Quotes About Remnants

The old towns, the ghost towns, no longer belong to men. The desert and the mountains have taken them back, gathered them into their arms and made them one with the trees and brush and rocks.

Loss, dislocation, disease, addiction, and just feeling like the tattered remnants of a people with a complex history. What was in that history? What sort of knowledge? Who had they been? What were they now? Why so much fucked-upness wherever you turned?

Stone should last forever, but on that night I came to understand that a stone was only another form of dust. Streams of holy dust loomed in the air, and every breath included remnants of the Temple, so that we inhaled that which was meant to stand through eternity.

like the small votives they lit in church.) Sometimes the houses were deserted, even partially destroyed. Sometimes it seemed the families must still be upstairs. There were old bicycles in some, or baby carriages. A steamer trunk, once, filled with broken dishes. A jar of pickled cauliflower.

remaining lamb chop, a scoop of mashed potatoes, and a handful of peas on a plate in the icebox, another turned over it.

The paper detritus that she had somewhere read, or had heard it said, trails armies, or was it (she had seen a photograph) the scraps of letters and wrappers and snapshots that blow across battlefields after all but the dead have fled?

Remnants is an extraordinary gift…a kind of Rosetta Stone of the African American woman's soul – all the 'remnants,' the bits and pieces Rosemarie carefully saved, remembered, nurtured, in her ancestors, relatives and self coming together in this extremely useful compendium of wisdom, of sureness and insight that we will be able to use for generations to come.

My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.

The past is never done with us in any substantial way. The most cursory examination reveals its bloody fingerprints on every surface of our lives.

Scraps of burned paper float overhead.

In Libya, you are made aware the whole time of the abandonment of things, the material leftovers of receding cultures

está lleno de colillas.

Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between, But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been.

And as the age of godlessness increases, all remnants of morality will disappear, until people will eat the flesh of their own family members and – as they are already doing – engage in sex acts with less discrimination then the hogs and dogs.

El olor de la muerte es inconfundible; es un olor a cuerpo sin alma. Las pequeñas cabezas de muñecas, los carritos de niños, las partituras de música, el almanaque, los restos de múltiples colchones, ropas desperdigadas, sólo el teclado de un piano, tendido de fatiga sobre la tierra, todo ello conforma el lenguaje de los escombros.

Bücher sind ja, irgndwie, MenschnReste -

Braddock looks every bit the deserted battlefield it truly is: 90 percent of our town's people, buildings, businesses, and homes are gone and what remains, bears witness to the torment.

After we're gone the work of our knives will survive this.

But not, surely, for the first time in human history. How many others have stood in this place? Left behind, with all gone, all swept away. The dead bodies evaporating like slow smoke; their loved and carefully tended homes crumbling away like deserted anthills. Their bones reverting to calcium; night predators

Mindy had explained that a lot of things had ghosts, not just people. Animals, machines, even things as vast as a paved-over forest or as humble as the smell of good cooking could leave traces of themselves behind. The world was haunted by the past.

hundred million years from now, all that we consider to be the great works of man—the sculptures and the libraries, the monuments and the museums, the cities and the factories—will be compressed into a layer of sediment not much thicker than a cigarette paper.

This is the case even though a hundred million years from now, all that we consider to be the great works of man—the sculptures and the libraries, the monuments and the museums, the cities and the factories—will be compressed into a layer of sediment not much thicker than a cigarette paper.

a hundred million years from now, all that we consider to be the great works of man -- the sculptures and the libraries, the monuments and the museums, the cities and the factories -- will be compressed into a layer of sediment not much thicker than a cigarette paper.

They are still looking for me. They rage for me. They mourn for me. They call for me. They are my remnants.