Quotes About Weave

I don't know how to knit.

Words knit the skein between and among women. And the language of gesture and expression, all merging to fashion a tapestry that, as every woman understood, could tear in but one direction, by deliberate, vicious effort. A friendship among women knew but one enemy, and that was malice. Thus, the more words, the tighter the weave.

We do indeed weave our spirit to the events and relationships of our lives. Life is as simple as that.

Messages tonight, borne on the lights of Berlin . . . neon, incandescent, stellar . . . messages weave into a net of information that no one can escape. . . .

As my Popo used to say, life is a tapestry we weave day by day with threads of different colors, some heavy and dark, others thin and bright, all the threads having their uses. The stupid things I did are already in the tapestry, indelible, but I'm not going to be weighed down by them till I die. What's done is done; I have to look ahead.

Popo used to say, life is a tapestry we weave day by day with threads of different colors, some heavy and dark, others thin and bright, all the threads having their uses. The stupid things I did are already in the tapestry

life is a tapestry we weave day by day with threads of different colors, some heavy and dark, others thin and bright, all the threads having their uses.

We have our stories, and we speak of them, and weave them into other people's stories - that's how it goes, does it not?

Artists were individuals. But they were also products of their culture and history and philosophy. The weave of artist and culture was evident to the discerning eye. The fundamental pattern of a species could be sketched, then drawn, then fully fleshed out.

Each page in a book will discover other pages and other books. Thus books will seep out of their bindings and weave themselves together into one large metabook, the universal library. The resulting collective intelligence of this synaptically connected library allows us to see things we can't see in a single isolated book.

There are only perfect, glowing moments, like this one, and then there are the everyday moments that weave them together into a shimmering path that can always be seen, even in the dark.

There are only perfect, glowing moments, like this one, and then there are the everyday moments that weave them together into a shimmering path that can always be seen, even in the dark. "You

His hands fluttered like birds, each with a fancy silk ribbon to weave into their nest, as he stood at the mirror dressing for work, waving hello to himself with both hands.

[...] marriage is one thing, and love is another...You need to have a solid canvas; nobody stops you to weave the arabesques.

The strands of my soul which should weave together to create a life have shredded and ripped into fragments so tangled up that I have no hope of setting them free. I

Upon the cunning loom of thought We weave our fancies, so and so.

And with that comprehension, so unlike the simplifications she'd been ruled by hitherto, she became even more certain that the carpet they carried was a last hope, while he — whose home the Weave contained — seemed increasingly indifferent to its fate, living in the moment and for the moment, touched scarcely at all by hope or regret.

My destiny has been that I remember and must weave together, must plait into one cable the many threads, the thin, the thick, the broken, the enduring of our long history, of our tumultuous and varied day. There is always more to be understood; a discord to be listened for; a falsity to be reprimanded.

In private, with pencil on scratch paper, he labored over aphorisms that he later delivered in spontaneous-seeming lectures: Nature uses only the longest threads to weave her patterns, so each small piece of her fabric reveals the organization of the entire tapestry.

Nature uses only the longest threads to weave her patterns, so each small piece of her fabric reveals the organization of the entire tapestry.

Loud, heap miseries upon us yet entwine our arts with laughters low!

As Sausage recounted it in the basement that night, it was as if her own future were being revealed, unrolling itself before her like a carpet, one whose design and weave changed as it stretched out ahead.

Was it just that? She was to be content to weave a steady life with him, all one fabric, but perhaps brocaded with the occasional flower of an adventure. But how could she know what she would feel next year? How could one ever know? How could one say Yes? for years and years? The little yes, gone on a breath! Why should one be pinned down by that butterfly word? Of course it had to flutter away and be gone, to be followed by other yes's and no's! Like the straying of butterflies.

The fabric of existence weaves itself whole.