Quotes About Spilling

I wasn't a very good waitress, always spilling things on people and forgetting things. I once spilled ashes all over Mike Wallace's table.

As much as I enjoy a fight, I cannot always indulge myself, and just now I had more weighty matters to occupy my time than spilling the blood of strange warriors.

Let's not look directly at what is meant to be loved in secret. Let's, for example, imagine the sea is always, constantly, and forever spilling toward us, that our screaming building is something worth escaping. — Zachary Schomburg, from "Building of Unseen Cats," Fjords Vol. 1 . (Black Ocean; 1st edition March 6, 2012)

For true Magick means to employ one set of natural forces at a mechanical advantage as against another set—I quote, as closely as memory serves, Thomas Henry Huxley , when he explains that when he lifts his water-jug—or his elbow—he does not defy the Law of Gravitation. On the contrary, he uses that Law; its equations form part of the system by which he lifts the jug without spilling the water.

The first Snow, Landor! Rare bliss it was to awaken and to find every tree and rock overrun with snow; to find the snowflakes still spilling like hoarded coins from the sky's cloud-purses.

He was naked aside from a cloth tied round his waist. To spare the delicate sensibilities of the ladies present. Watching a man's entrails spilling out is excellent entertainment, but the sight of his cock, well, that would be obscene. A

Once a month, the moonstorm. Dust in the eyes and ghosts in the veins. The blood of woman is spilling and all the strength ebbs away.

What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it the sun, cracked in two by the horizon like an egg, spilling out light?

No, I know the Fae and their fondness. Fondness would not keep you from spilling my blood.

The berserker's manic obsession with revenge is not only destruction to gratify rage. At some deep cultural and psychological level, spilling enemy blood is an effort to bring the dead back to life. One veteran recalls the following interior chant to his dead friend at every kill: Every fucking one that died, I say, "____, here's one for you, baby. I'll take this motherfucker out and I'm going to cut his fucking heart out for you.

The foolish words kept spilling from his mouth, though they seemed to have come from nowhere.

We are constantly told that concern over the supposed cruelties of farming, as Stephen Budiansky puts it in The Covenant of the Wild, is a product of the soft urban mind-set, unaccustomed to the harsh realities of rural life. Another way of looking at this is that the urban types are not steeped in the ways of blood spilling and have no financial and emotional attachments to the practices in question. In other contexts, that's usually called objectivity.

The skies were bright cerulean, teeming with ferocious winds, spilling mallards and fat wood drakes from the clouds.

what was happening just in time to watch the flaming pickup truck start on its fiery trek down the hill. Fuel spilling from the vehicle's gas tank left a blazing track behind it on the bare earth as the truck streaked down the steep firebreak on the side of the hill. It

Perhaps it was a case of time overflowing.

And below the heimongmong, all along the ground, were weeds already spilling out over the edges, running wild in every direction.

Working as a teaboy may have helped my confidence, but not everyone else was so pleased. I could never remember who had milk or how many sugars, and I had an unusual talent for spilling tea on the recording console.

He was another knife, I could feel it. A different sort, but a knife still. I did not care. I thought: give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.

No, I thought. I was not careful. I was reckless, headlong. He was another knife, I could feel it. A different sort, but a knife still. I did not care. I thought: give me the blade. Some things are worth spilling blood for.

Ah! It's fortunate for you that those who bred you brought you into the world to rank and riches; what would ever have become of you, so wasteful as you are. Look at him throwing away his crescent because it touched the bed. There he goes, now, look, he's spilling his milk, wait till I tie a napkin round you, for you could never do it for yourself, never in my life have I seen anyone so helpless and so clumsy as you.

You are the dark shape I find On nights of the spilling moon, Pale in the pool of heaven. — N. Scott Momaday, from "Revenant" The Death of Sitting Bear: New and Selected Poems (HarperCollins, 2020)