Quotes About Buried

Abstraction can be a powerful tool, but it can also lead to heads buried in the sand. In

He was dead, buried the month before with full military honors with a clove of garlic in his mouth and a stake through his heart. He was well out of it, his last thoughts of revenge upon his Czech assassins still suspended inside his elongated El Greco head like so much frozen gray mud, and there was no more harm he could do anyone.

I've buried a lot of my laundry in the back yard.

I visit English country churchyards where historical figures are buried.

I am relaxed. It's just buried under layers of incredulity and panic. But underneath those I'm very relaxed.

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

I'm so afraid of losing something I love that I refuse to love anything,' maybe that would have made the impossible possible. Maybe, but I couldn't do it, I had buried too much too deeply inside me. And here I am, instead of there.

He wrote, I do not know how to live. I do not know either, but I am trying. I do not know how to try. There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him, so I buried them, and let them hurt me.

It was only then that I observed that the key was reaching toward the bed. Because it was relatively heavy, the effect was small. The string pulled incredibly gently at the back of my neck, while the key floated just a tiny bit off my chest. I thought about all the metal buried in Central Park. Was it being pulled, even if just a little, to the bed?

If we find a mound six feet long and three feet wide in the forests, formed into a pyramid, shaped by a shovel, we become serious and something says, "someone lies buried here"... Now that is architecture.

Joy, it seemed, came in unexpected bursts, buried among the mundane and ordinary, balanced by tragedy and sorrow.

Deception takes commitment, vigilance, and a very good memory. To keep the truth buried, you must tend to it. For years and years, my job was to pile on sand - fistfuls, shovelfuls, bucketfuls, whatever the moment necessitated - in an effort to keep my mother's secret buried.

We all know the adage that one lie begets the next. Deception takes commitment, vigilance, and a very good memory. To keep the truth buried, you must tend to it.

A poem can't free us from the struggle for existence, but it can uncover desires and appetites buried under the accumulating emergencies of our lives, the fabricated wants and needs we have had urged on us, have accepted as our own. It's not a philosophical or psychological blueprint; it's an instrument for embodied experience.

In my films, I either want the music to be very subtle and very buried or just put it right out in front and be super blunt with it.

In this country men can be born and live well and die without ever having to feel much of what makes their ease possible, just because so much is buried

And for a moment it seemed to me as if I also were buried in a vast grave full of unspeakable secrets.

My bones were buried by Octavian. I am Virgilius; and for no crime else Did I lose heaven, than for not having faith;

All books have to be researched, but readable books have their research buried.

her eyes closed against some unimagined darkness, where she is buried in an ache in which nothing makes sense.

The Playwright had long been fascinated by the strange mercurial personality of the Actor. What is acting. and why do we respond to great acting as we do? We know that an actor is acting and yet - we wish to forget that an actor is acting, and in the presence of talented actors we quickly do forget. This is a mystery, a riddle. How can we forget the actor acts? Is the actor acting on our behalf? Is the subtext of the actor's acting always and forever our own buried (and denied) acting?

a story can stay buried in my memory for years and years, but the minute it surfaces into consciousness as a story idea, it is likely to get lost. If I don't grab it as it begins to form itself as a narrative, it can become permanently erased, and even if I remember the general subject matter, the voice that started narrating in my mind eludes me.

From From the Journal of Crispin There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not The oncoming fantasies of better birth.

Memory is not an instrument for surveying the past but its theater. It is the medium of past experience, just as the earth is the medium in which dead cities lie buried. He who seeks to approach his own buried past must conduct himself like a man digging.