Quotes About No-man's-land

Nw a kind of no-man's-land occupied by a neo-Elizabethan hugger-mugger of racketeers, drug dealers, gangsters and abortionists, the shark-toothed area seemed only a rowdier version of the city all around — a freewheeling, free-spending center of free enterprise.

Brexit makes me uncomfortable. It feels like we're in no-man's-land, and it doesn't feel safe. People who voted to leave did so because of the scaremongering. It was all about immigration, but immigration is a great thing.

I stood looking at the men—more my men now than ever before. Their lives, if they escaped with them, would be divided forever into Before the War, the War, and After, and between those divisions would stretch psychic no-man's-lands as desolate as any in France.

its young soldiers across no-man's-land to be mown down by machine guns. Again and again the newspapers hailed a victory, but the telegrams told another story.

To be sure, we would not allow the world, if we can help it, to peep into our soul, much less to enter it. Our No-Man's-Land is hedged about with a wire entanglement of insincerities. And often we take refuge in a temperament, a pose, or a mystic mood.

I am walking up and down the line of sentries, under the dark boughs of the poplars. In the flooded ditch outside the rats are paddling about, making as much noise as otters. As the yellow dawn comes up behind us, the Andalusian sentry, muffled in his cloak, begins singing. Across no-man's-land, a hundred or two hundred yards away, you can hear the Fascist sentry also singing.

School-leavers unfortunately will come away thinking the First World War consisted simply of 'going over the top' on the Western Front to slaughter in no-man's-land, when the conflict extended so much further, to the collapse of four empires and numerous civil wars.

Always waiting, waiting to go up to the front line, waiting in the trenches with the whizzbags and shells bursting all around you, waiting for the whistle to send you out over the top and across No-Man's-Land, waiting for the bullet that had name on it.

And the knowledge Inside the hill on which you are sitting, A moated fort hill, bigger than your house, Failed to reach the picture. While your next moment, Coming towards you like an infantryman Returning slowly out of no-man's-land, Bowed under something, never reached you-- Simply melted into the perfect light.

Still, I seem to be stuck on a runaway train, barreling down the track despite all warnings that I'm about to jump it and either crash into something horrific or end up in a no-man's-land without a compass. My damned Highlander heart. I'm an Unseelie prince with Keltar chivalry in my blood that will never cease governing my actions so long as my heart beats. No woman, no person should ever have to live without choices, without control over their life.

BETRAYAL IN BOOTS On that same morning of September 23, three American militiamen, John Paulding, Isaac Van Wart, and David Williams, were guarding the road in a kind of no-man's-land en route to the city.

Sort of desolate, decayed, the smell of - I don't want to dramatise it - but death, you know. That is what it feels like, no-man's-land, and it is not a nice place to be.

Even after its discovery, Bermuda remained a no-man's-land. The maze of reefs and coral heads that nearly surround the islands make approaching the Bermudas a scary business.

In the early part of the Verdun battle he was reported to have cured an epidemic of self-inflicted wounds to hands or feet by posting orders that in future offenders would spend a night tied to stakes in no-man's-land.

This is all a tale of an older world and a forgotten countryside. At this moment of time change has come; a screaming line of steel runs through the heather of no-man's-land, and the holiday-maker claims the valleys for his own. But this busyness is but of yesterday, and not ten years ago the fields lay quiet to the gaze of placid beasts and the wandering stars. This story I have culled from the grave of an old fashion, and set down for the love of a great soul and the poetry of life.

I could only dimly articulate it then, but I think I believed that Art would give me entry into a no-man's-land where the laws of straight no longer applied. And that once I touched the soul of another artist, a comrade in arms, the bodies would fall into place like folds of a garment, twining us in a passion of the flesh. Pretty high-falutin', and an awful lot of effort just to get a man to go to bed with you.