Quotes About Observation

This went on for five minutes. At no time did he disappear. "Can you still see me?" "Afraid so." "Damn!" His eyes snapped open. "Nothing? Didn't my skin turn opaque?

Canada is not the party. Its the apartment above the party.

He looked at me. "If I were a creek, I would be where the ground slopes." "Right." Sometimes it was good to have an Indian scout.

I's the look-out! I's the look-out! AAAAAAGHHHH! There's a jagular! There's a jagular! Ã¢â'¬Â¦ Ohhhh Ã¢â'¬Â¦ No, sorrys, my mistake, is a treetrunk. SORRYS, everybody Ã¢â'¬Â¦

Profii de aici le-au vazut pe toate. Noi ne percepem ca individualitati distincte, dar in ochii lor nu suntem decat o masa de nevoi adolescentine." – Gates Medkowski

It's hard to imagine him angry without them. It must be like watching a game show by yourself, how calling out the answers feels silly and pointless. What is fury without witnesses? Where's the tension minus an audience to wonder what you'll do next?

Since Liz's adolescence, when viewing television commercials that celebrated the ostensibly unconditional love of mothers for their children, or on spotting merchandise in stores that honored this unique bond with poems or effusive declarations—picture frames, magnets, oven mitts—she had felt like a foreign exchange student observing the customs of another country.

When you are the object of a person's affection, do you naturally credit him with a sympathetic heart and an understanding of the world? Perhaps your impression is right only insofar as it applies to you; in his presence, he is indeed possessed of these qualities for the very reason that you are the object of his affection. He is not observant so much as observant of you, not kind so much as kind toward you.

It is not a camera, or a reporter, that makes something, real and genuine; more often, a camera or a reporter does the opposite.

Joanna had the fisherman's pie. 'What's under the mashed potato?' Slider asked. Joanna chewed thoughtfully for a moment and then looked down. 'Something white,' she said at last. 'With little bits of something pink.' She chewed again. 'I am eating, aren't I?' she appealed for reassurance. 'It's so hard to tell without some sensory input, like taste or texture.

It has been observed that none are free indeed but those whom Christ makes free.

a traveler, the purer form, someone who collects impressions, dense anatomies of feeling but does not care to record them.

She went to the fence and sat there, watching the gold clouds fall to pieces, and go in immense, rose-coloured ruin towards the darkness. Gold flamed to scarlet, like pain in its intense brightness. Then the scarlet sank to rose, and rose to crimson, and quickly the passion went out of the sky. All the world was dark grey. Paul scrambled quickly down with his basket, tearing his shirt-sleeve as he did so.

Used to all kinds of society, she watched people as one reads the pages of a novel, with a certain disinterested amusement.

the more i live, the more i realize what strange creatures human beings are. some of them might just as well have a hundred legs, like a centipede, or six, like a lobster. the human consistency and dignity one has been led to expect from one's fellow-man seem actually non-existent. one doubts if they exist to any startling degree even in oneself.

The dead don't die. They look on and help.

Had you noticed them before? he asked. No, never before, she replied. And now you will always see them, he said.

You must mark in these things obviously. It's the fact you want to emphasise, not the subjective impression to record. What's the fact?—red little spiky stigmas of the female flower, dangling yellow male catkin, yellow pollen flying from one to the other. Make a pictorial record of the fact, as

She could hear a distant coughing of a sheep.

She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She resented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not pulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards her hands trembled slightly at her work, she nearly dropped all she handled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with trepidation. She resented that he saw so much.

He crouched down, and carefully put his finger through the thorns into the round door of the nest. It's almost as if you were feeling inside the live body of the bird, he said... After that, Miriam came to see it everyday. It seemed so close to her. Again, going down the hedge side with the girl, he noticed the celandines, scalloped slashes of gold, on the side of the ditch. I like them, he said, when their petals go flat back with the sunshine. They seem to be pressing themselves at the sun.

Still he was ambitious. He had taken to writing stories; curious, very personal stories about people he had known. Clever, rather spiteful, and yet, in some mysterious way, meaningless. The observation was extraordinary and peculiar. But there was no touch, no actual contact. It was as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum. And since the field of life is largely an artificially-lighted stage today, the stories were curiously true to modern life, to the modern psychology, that is.

Since that time the boy used to look at the man every time he came through, with the same curious criticism, glancing away before he met the smith's eye. It made Dawes furious. They hated each other in silence.

She did not mind if he observed her hands. She intended to scorn him. Her heavy arm lay negligently on the table. Her mouth was closed as if she were offended, and she kept her face slightly averted.