wonder is as nothing to the Thought that lies therein, to the spirit that I feel so close.