Quotes About Contrast

Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

Innocence and mystery never dwell long together.

Some things just aren't meant to go together. Things like oil and water. Orange juice and toothpaste.

Husband and wife,--so much in common, how different in type! Such a contrast, and yet such harmony, strength and weakness blended together!

Butterflies were all very pretty in a meadow. They were altogether less comfortable in her stomach.

Since when had shabby men started to look impossibly attractive when immaculately tailored ones merely looked ... well, immaculately tailored? Though it was not shabby men exactly, was it, but a certain shabby man . It was really very puzzling.

Elizabeth again found it difficult to reconcile that memory of a tender, loving Robert with the afternoon's encounter with the cold, unfeeling Marquess of Hetherington.

Self-care should include the cold shower as well as the scented tub.

I've been spending my life among flyspecks... while miracles have been leaning on lampposts at 4th and Fairfax

The Georgian had used more words in 5 minutes than Wyatt had spoken during 1872 and 1873 combined.

His entire experience in this city sounded better than it lived. John

Anne shrieked with laughter, but George yelled, "I don't suppose we could get a little gravity around here?" and D.W. hollered back, Nope. All we got is levity." And thus began the first morning of the Jesuit mission to Rakhat. [148]

Three Catholic priests are having dinner: a Franciscan, a Dominican, and a Jesuit. Suddenly the lights go out. The Franciscan says, "Let us welcome Sister Darkness and wait patiently for Brother Sunlight to return." The Dominican says, "God gives us the darkness of ignorance so that we might, by contrast, discern the light of truth." The Jesuit finds a flashlight and goes downstairs to flip the breaker.

One can't mount a stripper pole wearing a metal diving suit.

I exhale a highway of smoke and stare down it, then say, Each day has just been survival, just getting through, standing it. Don't you see how savage that sounds? Like, that's the way men in prison yards think. You live in a rich suburb and teach literature.

Buckled into the driver's seat, he adjusts the rearview with microscopic precision before even cranking the ignition—a care that opposes my haphazard plowing around in an uninspected Vega, its heater pumping out enough monoxide to give passengers a metallic-tasting headache.

I do not live happily or comfortably With the cleverness of our times. The talk is all about computers, The news is all about bombs and blood. This morning, in the fresh field, I came upon a hidden nest. It held four warm, speckled eggs. I touched them. Then went away softly, Having felt something more wonderful Than all the electricity of New York City.

It's true, isn't it, in our world, that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness, would be without expression- that love itself, without pain, would be no more than a shrug gable comfort.

Because there is no substitute for vigorous and exact description, I would like to say how your eyes, at twilight, reflect, at the same time, the beauty of the world, and its crimes.

We shake with joy, we shake with grief. What a time they have, these two housed as they are in the same body.

Certainly imagery can be gleaned from the industrial world — what do Blake's dark Satanic Mills, for example, owe to the natural world? The city can be, and has been, the source of firm poetic description, and imagery too. But the natural world is the old river that runs through everything, and I think poets will forever fish along its shores.

What does barbed wire feel like when you grip it, as though it were a plate and a fork, or a handful of flowers?

Whatever else my life is with its poems and its music and its glass cities, it is also this dazzling darkness coming down the mountain