Quotes About Contemplation

There is a loneliness that fills the plain. Total. Lunar.

My mother always closes her bedroom drapes tight before going to bed at night. I open mine as wide as possible. I like to see everything, I say. What's there to see? Moon. Air. Sunrise. All that light on your face in the morning. Wakes you up. I like to wake up.

A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.

Geryon closed his eyes and listened to engines vibrating deep in the moon-splashed canals of his brain.

Geryon watched the top of Herakles' head and felt his limits returning. Nothing to say. Nothing.

There is something you should know. And the right way to know it is by a cherrying of your mind.

Why does motion sadden him?

A stranger is someone who sits very still at the kitchen table, looks down at his knuckles, thinks some day we will laugh about this, doesn't believe it.

Silence, along with the attention it fosters, is our anchor to the present, to the here and now.

paused in the ineluctable presence of the other, and inhaled.

I get out of the car to look at it. 1922–1989

I meditate on your precepts and consider your ways. I delight in your decrees; I will not neglect your word. PSALM 119:15 – 16

Ici, je me cache quand je veux. Je puis me cacher des jours et des jours, sans qu'on sache si j'existe ou non, et, sans que je le sache bien moi-même. Je m'enferme là-haut. Je lis, je dors, je rêve. Je ne bouge plus.

And his eyes frighten me, too. They're the eyes of an old man, an old man who's seen so much in life that he no longer cares to go on living. They're not even desperate... just quiet and expectant, and very, very lonely, as if he were quite alone of his own free choice.

Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day- like writing a poem or saying a prayer.

The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.

It was as if when I looked into his eyes I was standing alone on the edge of the world...on a windswept ocean beach. There was nothing but the soft roar of the waves.

and turned his eyes the color of a winter sea.

How are you? How is your wonderful bathroom? How are the books you read and the things you think? Your dogs and their lives? The weather? Your feelings?

This November there seems to be nothing to say.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

From Camus' notebooks … "an intellectual is someone whose mind watches itself.

From the Garden" Come, my beloved, consider the lilies. We are of little faith. We talk too much. Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks. Let us consider the view: a house where white clouds decorate the muddy halls. Oh, put away your good words and your bad words. Spit out your words like stones! Come here! Come here! Come eat my pleasant fruits.