Wheel Barrow Quotes

so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.

Often when I imagine you your wholeness cascades into many shapes. You run like a herd of luminous deer and I am dark, I am forest. You are a wheel at which I stand, whose dark spokes sometimes catch me up, revolve me nearer to the center.

You remember I had a strong inclination all my life to be a painter. Under different circumstances I would rather have been a painter than to bother with these god-damn words. I never actually thought of myself as a poet but I knew I had to be an artist in some way.

From this time my constant practice was, as soon as I rose, to perform that business in open air, at the full extent of my chain; and due care was taken every morning before company came, that the offensive matter should be carried off in wheel-barrows, by two servants appointed for that purpose. I

I have important things to tell you, but who can concentrate with all that racket?" That "racket" turned out to be because of flowers, hundreds of them, arriving by the cartful. Roses, orchids, lilies, daffodils, irises, and a dozen other varieties that she could not name. Heavy porcelain vases were mounted all around the grand ballroom and the royal gardens, displaying the arrangements in all their grandeur. But one arrangement stood out from the rest. From the duchess's window, Cinderella watched the gardeners erect a trellis studded with roses. When the palace staff wheeled out a barrow of flowers, white pearlescent roses intertwined with pink ones as flushed as the height of sunrise, she nearly gasped. Her parents' favorite flowers. White and pink roses, with a touch of myrtle. Charles had been listening.

The agricultural and pastoral character of the people upon whom the town depended for its existence was shown by the class of objects displayed in the shop windows. Scythes, reap-hooks, sheep-shears, bill-hooks, spades, mattocks, and hoes at the iron-monger’s; bee-hives, butter-firkins, churns, milking stools and pails, hay-rakes, field-flagons, and seed-lips at the cooper’s; cart-ropes and plough-harness at the saddler’s; carts, wheel-barrows, and mill-gear at the wheelwright’s and machinist’s, horse-embrocations at the chemist’s; at the glover’s and leather-cutter’s, hedging-gloves, thatchers’ knee-caps, ploughmen’s leggings, villagers’ pattens and clogs.

Pickwick was bought by a man who had an earring and by a man with a luxuriant moustache and by a man who catalogued butterflies and by a man who had bought shark’s fins at the wharf to make soup and by a man with a beard who carried a radical newspaper who attended agitated assemblies and by a man in a scruffy coat, who wrote short pieces for magazines and by a man wheeling a barrow of exotic shrubs he would sell at his nursery. One of these had a brother who was a respectable alderman; the cousin of another was a priest; another played whist with a banker; the buyer of radical literature had a friend in the Whigs; the nurseryman knew a doctor and several lawyers; the man with the moustache had a friend in the senior ranks of the cavalry; the scruffy man knew several editors. There was also a little middle-aged hawker called Knox, recognizable on the city streets by his plaid jacket, though his pinched cheeks, pointed chin and combed red side whiskers ere never conducive to anonymity.

He recited the poem to her. "so much depends upon a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens" Allison applauded, “William Carlos Williams. A classic. A very short classic.” “You know what it means?” “An ode to a wheelbarrow?” … “Dr. Williams was a pediatrician,” he said. “He wrote that while sitting at the bedside of a dying child.” Dr. Capello blinked and in an instant tears were in his eyes. And hers. “I never knew,” she said. “Wonder why he thought of that.” “I'd say he was looking out the window and trying to think about anything other than the little child he couldn't save. All doctors keep a graveyard inside their hearts for those patients. That's why I like my view so much.” He reached out and tapped the glass of his window, which looked out onto the ocean. “It comforts me.” “Looking at the Graveyard of the Pacific comforts you?” she asked. “Of course it does,” he said, gazing out his window at the dark shifting waters in the near distance. “Compared to the graveyard out there, mine's tiny. A doctor with children in his graveyard takes any comfort he can get.

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wire artist singles out a man in the front of the crowd, who seemed most confident in answering affirmatively. “You, sir!” the high-wire artist says to the man. “You say you believe that I can wheel the barrow across the cataract. Is that true? Do you really believe it?” “I do!” the man says. “Even with a heavy load inside the barrow?” “Why not? Certainly!” “Very well,” the high-wire artist says, “I’m glad to hear it. So please help me to show everyone else that I can do it by getting into the barrow!” Suddenly whether the man really and truly believes this can be done has become terribly personal. If he does, he should have no difficulty getting into the barrow. But if he doesn’t really and truly believe, he will never get into it.

At a forced labor camp in Kolyma, a remote Siberian Gulag, Russian writer Varlam Shalamov hoarded details about what he was enduring with the avidity of a starving man devouring food. A great master of the short story, Shalamov is like Chekhov in hell. A fifteen-hundred-page collection of his stories includes many with deceptively unassuming titles: “A Letter,” “Cherry Brandy,” “The Wheel-barrow.” His muted voice resonates with the poverty of his expectations. The constraints on his imagination continually reshape his understanding of the depths of brutality and tenderness. One story, simply called “Marcel Proust,” tells of his having stumbled, inconceivably, onto a copy of Le Côté de Guermantes at the bottom of a package of clothing sent to a doctor at his camp. Shalamov seized the volume and began to work his way through it, ravenously. Days of reading went by. Distracted by a question put to him by a fellow prisoner, he put the book down on a bench where he had been sitting and reading. Turning back to resume, he found it was gone. Theft was a reality of prison life, but Shalamov had managed to hold onto the book as long as he could. During that time he had sought out quiet corners to read, avoiding his barracks for many days. “Proust,” he wrote, “was more valuable than sleep.

So what if I walked in with a copy of William Carlos Williams’s poem ‘The Red Wheelbarrow,’ which begins so much depends upon a red wheel barrow