Quotes About Cave

I was drug through the cave away from the others.

And I am sick for want of sleep; So sick, that I can half-believe The soundless river pouring from the cave Is neither strong nor deep; Only an image fancied in conceit.

Because it was one of my favorites from the Arthurian legend, one of the things that I really enjoyed doing was the legend of the crystal cave. In my head, it was fun to imagine what it was going to look like because there was a lot of CGI involved, in seeing visions of the future reflected within crystals.

There's a cave in this hinterland of Siberia, called Denisova, named after an eighteenth-century eremite called Denis who lived there.

to understand is always an ascending movement; that is why comprehension ought always to be concrete. (one is never got out of the cave, one comes out of it.) —Simone Weil, First and Last Notebooks

Behold! human beings living in an underground den…. Like ourselves… they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave.

What did Time smell like? Like dust and clocks and people. And if you wondered what Time sounded like it sounded like water running in a dark cave and voices crying and dirt dropping down upon hollow box-lids, and rain.

Campbell surmised "a magical, wonderful accord" growing between the hunter and the hunted, as if they were locked in a "mystical, timeless" cycle of death, burial, and resurrection. Their art—the paintings on cave walls—and oral literature gave form to the impulse we now call religion.

The childhood of our parents is forever inscrutable, the cave within the cave of our own. The light's too dim, the dancing shadows unreliable, fundamentally unstable, even the impromptu photographs and private letters somehow contrived.

H]er spare strange beauty was not that of a woman, nor even of a statue, but that of the Platonic absolute of which all beauty is but a shadow in a cave, cast by the Fire beyond fire.

The ground had caved in where the whale had hit it, revealing a network of galleries and passages, now largely obstructed by collapsed rubble and entrails.

On prehistoric Earth he had lived in a cave, not a nice cave, a lousy cave, but . . . There was no but. It had been a totally lousy cave and he had hated it. But he had lived in it for five years, which made it a home of some kind, and a person likes to keep track of his homes. Arthur Dent was such a person and so he went to Exeter to buy a computer.

Many of us didn't believe in the image of bin Laden as a wandering Old Man of the Mountains, living on plants and insects in an inhospitable cave somewhere on the porous Pakistan-Afghan border.

Should we be doing this?" I asked. "Of course not, but that's never stopped me before." He switched on the flashlight and walked to the entrance of the cavern. "Come on." He crawled inside. My survival instincts told me to stay exactly where I was, but I was curious. Besides, two fools were probably better than one. If he got into some sort of trouble in there, he'd need me to help get him out.

In the middle of the Heart-cave the pure Brahman is directly manifest as the Self in the form of 'I-I'.

I retreat to my cave in a very male fashion.

Literature is love. I think it went like this: drawings in the cave, sounds in the cave, songs in the cave, songs about us. Later, stories about us.

Je vd??ný, že se nikdo nevzteká, a odpoledne opravuje pal?áky. NÄ›kolik muž? ho pÃ…â"¢i tom ml?ky sleduje. HorÅ¡í by bylo, myslí si, kdyby z té naÅ¡í jeskynÄ› už nikdo nevylezl. PÃ…â"¢ece jenom je trochu uklid?ující sledovat, jak jim roste odvaha jenom proto, že se dívají, že nÄ›co dÄ›lám.

Men don't live well by themselves. They don't even live like people. They live like bears with furniture.

If by some magic, autism had been eradicated from the face of the Earth, then men would still be socializing in front of a wood fire at the entrance to a cave.

And now - Plato's words mock me in the shadows on the ledge behind the flames: '...the men of the cave would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes.

My ancestors are all crazy. My great-great-granddad, he was the last man to live in a cave in Nottingham.

I'm glowing in the dark with my studio tan. I've been in a cave of music for months and months and months.

The sin was mine; I did not understand. So now is music prisoned in her cave, Save where some ebbing desultory wave Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.