Quotes About Body

Your hands are not your own,'" Jaime quoted. "'Neither your breasts, nor, above all, is any orifice of your body, which we are at liberty to explore and into which we may, whenever we so please, introduce ourselves.'" "Precisely!

Sensitization alone is not enough, because without fear a body will quickly repair its sensitized state.

Claire: Once your baby arrives, the world is no more the same than you are. Because from our very bodies we add to the collective human destiny.

Oh, living is so uncomfortable. Everything presses in: the body demands, the spirit never ceases, living is like being weary but being unable to sleep–living is upsetting. You can't walk around naked, either in body or in spirit.

Reality prior to my language exists as an unthinkable thought. . . . life precedes love, bodily matter precedes the body, and one day in its turn language shall have preceded possession of silence.

Talvez a nordestina já tivesse chegado à conclusão de que a vida incomoda bastante, alma que não cabe bem no corpo, mesmo alma rala como a sua.

How could it be in that cavity-ridden body so much lasciviousness could fit, without her even knowing she had it.

Life has no adjective. It's a mixture in a strange crucible but that allows me on the end, to breathe. And sometimes to pant. And sometimes to gasp. Yes. But sometimes there is also the deep breath that finds the cold delicateness of my spirit, bound to my body for now.

Não, não, ainda melhor assim: cada um com um corpo, empurrando-o para frente, querendo sofregamente vivê-lo. Procurando cheio de cobiça subir o outro, pedindo cheio de covardia astuciosa e comovente para existir melhor, melhor.

Eu não sou um intelectual, escrevo com o corpo. E o que escrevo é uma névoa úmida. As palavras são sons transfundidos de sombras que se entrecruzam desiguais, estalactites, renda, música transfigurada de órgão.

I desire nothing of your life that has passed, not even your name, not even your dreams, not even the story of your suffering; the mystery explains more than the light; you will not ask anything about me either; I am Joana, you are a body living, I am a body living, nothing more.

What we do to our bodies with antibiotics, we do to consciousness with light.

All at once the exteriority of the world for the body that opens up to it, the distance of the things in front of this body, their absolute alterity, the body's folding back outside everything that it captures and yet its implication in the visible, the turning back of the visible upon itself that constitutes it as seeing and that causes it to perceive from the very foundation of being to which it adheres.

Ése es el nombre. Elena sabe desde hace un tiempo que ya no es ella la que manda sobre algunas partes de su cuerpo, los pies por ejemplo. Manda él. O ella. Y se pregunta si al Parkinson habría que tratarlo de él o de ella, porque aunque el nombre propio le suena masculino no deja de ser una enfermedad, y una enfermedad es femenina. Como lo es una desgracia. O una condena.

Aquella tarde, Rita, que no era madre ni nunca lo sería, obligó a otra mujer a serlo, forzando el dogma aprendido hasta llegar al cuerpo de otro.

Another person's body, sometimes, can be terrifying.

Yes, and the body has memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.

Yes, and the body has a memory. The physical carriage hauls more than its weight. The body is the threshold across which each objectionable call passes into consciousness—all the unintimidated, unblinking, and unflappable resilience does not erase the moments lived through, even as we are eternally stupid or everlastingly optimistic, so ready to be inside, among, a part of the games.

How difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice wheeled at another? Are the tensions, the recognitions, the disappointments, and the failures that exploded in the riots too foreign?

How to care for the injured body, the kind of body that can't hold the content it is living?

Hey you — All our fevered history won't instill insight, won't turn a body conscious, won't make that look in the eyes say yes, though there is nothing to solve even as each moment is an answer.

What does a victorious or defeated black woman's body in a historically white space look like?

You cannot say— A body translates its you— you there, hey you even as it loses the location of its mouth. When you lay your body in the body entered as if skin and bone were public places, when you lay your body in the body entered as if you're the ground you walk on, you know no memory should live in these memories becoming the body of you.

How to care for the injured body, the kind of body that can't hold the content it is living? And where is the safest place when that place must be someplace other than in the body?