Quotes About Ethereal

We must not touch our idols; the gilt sticks to our fingers. They

Sounds—possibly musical—heard in the night from other worlds or realms of being.

The Old Ones were, the Old Ones are, and the Old Ones shall be. Not in the spaces we know, but between them. They walk serene and primal, undimensioned and to us unseen.

I could not help feeling that they were evil things-- mountains of madness whose farther slopes looked out over some accursed ultimate abyss. That seething , half-luminous cloud-background held ineffable suggestions of a vague, ethereal beyondness far more than terrestrially spatial; and gave appalling reminders of the utter remoteness, separateness, desolation, and aeon-long death of this untrodden and unfathomed austral world.

I could tell I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow and linger because they have never been stirred up.

From my experience I cannot doubt but that man, when lost to terrestrial consciousness, is indeed sojourning in another and uncorporeal life of far different nature from the life we know; and of which only the slightest and most indistinct memories linger after waking.

Atal felt a spectral change in the air, as if the laws of earth were bowing to greater laws.

All they ever did was clutch and fly and tickle; that was the way of night-gaunts.

It isn't so very far from the elevated as distance goes, but it's centuries away as the soul goes.

I could tell that I was at the gateway of a region half-bewitched through the piling-up of unbroken time-accumulations; a region where old, strange things have had a chance to grow and linger because they have never been stirred up.

The Great Old Ones who lived ages before there were any men, and who came to the young world out of the sky. Those Old Ones were gone now, inside the earth and under the sea.

Light indeed glowed on the panels ahead, but it was not any light that the moon gives. Terrible and piercing was the shaft of ruddy refulgence that streamed through the Gothic window, and the whole chamber was brilliant with a splendour intense and unearthly.

And I would tell myself that the realm beyond the wall was not more lasting merely, but more lovely and radiant as well.

There should have been a dark whisper in the wind. Or maybe a deep chill in the bone. Something. An ethereal song only Elizabeth or I could hear. A tightness in the air. Some textbook premonition. There are misfortunes we almost expect in life—what happened to my parents, for example—and then there are other dark moments, moments of sudden violence that alter everything. There was my life before the tragedy. There is my life now. The two have very little in common.

The sort of poetry I seek resides in objects man can't touch.

When one has been touched by the stellar power and ethereal playing of a sublime musician, one is lifted, if only briefly, to a place beyond the realm of the temporal.

There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time

I love the clouds... the clouds that pass by... over there... over there... those lovely clouds!

This is how I would die into the love I have for you: As pieces of cloud dissolve in sunlight.

You can't ask people to give up personal, tangible comforts for some ethereal ideal. That's why communism failed. That's why all those primitive, hippie, "back to the land" communes failed. Selfless suffering feels good for short crusades, but as a way of life, it's unsustainable.

C'était une nuit de pleine lune. On y voyait comme en plein jour. Une armée de nuages aussi cotonneux que des flocons vint masquer le ciel. Ils étaient des milliers de guerriers blancs à prendre possession du ciel. C'était l'armée de la neige.

Jesse, this is Craig. Craig, Jesse. You two should get along. Jesse's dead, too.

There she is, our lady of perpetual sleep!" he says smiling broadly.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.