Deep Shivering Winter Quotes

In the deep shivering winter, I can feel the joy of a dancing summer in my heart. ~ Debasish Mridha

And wait for the bus in grey drizzle, arms folded tight around myself, shivering against cold that falls from the sky and sinks deep in my bones. ~ Teri Terry

Next up, The Winds of Winter. Wherein, I hope, everybody will be shivering together once again. ... - George R. R. Martin April 2011 ~ George R R Martin

Rain
To be umbrella'd in the rain is to be singing,
surrounded by nature and at once untouched,
shielded against the force of gales andhailstorms
in my dry alcove of sentience and peace.

But past the amphitheater of raindrops
tree trunks purple against the throttling moss,
marbling into green and grey lichens.
Leaves of grass crouch in a lowered stance, then
stand on end like the hairs of a frightened dog.
The musty smell of earth hangs in the gallows,
emanating decay into the granite, winter light.
Clouds bewail the earth in dogged tears.
Who said there was consolation in rain?

My umbrella is lost in a sudden gust,
leaving me wet, shivering, exposed --
reminding me, once again,
why I hate funerals.
They remind me of what I am
and to what I will return. ~ Beryl Dov

There are moments in the middle of winter when all seems lost, and the darkness presses in like death, and everthing is cold, and I wake in the night shivering, and relive all I went through then. ~ Jonathan Aycliffe

And so to my fool's bed. What was that? No, no, not a girl crying in the garden. No one, cold, hungry, and banished, was shivering there, longing and not daring to come in. It was the chains swinging at the well. It would be folly to get up and go out and call again: Psyche, Psyche, my only love. I am a great queen. I have killed a man. I am drunk like a man. All warriors drink deep after the battle. Bardia's lips on my hand were like the touch of lightning. All great princes have mistresses and lovers. There's the crying again. No, it's only the buckets at the well. "Shut the window, Poobi. To your bed, child. Do you love me, Poobi? Kiss me good night. Good night." The king's dead. He'll never pull my hair again. A straight thrust and then a cut in the leg. That would have killed him. I am the Queen; I'll kill Orual too. ~ C.S. Lewis

1. Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy
2. Submissive to everything, open, listening
3. Try never get drunk outside yr own house
4. Be in love with yr life
5. Something that you feel will find its own form
6. Be crazy dumbsaint of the mind
7. Blow as deep as you want to blow
8. Write what you want bottomless from bottom of the mind
9. The unspeakable visions of the individual
10. No time for poetry but exactly what is
11. Visionary tics shivering in the chest
12. In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you
13. Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition
14. Like Proust be an old teahead of time
15. Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog
16. The jewel center of interest is the eye within the eye
17. Write in recollection and amazement for yourself
18. Work from pithy middle eye out, swimming in language sea
19. Accept loss forever
20. Believe in the holy contour of life
21. Struggle to sketch the flow that already exists intact in mind
22. Dont think of words when you stop but to see picture better
23. Keep track of every day the date emblazoned in yr morning
24. No fear or shame in the dignity of yr experience, language & knowledge
25. Write for the world to read and see yr exact pictures of it
26. Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form < ~ Jack Kerouac

I am speaking of the evenings when the sun sets early, of the fathers under the streetlamps in the back streets
returning home carrying plastic bags. Of the old Bosphorus ferries moored to deserted
stations in the middle of winter, where sleepy sailors scrub the decks, pail in hand and one
eye on the black-and-white television in the distance; of the old booksellers who lurch from
one ϧnancial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a customer to appear; of
the barbers who complain that men don't shave as much after an economic crisis; of the
children who play ball between the cars on cobblestoned streets; of the covered women
who stand at remote bus stops clutching plastic shopping bags and speak to no one as they
wait for the bus that never arrives; of the empty boathouses of the old Bosphorus villas; of
the teahouses packed to the rafters with unemployed men; of the patient pimps striding up
and down the city's greatest square on summer evenings in search of one last drunken
tourist; of the broken seesaws in empty parks; of ship horns booming through the fog; of
the wooden buildings whose every board creaked even when they were pashas' mansions,
all the more now that they have become municipal headquarters; of the women peeking
through their curtains as they wait for husbands who never manage to come home in the
evening; of the old men selling thin religious treatises, prayer beads, a ~ Orhan Pamuk

Take some very deep breaths," Miranda said. "Relax. Concentrate. Then envision a frosty six-pack and wiggle your pinky."
A frosty six-pack. Kylie inhaled. He held out her pinky, and right then Della chimed in. "We are talking a six=pack of soda, not a cold guy with good-looking abs, right?"
There was a strange kind of sizzle in the air. And suddenly appearing in front of the refrigerator was a shirtless, shivering guy with great abs. His blue eyes studied the three of them in complete bafflement.
"What the ... !" he muttered.
Kylie gasped.
Miranda giggled.
Della snorted with laughter. ~ C.C. Hunter

In April, he perched on a witch hazel branch, shivering, one eye closed, waiting for the sun to warm his wings. The night had been particularly cold, the winter long, the fishing scarce.
He'd been alone all the time.
When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. he lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he'd built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon - if she returned - the time would come for a new nest along the bank.
The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn't seen each other since the summer before.
He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he'd dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he'd begin to exxcavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon.
He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder more insistent. he recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver.
Any moment now: she'd fly int ~ Brad Kessler

Reclaimed by the small-time day-to-day, pretending life is Back To Normal, wrapping herself shivering against contingency's winter in some threadbare blanket of first-quarter expenses, school committees, cable-bill irregularities, a workday jittering with low-life fantasies for which "fraud" is often too elegant a term, upstairs neighbors to whom bathtub caulking is an alien concept, symptoms upper-respiratory and lower-intestinal, all in the quaint belief that change will always be gradual enough to manage, with insurance, with safety equipment, with healthy diets and regular exercise, and that evil never comes roaring out of the sky to explode into anybody's towering delusions about being exempt. . . ~ Thomas Pynchon

It's only natural for the docile creature of yesteryear to become difficult today. That's just the way people are. You can try forcing someone to remember how he felt in winter and keep shivering after summer comes, but it won't happen. A person might not be able to eat when they're sick but nobody can make they give up food for the rest of their life... The trouble with people is they think they are solid as rock. ~ Soseki Natsume

How is it the seasons change? Do they change so slowly so creepingly because we so rarely break away from whatever it was that we were dreaming to notice? What the season brings us to suffer (because seasons, no matter how lovely, will bring us to suffer) it brings when we are not looking. I know the look of a cracked landscape, winter in black and white, flat and finite with a sunset on the horizon like a red heartbeat suffering there. It will take me longer each morning now to go out and face it, the leaves shivering then falling about as if to remind that somehow despite leavings, there is some magic, some beauty there. I don't want it: the mountain view, the shimmer of summer rain, a troutfilled creek. How is it that I came to be here this way with the wind a suggestion that it was, indubitably was, autumn (already and again)? ~ Jenny Boully

She remembered perching on the sill of her bedroom window with the pane opened a crack so she could let the winter in, and she remembered letting it sting her nose and wash over her until she was shivering and blue. ~ Meagan Spooner

For decades afterwards, I punished myself with images of Sofia standing
naked in the snow, shivering, clutching a chunk of cement that a guard had told her was soap, in the worst winter Poland has ever known. But as I stared at the empty train tracks and thought of the stationmaster making the schoolyard slash across his throat, I had no idea what he was talking about. I could not have conjured up the kind of man who would be willing to design an oven that would be economically fueled by the fat of the men, women and children it was burning. I would not have believed that these same engineers would find other men willing to carry out their monstrous plans. I, too, would have dismissed it as propaganda, that one kind of human being could industriously collect and kill six million of another kind of human being. Somewhere along the line, there would have to be someone who said no.
Forgive me, Sofia. Forgive me, Isaiah. I did not know. ~ Helen Maryles Shankman

There were two kinds of storms, Alice thought. One was a friendly kind that you could enjoy watching out the window with a cup of tea. It crashed around in the sky with theatricality but no real malice.
This storm was the other, the killing kind. There are horrors that exist in the night, the bitter wind said, horrors that only children and demons can see. There are horrors that exist in the mind as well, that only the individual can bear witness to. The winter wind sang of things that the mind did not quite remember but that fear never forgot, filled as people are with the haunts and tragedies that make up the shadows of their lives. We can't endure them, the wind whispered, for when the light and warmth are truly taken we are left shivering naked in the dark. Then we hear a nearby husky chuckle that tells us we are prey. ~ Thea Harrison

The winter of 1991 found me stunned and shivering in the aftermath of an imploded love affair. Being 26, I flung myself actorishly on London and, without any intimations of my own ludicrousness, spent two years showing God what I thought of Him by letting myself go. ~ Glen Duncan

He is shivering, probably going into deep shock. ~ Susan Ee

Noon. In the middle of Knoll Road. In it up to your waist, wearing your father's old reindeer sweater, your mother's fur-lined gloves. Squinting across an infinite ocean of white. Shivering. Breathing. Listening. To nothing. There are no cars, no mailboxes, no traffic islands, no sound. The triple-deckers are now double-deckers and everything's muffled and buried and gone. You yell and you are the only one yelling. The only one breathing. The only one there. The faint chime of a city plow in the distance. The wail of one of Schoerner's penned-up hounds. But no one is with you. No one to contradict you. And you dare to close your eyes and fill up your lungs with winter, your destiny before you like a map of the world. And the wind seems to whisper promises, and you, with arms outstretched and chin to the heavens, swear oaths back to the wind - little things, like fulfilling prophecies and charting new courses and going forth from this time and this place to do great and wondrous things. But first, of course, it will be necessary to get high. ~ Bob Flaherty

If a ghost was a recording of a memory, as some believed, and Wasp pulled back the curtain from the third alcove on the right, she might find the wide-eyed bloody-handed ghost of herself, hugging her knees and shivering, trying to unremember the sound of her little dagger sinking hilt-deep into girlflesh, the day she earned her name. ~ Nicole Kornher-Stace

Living like that utterly convinced me of the extreme limitations of language. I was just a child then, so I had only an intuitive understanding of the degree to which one losses control of words once they are spoken or written. It was then that I first felt a deep curiosity about language, and understood it as a tool that encompasses both a single moment and eternity. ~ Banana Yoshimoto

The Angles Of The Frame
1
Many years have passed since the day,
I looked into a mirror, saw a wrinkled face.
I've been disclosed to the bulging sands of my bed.

2
Aeons of breath account for the many veins in my atrium.

3
The bull I breast-fed for many years
And I've submerged into the frame.

4
I knew the justifications were hard,
Hard as against the current of water.
No news from the ambiguous points
something uncommon.
It can't be justified by natural rules,
many years we've been tangled on it.

5
This usurped land is a part of all buried treasure islands
No finger points in any direction.
Lost in the dead-end alleys
Tracing images without a compass.

6
Horse pounding pulse sing endlessly in my blood.
My kinsmen of horses…
Blood-line linked as to rays of a circle
like roots of a tree growing deep on the roof.

7
You can't stop the hands of the clock.
You can't come back to the broken minutes.
The days have been arranged one after another.
The knights have left the game one after another.

8
There was a straw mat where you fell asleep.
I became numb, quite used to the stillness of the house.

9
Was something supposed to get away from the core
to join us?
A century has passed and we still live in this house.


10
Dimensions hav ~ Rosa Jamali

Cause they don't even know you
All they see is scars
They don't see the angel
Living in your heart

Let them find the real you
Buried deep within
Let them know with all you've got
That you are not your skin ~ Sixx AM

I didn't have to dig deep to love you, Jersey girl. Digging takes work. Falling in love with you was the simplest thing I've ever done. ~ E.L. Montes

Do you want to talk about it?" I ask softly, afraid to pry but wanting him to share what deep, dark secret has a hold on him. Me playing Ana to his Christian. ~ K. Bromberg

When I am once again whole, I shall visit those factory people; I have deep and abiding convictions concerning social action. ~ Anonymous

I felt like I was being carried over the threshold of a sisterhood of loss. I knew I was not walking alone, and that eventually I would bob back up to the surface of the deep, because the women around me showed me what healing looks like. ~ Anna White

If you feel a great loneliness and a deep longing for human contact, you have to be extremely discerning ... and ask yourself whether this situation is truly God given. Because where God wants you to be, God holds you safe and gives you peace, even when there is pain. To live a disciplined life is to live in such a way that you want only to be where God is with you. The more deeply you live your spiritual life, the easier it will be to discern the difference between living with God and living without God, and the easier it will be to move away from the places where God is no longer with you. ~ Henri Nouwen

Revolutions are nipped in the bud or else succeed too quickly. Passion is quickly exhausted. Men fall back on ideas, comme d'habitude. Nothing is proposed that can last more than twenty-four hours. We are living a million lives in the space of a generation. In the study of entomology, or of deep sea life, or cellular activity, we derive more ... ~ Henry Miller

I am not a Zionist, nor am I am a practicing Jew, but I have a great deal of sympathy for my fellow Jews and a deep concern for the survival of Israel. ~ George Soros

I need to breathe again." Each word vibrated as though torn from his very soul. They wrapped around her with their thorny edges and cut in deep. "I need to feel what it's like not to be dying inside." The tip of his nose grazed the side of her face lightly, barely even a whisper. "I need you. ~ Airicka Phoenix

He ever offer to walk you home?"
"I've never asked," Cath said quickly. "I've never asked you either."
"That's true," Levi said.
More quiet. More cold.
The air stung Cath's throat when she finally spoke again. "So maybe you shouldn't."
"Don't be ridiculous," Levi said. "That wasn't my point. ~ Rainbow Rowell

The early mist had vanished and the fields lay like a silver shield under the sun. It was one of the days when the glitter of winter shines through a pale haze of spring. ~ Edith Wharton

Then he began plucking the pins from her hair, carefully, without touching her anywhere else, and Eve began to wonder if 'hair' could possibly be erotic.
She found herself holding her breath, listening to his deep, even exhalations as he worked, her hair loosening and beginning to slide.
It fell all at once, uncoiling heavily over her shoulders. She turned her head to look at him, suddenly shy.
He was staring at her hair.
"It's beautiful," he murmured, burying his fingers in the long tresses, gently working apart the strands, lifting and spreading them. "Like liquid gold." He suddenly lifted the mass to his face. "And perfumed. Like flowers."
"Lily of the valley." He made her feel exotic, still dressed in her sensible gray frock, only her hair loose about her shoulders.
"Lily of the valley," he murmured. "I'll remember that scent forever now, and whenever I smell it again I'll think of you, Eve Dinwoody. You'll be haunting my tomorrows evermore."
She gasped and turned, looking up at him. She'd thought that he'd be smiling teasingly at his words, but he looked quite serious and she stared at him in wonder. Had he always carried this part of himself inside? This wild poetic lover? If so, he'd hidden it well underneath the aggressive, foulmouthed theater manager. She had a secret fondness for the crass theater manager, but the pot...
She swallowed, suddenly nervous.
She might come to love a wild poet. ~ Elizabeth Hoyt

It seems unwise to allocate a large portion of investable capital to any one deep value opportunity, even if the latter promises a large expected return. ~ John Mihaljevic

He hadn't struck her as particularly religious unless she counted the number of times he'd called out to Jesus when he'd been deep inside her. ~ Amy Andrews

The only one," he murmured, his deep voice sliding down to her bones, "I want to belong to is you." She turned her head and blindly found his lips with hers, sinking her fingers into his hair. He locked their mouths together. As her blood heated with need, she pressed into him. His hands slid down her back and then lower, and he pulled her hips against him. She gasped and kissed him harder. ~ Annette Marie