Quotes About Cave

My mind went back to the implements on the cave's wall, the herbs and tools of healing. Surgery was the word he had used.

But then he was awake, his lips forming a half-sleepy greeting, and his hand was already reaching for mine. We lay there, like that, until the cave was bright with morning, and Chiron called.

Soft and warm you encircle me, into the cave of my ear your lips infuse a mantra, over and over to coax the well awake.

His sleep was a shouting, echoing black cave, and it extended into eternity.

Sleep this night is not a dark haunted domain the mind must consciously set itself to invade, but a cave inside himself, into which he shrinks while the claws of the bear rattle like rain outside. Sunshine

Another way to look at meditation is to view the process of thinking itself as a waterfall, a continual cascading of thought. In cultivating mindfulness we are going beyond or behind our thinking, much the way you might find a vantagepoint in a cave or depression in a rock behind a waterfall. We still see and hear the water, but we are out of the torrent.

You two were in a cave together?' said Miss Simpkins in horror.'Yes, ' said Kate, 'and it was very, very dark.

When I was a kid my favorite relative was Uncle Caveman. After school we'd all go play in his cave, and every once in a while he would eat one of us. It wasn't until later that I found out that Uncle Caveman was a bear.

You go back to the start of time. One cave guy was fighting another cave guy because his club was bigger than his or his woman had longer hair. Thats competition.

none had been outside Russia. I kept trying to remember something that I had read about a species of fish that was born, lived, spawned, died in the dark waters of a cave; and were blind.

No one has ever found a Neolithic cave painting of someone waking up stressed because they slept through their alarm and missed their nine o'clock management meeting.

Being in the building with Sarah Palin that night is a transformative and oddly unsettling experience. It's a little like having live cave-level access for the ripping-the-heart-out-with-the-bare-hands scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Seeking happiness outside ourselves is like waiting for sunshine in a cave facing north.

I was told, or read, that everyone visits Veciofeni's cave sooner or later. He stood in there and wept himself to death, evidently, and this manner of dying, so gently incremental, brought about the perfect preservation of his body as a consequence of his mummy-like dehydration and the saturation of his person with his own lachrymal salt.

In eighteenth-century England, a fad swept the upper class. Several families felt their estate needed a hermit, and advertisements were placed in newspapers for "ornamental hermits" who were slack in grooming and willing to sleep in a cave.

Fear of the dark. Until I came here, I thought that was for children; that you grew out of it. But it never really goes away. It's always there underneath. The oldest fear of all. What's at the back of the cave?

Fear of the dark. Until I came here, I thought that was for children; that you grew out of it. But it never really goes away. It's always there underneath. The oldest fear of all. What's at the back of the cave? Eriksson was right. One mustn't think too much. Keep busy, walk every day, that's what he said. I've got to follow that to the letter. Especially the walks.

The killer lived in the first room. My eyes immediately searched for collateral evidence. There were two women's watches lying on the ground next to his mattress. There was a heap of female clothing and umbrellas in the room and some ligatures were also lying around. It seemed like Aladdin's cave to me.

A young imagination is bold, likes to make bigger leaps. It likes to, well, imagine that the dustbuster is a dinosaur that the computer mouse is a hotrod that the box is a cave that the rawhide is a torch... or a baton... or something.

Found in a small stone cave bitten from the roadside, stitchless save for his great outsized boots and a plague of flies, fat on the human scrappage of dinners long past, Toad squatted in the slitted stomach of a warm child, eating loudly the face of her hapless, headless father, who sat a good foot off the ground impaled up the ass on a pointed post.

She will never say what the girl's true name is, or who the other was, and the stories are never the same. And always the cave is hidden.

He was starting to think that consciousness wasn't some lighthouse of self-knowing but merely a little cave where you made up stories about yourself, whatever it took to hide the shit and the slime, the utter mollusk you were in your deepest nature. He wondered what was down there, under the shit, what kind of bedrock he might strike. Take

Landscape is my religion. ...God in a green legend, I lean over the pool In a testament of leaves. I dangle my twinkling mood Before me in a cool cave roofed with branches And floored with a skin of water.

Oh, there are no living poets, Miss Van Damn. We're not entirely sure there ever were. They've found some shreds of sonnets in England and, embedded in a chalk wall of a cave in France, some yet undetermined thing which might be the legendary inward eye. But all evidence, such as it is, suggests that, if there ever were poets, they were all burned into extinction during the interglacial period of despair.