Quotes About Weaving

Soft, flexible thread of this sort is a necessary prerequisite to making woven cloth. On a far more basic level, string can be used simply to tie things up - to catch, to hold, to carry. From these notions come snares and fishlines, tethers and leashes, carrying nets, handles, and packages, not to mention a way of binding objects together to form more complex tools.

It was strange to see that no matter what color the clothing first appeared—and they were all hues, from earthy copper and garnet to the blue of sky and shadow—in different light all turned to some shade of green, as if there were a third plane to the cloth's weaving beyond the warp and weft.

In pagan times women were buried with accoutrements that reflected the female role in society. Instead of the tools, weapons and hunting dogs that accompanied men, women took household utensils, implements for needlework, spinning and weaving, jewellery and lapdogs with them on their journey to the next life.

The textile industry was the automobile industry of the Middle Ages,

I was born Pauline Matthews and grew up in Bradford as one of three children - I had an older brother, David, and an older sister, Betty. My father Fred worked in the mills as a textile weaving supervisor, and my mother, Mary, was a housewife.

The morning had started. Someone else was out there, threading the day into cloth.

Now, however, my skepticism was weaving around loose and uncontrolled in my brain ready to get settled in.

We sleep, but the loom of life never stops; and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up tomorrow.

But she didn't want to stay there, so she climbed back out the window, through the glass eyes of the seven-foot Good Shepherd, and started again the futile weaving of invisible ifs and slippery mights into an equally unattainable past.

weaving his verbal wreaths, in prose and verse, of marvellous poison ivy.

Here you've been, a spider in the corner, observing, weaving Charlotte's web of mystery.

Last night I weaved dreams from the cobwebs of time!

In the tapestry of life, we're all connected. Each one of us is a gift to those around us helping each other be who we are, weaving a perfect picture together.

The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together.

saw a large fire burning on a hearth. In its rosy glow, three strange creatures were weaving at a big loom. Jack caught his breath. Their appearance was shocking.

He stood on the summit, his legs planted wide apart, leaning back against space. He looked at the materials before him, the knobs of rivets in steel, the sparks in blocks of stone, the weaving spirals in fresh, yellow planks. Then he saw a husky figure enmeshed in electric wires, a bulldog face spreading into a huge grin and china-blue eyes gloating in a kind of unholy triumph.

fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners.

Oh, and the camel. Was it a camel that could pass through the eye of a needle more easily than a rich man? Or a coarse piece of yarn? The Hebrew words are the same, but which one did they mean? If it's a camel, the rich man might as well not even try. But if it's the yarn, he might well succeed with a lot of effort, you see?

Bright flowers nodded around the apprentice as she wove, slender as a pine marten, through the grass.

Thread count is actually a lie. Just because a thread count is 1,500 on a set of sheets doesn't mean that they're well-made sheets. Truly, the quality of the cotton and the quality of the way something is woven is much more important than thread count.

My work is on the one hand laboured, and on the other completely happenstance and intuitive. But that's the swish in the work, I think. It's really important to me that the work isn't just sitting on top of something, that the materials are woven together - that they are recognisable and from the world.

To borrow from the writings of a spider named Charlotte: 'Silk is terrific!'

et l'ennui, araignée silencieuse, filait sa toile dans l'ombre, à tous les coins de son coeur.

Liefdes' adem was getogen door de mazen van het weefsel; in iedere steek van de naald had zich een verwachting of een herinnering vastgelegd; en al die dooreengewerkte zijden draden waren één groot getuigenis van die gestadige stille hartstocht.