Quotes About Dust

I'M SIGNIFICANT!!! ... Say's the dust speck.

People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep.

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?' 'No, what?' I would say. 'A piece of dust.' Then, just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, 'So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

People were made of nothing but dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep

Die Menschen bestanden in erster Linie aus Staub, und ich verstand nicht, warum es besser sein sollte, all diesen Staub zu verarzten, als Gedichte zu schreiben, an die sich die Leute erinnerten und die sie sich aufsagten, wenn sie unglücklich oder krank waren oder nicht schlafen konnten.

Now, lying on my back in bed, I imagined Buddy saying, "Do you know what a poem is, Esther?" "No, what?" I would say. "A piece of dust." Then just as he was smiling and starting to look proud, I would say, "So are the cadavers you cut up. So are the people you think you're curing. They're dust as dust as dust. I reckon a good poem lasts a whole lot longer than a hundred of those people put together.

People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doc- toring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep.

Do you know what a poem is, Esther?" "No, what?" I said. "A piece of dust.

And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you I will show you fear in a handful of dust

There is shadow under this red rock // (Come in under the shadow of this red rock) // And I will show you something different from either // Your shadow at morning striding behind you // Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you // I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Ash on an old man's sleeve, Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended, Dust in breathed was a house- The wall, the wainscot and the mouse. The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

Where is the knowledge we have lost in information? The cycles of heaven in twenty centuries have bought us farther from God and nearer to the dust

I can show you fear in a handful of dust

Dust in the air suspended, Marks the place where a story ended.

Golbuchiks? Golbuchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they'll all return to clay. They're full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust. You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call— O tender specter, happy chance, Again I heed the ancient lore, Again with beauty rare in stance, You beckon from the distant shore!

Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. Halleluiah amen, you are dismissed.

She hurried to the front door, opened it, and stepped onto the porch. Dark cumulus clouds hovered low over the town, and a warm wind whipped through the trees, carrying stray leaves and dust through the street.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.

Why would a man not argue his own shameful culpability, why would he not crave responsibility for disaster, when the alternative was to feel himself to be nothing more than a speck of human dust?

Within all of us is a varying amount of space lint and star dust, the residue from our creation. Most are too busy to notice it, and it is stronger in some than others. It is strongest in those of us who fly and is responsible for an unconscious, subtle desire to slip into some wings and try for the elusive boundaries of our origin.

I will be dust, but dust in love

Polvo serán, mas polvo enamorado.

Man is a phase of nature, and only as he is related to nature does he matter, does he have any account whatever above the dust.

Love is not gentle, like the dust of a room; love is a thing that happens in a room, and becomes dust.