Quotes About Soul

The golden sunshine of Italy congealed into tears. Here's to alcoholic brotherhood ... much more suited to the frail human soul, if any, than any other sort.

Here's to alcoholic brotherhood . . . much more suited to the frail human soul, if any, than any other sort.

have time to take out your soul and look at it.

Go ahead and cry. Tears are lubricant for the soul. Males would be better off if they cried as easily as women

Satan, receive my soul; Jesus is a fink

Romantic love always consists in the projection of the soul-image. When a woman falls in love it is animus that she sees projected onto the mortal man before her. When a man drinks of the love potion, it is anima, his soul, that he sees superimposed on a woman.

Sometimes men envisioned a feminine muse who inspired them to poetry, literature, art, or refined sensibility. Women, by contrast, often imagined the soul as a masculine presence that provided wisdom and strength.

The "soul" or Circuit VII is constant, because it is, as the Chinese say, void or no-form. It plays all the roles you play — oral dependent, emotional tyrant, cool rationalist, romantic seducer, neurosomatic healer, neurogenetic Evolutionary Visionary — but it is none of them. It is plastic. It is no-form, because it is all forms. It is the "creative Void" of the Taoists.

The word "psychosomatic" has been around long enough to be generally understood; unfortunately, it is another semantic spook. The concept of "psyche" or "soul" was borrowed from the theologians, who, being bankrupt, are in no position to lend anything.

Most shamans, and many mystics, have been through similar negative-to-positive neurosomatic sensitization. Christian Scientists call it "chemicalization. " St. John of the Cross called it, poetically, the Dark Night of the Soul. Cabalists call it "crossing the Abyss.

I put my arms around her and closed my eyes and put my cheek against the top of her head and stood for a long time without speaking while my soul melted into her. I knew we weren't the same person. I knew that it was good that we weren't. I knew separateness made love possible. But there were moments, like this one, of crystalline stillness, when it felt as if we really could merge like two oceans at the bottom of the world.

Out of your whole life give but a moment! All of your life that has gone before, All to come after it, -so you ignore, So you make perfect the present, condense, In a rapture of rage, for perfection's endowment, Thought and feeling and soul and sense.

How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life's November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O'er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!

Eat my heart Chew it hard Swallow my soul, too

You will see, philosophical values will fade away in your country, too. To advance themselves, politicians will increasingly claim beliefs that they don't actually possess. Values are a reflection of the soul. And as souls fade, people no longer need values. Souls fade gradually because of the substitution of the inner imagination by technology: smartphones, intelligent toys, the array of electronics at malls, all make soulful intelligence less necessary.

Our skin, our hair, and our eyes are simply the shell that surrounds our soul, and our soul is who we are. What counts is on the inside.

How can I wear the harness of toil And sweat at the daily round, While in my soul forever The drums of Pictdom sound?

A voice said, Look me in the stars And tell me truly, men of earth, If all the soul-and-body scars Were not too much to pay for birth.

A poem is never a put-up job, so to speak. It begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It is never a thought to begin with.

More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was mistaken for by its young converts.

Far as we aim our signs to reach, Far as we often make them reach, Across the soul-from-soul abyss, There is an aeon-limit set Beyond which they are doomed to miss. Two souls may be too widely met. That sad-with-distance river beach With mortal longing may beseech; It cannot speak as far as this.

What does it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul?

If our dreams are a reflection of our thoughts, then surely, our life is the foundation of our soul.