#grave

The secret thoughts of a man run over all things, holy, profane, clean, obscene, grave, and light, without shame or blame. ↗

— Thomas Hobbes

#blame #clean #grave #holy #light

I am a soul. I know well that what I shall render up to the grave is not myself. That which is myself will go elsewhere. Earth, thou art not my abyss! ↗

— Victor Hugo

#am #art #earth #elsewhere #go

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his grave with my life. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. ↗

— Chief Joseph

#away #father #grave #hand #him

Bad leadership during the past years has cast on our Party the shadow of great and grave burdens. ↗

— Janos Kadar

#burdens #cast #during #grave #great

But I think that the spirit of protectionism would be the grave of European cinema. You cannot protect something by building a fence around it and thinking that this will help it survive. ↗

— Wim Wenders

#building #cannot #cinema #european #fence

THE BARROW In this high field strewn with stones I walk by a green mound, Its edges sheared by the plough. Crumbs of animal bone Lie smashed and scattered round Under the clover leaves And slivers of flint seem to grow Like white leaves among green. In the wind, the chestnut heaves Where a man's grave has been. Whatever the barrow held Once, has been taken away: A hollow of nettles and dock Lies at the centre, filled With rain from a sky so grey It reflects nothing at all. I poke in the crumbled rock For something they left behind But after that funeral There is nothing at all to find. On the map in front of me The gothic letters pick out Dozens of tombs like this, Breached, plundered, left empty, No fragments littered about Of a dead and buried race In the margins of histories. No fragments: these splintered bones Construct no human face, These stones are simply stones. In museums their urns lie Behind glass, and their shaped flints Are labelled like butterflies. All that they did was die, And all that has happened since Means nothing to this place. Above long clouds, the skies Turn to a brilliant red And show in the water's face One living, and not these dead." — Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree ↗

— Anthony Thwaite

#burial #death #funeral #grave #living

MS. THOMPSON, it said in heavy block letters, PLEASE KEEP YOUR FELINE OFF MY PROPERTY. IF I SEE IT AGAIN, I WILL EAT IT. ↗

— Patricia Briggs

#humor #humor

He muttered something foul and then climbed the stairs, rapping twice on Timmie’s door. “Right, then, mate, terribly sorry for my unspeakable rudeness, and I do beg your pardon,” he said with admirable humbleness when Timmie cracked it open. Only I could pick up the slight edge to his voice as he went on. “I can only say that it was caused by my natural affront to the notion of her as my sister. Since I’ll be shagging her tonight, you can imagine how I’d be distressed at the thought of rogering my sibling.” “You schmuck!” I burst as Timmie’s jaw dropped. “The only thing you’ll be shagging tonight is yourself!” “You wanted sincerity,” he countered. “Well, luv, I was sincere. ↗

— Jeaniene Frost

#night-huntress #imagination

They say it's better to bury your sadness in a graveyard or garden that waits for the spring to wake from its sleep and burst into green. ↗

— Conor Oberst

#burst #bury #garden #graveyard #green

My closest friend, who died not long ago, is buried near Marx's grave in Highgate cemetery, so I see the gaggle of admirers laying roses at the foot of his tombstone regularly. I have never been tempted to leave flowers there myself. Great theories, shame about the practice. Marx did many things. But inventing class was not one of them. ↗

— Alastair Campbell

#admirers #ago #been #buried #cemetery