Despegue Nave Quotes

Love is the river of life in this world. Think not that ye know it who stand at the little tinkling rill, the first small fountain. Not until you have gone through the rocky gorges, and not lost the stream; not until you nave gone through the meadow, and the stream has widened and deepened until fleets could ride on its bosom; not until beyond the meadow you have come to the unfathomable ocean, and poured your treasures into its depths
not until then can you know what love is. ~ Henry Ward Beecher

The great majority of interpretations of Apocalypse assume that the End is pretty near. Consequently the historical allegory is always having to be revised; time discredits it. And this is important. Apocalypse can be disconfirmed without being discredited. This is part of its extraordinary resilience. It can also absorb changing interests, rival apocalypses, such as the Sibylline writings. It is patient of change and of historiographical sophistications. It allows itself to be diffused, blended with other varieties of fiction--tragedy, for example, myths of Empire and of Decadence--and yet it can survive in very naïve forms. Probably the most sophisticated of us is capable at times of naïve reactions to the End. ~ Frank Kermode

So long as you're not a snap, you're safe. (Nykyrian)
Snap…Syn used that term. (Kiara)
Single. Naïve. Amateur. Person. (Nykyrian) ~ Sherrilyn Kenyon

Stupefied he gazed at the old man who, naïve as a child, returned his glance still rubbing his hands. How could he have recognized one who so utterly betrayed all his expectations? The man whom Valignano had called a devil, who had made the missionaries apostatize one by one--until now he had envisaged the face of this man as pale and crafty. But here before his very eyes sat this understanding, seemingly good, meek man. ~ Shusaku Endo

I am a runaway, lost at sea.
I am a broken bird, yearning to fly free.
I am a sinner, unworthy and unholy.
I am a rose, wilting slowly.
I am a raindrop, touching your cheek.
I am a child who plays hide and seek.
I am nothing, and yet I am everything.
I am contradictions and complexities.
I am a face with a hundred entities.
I am love and I am hate.
I am the voice that cannot communicate.
I am a melody, haunting and sad.
I am a soul that has slowly gone mad.
I am death in a living body.
I am a dangerous opium poppy.
I am rage, running through my veins.
I am pain, bound in chains.
I am isolation, imprisoned in my mind.
I am abandoned and left behind.
I am tenderness, soft and kind.
I am trust, naïve and blind.
I am remorse, shattered and frozen.
I am the path I have not chosen.
I am sadness, drowning in an ocean.
I am faith, yearning for devotion.
I am madness, rebellious and wild.
I am sanity, safely filed.
I am wisdom, cursed and blessed.
I am a name that will burn in your chest. I am a journey, destination unknown.
I am a heart turned to stone.
I am forever alone. ~ Mina Alexia

Like George Washington, we are quick to dismiss politics. This is naïve. Conflict in politics is not only inevitable; it is axiomatically imperative. Politics is division. Political parties do not exist arbitrarily, but are a rational, practical response to dispute. As long as we keep our republic - and in fact even if we do not - people will form cliques in order to forward their agendas. The only way to remove the need for parties, and the disruption they cause, is to remove the capacity for disagreement completely. One cannot help but suspect that for some who claim to find antagonism so tiring, this is the latent desire. ~ Charles C.W. Cooke

A woman is always being taken advantage of in so many situations. To add insult to injury, people always try to belittle a woman - as if her opinion doesn't matter - and people feel that they can manipulate a woman as if she's naïve and clueless. Other people will steal a woman's idea as if they came up with it on their own. It makes my skin crawl when a woman is told to step aside and keep quiet as if her voice doesn't deserve to be heard, and we all know that women don't receive as many opportunities as their male counterparts. However, opportunities are endless, and when a woman is given a chance, she makes it a personal mission to execute by always being the seeker and observer. ~ Charlena E. Jackson

Westray sat down near the door, and was so engrossed in the study of the building and in the strange play of the shafts of sunlight across the massive stonework, that half an hour passed before he rose to walk up the church.

A solid stone screen separates the choir from the nave, making, as it were, two churches out of one; but as Westray opened the doors between them, he heard four voices calling to him, and, looking up, saw above his head the four tower arches. "The arch never sleeps," cried one. "They have bound on us a burden too heavy to be borne," answered another. "We never sleep," said the third; and the fourth returned to the old refrain, "The arch never sleeps, never sleeps."

As he considered them in the daylight, he wondered still more at their breadth and slenderness, and was still more surprised that his Chief had made so light of the settlement and of the ominous crack in the south wall. ~ John Meade Falkner

Perhaps there is nothing wrong with being childish and naïve. Perhaps naivety is simply the unwillingness to learn one's lesson. It is the decision to speak and live the truth, the beautiful truth of who we are and what we're capable of, against all odds and in the face of all opposition. ~ Vironika Tugaleva

I know some people today would regard such love of country as ridiculously romantic and naïve... Patriotism itself has been hijacked by scabby youths with jackboots and bad teeth whose sole aim is to raise their own standard of living. But I do believe that there are those few who continue to believe in the England that Kipling loved. Unfortunately, we are a dusty bunch of relics. ~ Helen Simonson

I was no longer capable of either enthusiasm or fear. Once an ecstatic idealist […], I had now passed - like the rest of my contemporaries who had survived thus far - into a permanent state of numb disillusion.

Whatever part of my brief adulthood I chose to look back upon - the restless pre-War months at home, the naïve activities of a college student, the tutelage to horror and death as a V.A.D. nurse, the ever-deepening night of fear and suspense and agony in a provincial town, in a university city, in London, in the Mediterranean, in France - it all seemed to have meant one thing, and one thing only, 'a striving, and a striving, and an ending in nothing.'

Now there were no more disasters to dread and no friends left to wait for; with the ending of apprehension had come a deep, nullifying blankness, a sense of walking in a thick mist which hid all sights and muffled all sounds. I had no further experience to gain from the War; nothing remained except to endure it. ~ Vera Brittain

But before you do that, inform your master that we have arrived."
"His master," said a biting voice from a rear doorway, "is aware of that."
Elizabeth swung around at the scathing tone of Ian's voice, and her fantasy of seeing him fall to his knees in remorse the moment he set eyes on her collapsed the instant she saw his face; it was as hard and forbidding as a granite sculpture. He did not bother to come forward but instead remained where he was, his shoulder propped negligently against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching her through narrowed eyes. Until then Elizabeth had thought she remembered exactly what he looked like, but she hadn't. Not really. His suede jacket clung to wide shoulders that were broader and more muscular than she'd remembered, and his thick hair was almost black. His face was one of leashed sensuality and arrogant handsomeness with its sculpted mouth and striking eyes, but now she noticed the cynicism in those golden eyes and the ruthless set of his jaw-things she'd obviously been too young and naïve to see before. Everything about him exuded brute strength, and that in turn made her feel even more helpless as she searched his features for some sign that this aloof, forbidding man had actually held and kissed her with seductive tenderness.
"Have you had an edifying look at me, Countess?" he snapped, and before she could recover from the shock of that rude greeting his next words rendered her nearly speechless. "Yo ~ Judith McNaught

I was only sixteen when I'd found out the truth, still young and naïve enough to believe in impossible things.
She wasn't sixteen. She was in her twenties. Which meant she was cynical. ~ T.J. Klune

It's my fault," I said softly. I touched his face, the thick brows, wide mouth, and the sprouting stubble along the clean,long jaw. "Mine. If I hadn't come...and told you what would happen..." I felt a true sorrow for his corruption, and shared a sense of loss for the naïve, gallant lad he had been. And yet...what choice had either of us truly had, being who we were? I had had to tell him, and he had had to act on it. ~ Diana Gabaldon

I believe another one of the Song girls has a birthday coming up." He sings, "You are sixteen, going on seventeen…" I feel a strong surge of love for him, my dad who I am so lucky to have.
"What song are you singing?" Kitty interrupts.
I take Kitty's hands and spin her around the kitchen with me. "I am sixteen, going on seventeen; I know that I'm naïve. Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet; willingly I believe."
Daddy throws his dish towel over his shoulder and marches in place. In a deep voice he baritones, "You need someone older and wiser telling you what to do…"
"This song is sexist," Kitty says as I dip her.
"Indeed it is," Daddy agrees, swatting her with the towel. "And the boy in question was not, in fact, older and wiser. He was a Nazi in training."
Kitty skitters away from both of us. "What are you guys even talking about?"
"It's from The Sound of Music," I say.
"You mean that movie about the nun? Never seen it."
"How have you seen The Sopranos but not The Sound of Music?"
Alarmed, Daddy says, "Kitty's been watching The Sopranos?"
"Just the commercials," Kitty quickly says.
I go on singing to myself, spinning in a circle like Liesl at the gazebo. "I am sixteen going on seventeen, innocent as a rose…Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet, and willingly I believe…"
"Why would you just willingly believe some random fellows you don't even know?"
"It's the song, Kitty, not me! God!" I stop spinning. "Lies ~ Jenny Han

I wasn't naïve enough to believe in soul mates or any of that childish nonsense that I had once clung to, but there had always been something tangible between Dez and me, even after his absence, it was still there, stronger than before. ~ Jennifer L. Armentrout

The director said he wanted this to be tasteful, that it wasn't pornography. But that just proved how naïve he was. Did he think I could tie her up, punish her, kiss her, and suck every inch of her and make that look tasteful? Sex was not tasteful. Sex is, if you're doing it correctly, pornographic. ~ J.J. McAvoy

This trip began one lovely summer morning and nothing foretold of the troubles ahead. We didn't know then what a huge mistake we had made: we did not bother to put locks on our travel bags or at least to wrap them. We were naïve and did not do anything to protect our luggage. ~ Sahara Sanders

Don't get killed," Marla says. "I won't." "Oh yeah?" "That's not my story. Not how my story is gonna end." "That's just about the most naïve thing I've ever heard you say. You think anybody thinks their story is gonna end the way it does? ~ Josh Malerman

We are not naïve little heirs to be molded as they wish. We are warriors. We are rulers. ~ Alexandra Christo

One certainly does work badly in spring: and why? Because one's feelings are being stimulated. And only amateurs think that a creative artist can afford to have feelings. It's a naïve amateur illusion; any genuine honest artist will smile at it. Sadly, perhaps, but he will smile. Because, of course, what one says must never be one's main concern. It must merely be the raw material, quite indifferent in itself, out of which the work of art is made; and the act of making must be a game, aloof and detached, performed in tranquillity. If you attach too much importance to what you have to say, if it means too much to you emotionally, then you may be certain that your work will be a complete fiasco. You will become solemn, you will become sentimental, you will produce something clumsy, ponderous, pompous, ungainly, unironical, insipid, dreary and commonplace; it will be of no interest to anyone, and you yourself will end up disillusioned and miserable… For that is how it is, Lisaveta: emotion, warm, heartfelt emotion, is invariably commonplace and unserviceable - only the stimulation of our corrupted nervous system, its cold ecstasies and acrobatics, can bring forth art. One simply has to be something inhuman, something standing outside humanity, strangely remote and detached from its concerns, if one is to have the ability or indeed even the desire to play this game with it, to play with men's lives, to portray them effectively and tastefully. Our stylistic and formal talent, our ~ Thomas Mann

On Christmas Eve, my mother and I and Teddy and Anita went to Mass together. The shadowy church was lit only by an overhead light trained on the altar and by the flames of hundreds of flickering candles in glass cups set all around the nave. If you squinted, the columns and vaults seemed to melt away, all the grandness of the architecture receded, and the space became intimate, almost as if you were cast back many centuries to a humble place where a miracle had occurred, where the radiance issued not from candles but from the air itself, back to a less hectic era before the invention of clocks, to a night of peace from which a renewed world would then begin to date itself. ~ Dean Koontz

Thus the creative genius may be at once nave and knowledgeable, being at home equally to primitive symbolism and to rigorous logic. He is both more primitive and more cultured, more destructive and more constructive, occasionally crazier and yet adamantly saner, than the average person. ~ Frank X. Barron

I would not be you for a kingdom.'

The remark was too naïve to rouse anger; I merely said -

'Very good.'

'And what would you give to be ME?' she inquired.

'Not a bad sixpence - strange as it may sound', I replied. 'You are but a poor creature.'

'You don't think so in your heart.'

'No; for in my heart you have not the outline of a place: I only occasionally turn you over in my brain. ~ Charlotte Bronte

Is it called naiveté when you're naïve in purpose? ~ Lionel Shriver

You can tell a lot about a country by its prisons. In hippy-dippy Socialist Sweden, rapists and murders (all three of them) while away their days making arts and crafts in what are essentially taxpayer-funded mental health clinics. The Swedes' theory seems to be that a) anyone who commits such a crime must be crazy and b) with enough art therapy, the individual in question will soon become just another law-abiding, nude-sunbathing pot-smoker. In America, we think people in prison are either the victims of some terrible government conspiracy, the victims of "society" - whatever that means - or heinous evildoers. And if they are heinous enough, we fry them with electricity, unless of course they find Jesus first. The Swedes, in a nutshell, are tolerant and forgiving, verging on the naïve; Americans are religious and vengeful, suspicious of their government, and suckers for tear-jerking tales of redemption. ~ Maureen Klovers

Interlaken

Get a running start. Catch
a good wind, he said: Be a good

bird. I thought him German
as his hand did the wave––tumult

of syllables, the ocean. A gust carried us
from the top of a ridge to where land

helixes hug vague bodies
of water, pebbled pastures

skimming treelines across the range
littered with wildflowers. Winds lilted:

It's not your day to go, as I watched
clouds blush vermillion, flying

in tandem as a crow does over
reservoirs and glacial gorges. That high

up, I thought maybe we could fall
in love, full of pomp and spectacle,

but he was a stranger, and to him, I was
strange; possibly ugly. Everyone

peddles timing––the random alchemy
of abutting molecules––though

I've grown weary of waiting. Stillness
is the danger. So I spread out

my arms, carved ciphers into ether
while a choir could be heard along

the nave where winding trails scissor
the basin. Spiraling downward,

I mouthed a new prayer, knelt in air
for deliverance, morphing into needle

of a compass, unbeholden to a place
inhospitable: the mind. The mind bent

on forgetting: I was blown wide open. ~ Su Hwang

Some people owe everything they have to the bank accounts of their parents. I owe the state. Put simply, the state educated me, fixed my leg when it was broken, and gave me a grant that enabled me to go to university. It fixed my teeth (a bit) and found housing for my veteran father in his dotage. When my youngest brother was run over by a truck it saved his life and in particular his crushed right hand, a procedure that took half a year, and which would, on the open market - so a doctor told me at the time - have cost a million pounds. Those were the big things, but there were also plenty of little ones: my subsidized sports centre and my doctor's office, my school music lessons paid for with pennies, my university fees. My NHS glasses aged 9. My NHS baby aged 33. And my local library. To steal another writer's title: England made me. It has never been hard for me to pay my taxes because I understand it to be the repaying of a large, in fact, an almost incalculable, debt.

....The charming tale of benign state intervention described above is now relegated to the land of fairy tales: not just naïve but actually fantastic. Having one's own history so suddenly and abruptly made unreal is an experience of a whole generation of British people, who must now wander around like so many ancient mariners boring foreigners about how they went to university for free and could once find a National Health dentist on their high street. ~ Zadie Smith

To someone standing in the nave, looking down the length of the church toward the east, the round window would seem like a huge sun exploding into innumerable shards of gorgeous color. ~ Ken Follett

Audience turn to archetype packed stories to enjoy, whether consciously or unconsciously, the device of repeated plots with small variations. Dispositio rather than elocution. That's why the serial, even the most trite television serial, can become a cult both for a naïve audience and for a more sophisticated one. ~ Arturo Perez Reverte

The perfect chocolate chip cookie," I intone, "should have three rings. The center should be soft and a little gooey. The middle ring should be chewy. And the outer ring should be crispy."
"I can't hear her give this speech again," Kitty says to Peter. "I just can't."
"Be patient," he says, squeezing her shoulder. "It's almost over, and then we get cookies."
"The perfect cookie is best eaten while still warm, but still delicious at room temperature."
"If you don't quit talking, they won't be warm anymore," Kitty grumbles. I shoot her a glare, but truthfully, I'm glad she's here to be a buffer between Peter and me. Her presence makes things feel normal.
"In the baking world, it is a truth universally acknowledged that Jacques Torres has perfected the chocolate chip cookie. Peter, you and I tasted it for ourselves just a few months ago." I'm really stretching it now to make them suffer. "How will my cookie measure up? Spoiler alert. It's amazing."
Kitty slides off her stool. "That's it. I'm out of here. A chocolate chip cookie isn't worth all this."
I pat her on the head. "Oh, naïve little Kitten. Dear, foolish girl. This cookie is worth all this and more. Sit or you will not partake."
Rolling her eyes, she sits back down.
"My friends, I have finally found it. My white whale. My golden ring. The cookie to rule them all. ~ Jenny Han

The rich and powerful like to appear conformist, God-fearing, vaguely naïve and permanently jolly because they are none of those things. ~ Clifford Thurlow

But we do not have to think that human nature is perfect for us to still believe that the human condition can be perfected. We do not have to live in an idealized world to still reach for those ideals that will make it a better place. The non-violence practiced by men like Gandhi and King may not have been practical or possible in every circumstance, but the love that they preached - their faith in human progress - must always be the North Star that guides us on our journey.

For if we lose that faith - if we dismiss it as silly or naïve; if we divorce it from the decisions that we make on issues of war and peace - then we lose what is best about humanity. We lose our sense of possibility. We lose our moral compass. ~ Barack Obama

Nothing is one hundred percent reliable this side of paradise, except that your cell-phone provider will never fulfill the service promises that you were naïve enough to believe. ~ Dean Koontz

I may be a hopeless romantic happy to get lost between the pages of a hot and steamy novel or a sigh-with-sweetness one, but I'm not naïve enough to believe that those kinds of things happen all the time. Some people will get that kind of love that makes guys wonder and girls swoon, but not everyone. ~ Emma Hart

But there are also those who are in the category that I hope stories like La Boheme can help with, and they say, "It was beautiful, it was extraordinary, it was exquisite, it was naïve, and it was perfect. But it could only be for a certain amount of time. ~ Baz Luhrmann

As it recurred again and again, it set me thinking of what my architect's books say about the custom in early times to consecrate the choir as soon as it was built, and that the nave, being finished sometimes half a century later, often did not get any blessing at all: I wondered idly if that had been the case at St. Barnabe, and whether something not usually supposed to be at home in a Christian church, might have entered undetected, and taken possession of the west gallery. I had read of such things happening too, but not in works on architecture.
("In The Court Of The Dragon") ~ Robert W. Chambers

My mind is curiously alert; it's as though my skull had a thousand mirrors inside it. My nerves are taut, vibrant! the notes are like glass balls dancing on a million jets of water. I've never been to a concert before on such an empty belly. Nothing escapes me, not even the tiniest pin falling. It's as though I had no clothes on and every pore of my body was a window and all the windows open and the light flooding my gizzards. I can feel the light curving under the vault of my ribs and my ribs hang there over a hollow nave trembling with reverberations. How long this lasts I have no idea; I have lost all sense of time and place. After what seems like an eternity there follows an interval of semiconsciousness balanced by such a calm that I feel a great lake inside me, a lake of iridescent sheen, cool as jelly; and over this lake, rising in great swooping spirals, there emerge flocks of birds of passage with long slim legs and brilliant plumage. Flock after flock surge up from the cool, still surface of the lake and, passing under my clavicles, lose themselves in the white sea of space. And then slowly, very slowly, as if an old woman in a white cap were going the rounds of my body, slowly the windows are closed and my organs drop back into place. ~ Henry Miller

Cynics are spoiled romantics. They are always the ones who had the highest expectations at the start. They were once so naïve themselves that they despise naïvety more than any other quality. Alchemists, they turn grief to gold. They take quinine in their tonic, Campari with their soda - bitterness is an acquired taste. Cynics have learned to drink poison and like it. They are resourceful people, though the sad thing is, they know what's happened to them. They remember what they wanted to be when they grew up, and not a single one of them dreamt of becoming a cynic. ~ Lionel Shriver