classes ::: media, list, websites, programming,
children :::
branches ::: torrents

Instances, Classes, See Also, Object in Names
Definitions, . Quotes . - . Chapters .


object:torrents
class:media

--- TORRENT SITES LIST - BOOKS BELOW
--- QUICK BAR
  Live Libgen

--- MOVIES / SHOWS
http://thepiratebay.org
  https://thepiratebay.org/user/ettv/
    /ShAaNiG/ http://shaanig.org/ #down as of 2018-09-17
    /makintos13/
a) https://pirateproxy.live
a) https://pirateproxy.live/user/makintos13/ #up as of 2018-09-17
http://rarbg.to
http://horriblesubs.info/
https://eztv.ag/
https://ettv.tv
https://putlocker.sk
https://seedpeer.eu
https://shaanig.org/
http://bt-scene.cc/indexfull/
https://yts.am/ # YIFY #MOVIES?
https://torrentz2.eu

--- QUOTES ]
  site:https://www.facebook.com/groups/OrderoftheGnostics/ manly p hall

--- DND / MAGE / SHADOWRUN ]
  https://mega.nz/#F!2nIH1ChC!3TkI45GJ3vhbk0zZ8NCOaA

--- ANIME ]
http://kissanime.ru ### STREAMING
https://www.nyaa.si/ ### https://www.nyaa.se/
http://bakabt.me
https://animelon.com/ ### for learning japanese, has perfect subtitles, including kanji
https://www9.gogoanime.io/

--- MANGA DETAILS ]
  https://mangakakalot.com/manga/prism_higashiyama_shou

--- STREAMING ]
http://www.watchepisodes4.com/
http://watch-series.is/
http://www.animefreak.tv/  
http://openloadmovies.tv/
https://www6.putlockertv.to/

--- UPLOADING ]
  https://mega.nz/

--- CLOSED LIBRARIES ]
https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/a/

--- NEW BOOK PLACES
  https://the-eye.eu/public/Books/Bibliotik/

--- BOOKS # NOTE, CLEAN DRIVES BEFORE THEY COME DOWN
--- LIBGEN MIRRORS ] [ VIP ]
  http://libgen.io/
  http://libgen.io/libgen/content/
  http://libgen.io/dbdumps/libgen/
  https://libgen.pw/
  http://gen.lib.rus.ec

  http://www.universityofhumanunity.org/biblios/
http://www.ulib.org/ULIBOurCollections.htm

--- INTEGRAL YOGA
  https://www.auro-ebooks.com/authors/ #NICE
  https://www.sriaurobindoashram.org/sriaurobindo/writings.php
  https://www.sriaurobindoashram.org/mother/writings.php
  site:https://www.aurobindo.ru/workings/sa/ pdf
  site:http://www.motherandsriaurobindo.in/ pdf
https://www.aurobindo.ru/workings/disciples_e.htm

--- CHRISTIAN
  http://www.saintsbooks.net/BooksList.php#Featured%20Books

--- UNTAPPED ] # do before they close
[ FREEDOM ]  
    http://index-of.es/ # wget it all plz
  [ OCCULT ]
    https://starlightsanctum.wordpress.com/library/
    http://lib.oto-usa.org/
https://www.facebook.com/groups/esotericknowledgeandoccultscience/files/
  [ GOOGLE DRIVES ]
    [ETERNAL_VEDA]https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0Bw6JgcEAnjX-aUJvRW1GTE5VM1U
    [ETERNAL_FLAME_LIBRARY]https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/0B-G_iUcPzz9gUXRMVWt5TEVMNGc #VIP
    [THE_ESOTERIC]https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1f0lGvGUIl5wHq1pLn3VWQlAWC27HrPfg #DECENT
    [Facade]https://drive.google.com/open?id=1XPspcpeEqiiIxYKyGaIPOhujGqMOC4Gc
    [Maria_Locke]https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=1qQwqvAQKVNhL3YS7Km2p6MImZF8kAxav
    [Boris]https://drive.google.com/open?id=19DW3sdVbWLbssXxT2w2zpA3ROBFb8vWP
    [Autumn_Stormcaller___WITCH_LIBRARY]https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1zlo7Gr8gMXTu-0yaHFNL4N2NVyM180e6?usp=sharing
    [Aletheia's Library]https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1WlQEW0Y29IiHsh4gBz5IzaAlV7qn2LGg?usp=sharing
    [Chaos Magick Archive ]https://drive.google.com/open?id=0ByjZOrWyaRqEQldHZDVPa0dsems #looks meh
  [ MEGA.NZ'S ] (https://mega.nz/cmd)
    [Marcus_Dell][40G]https://mega.nz/?fbclid=IwAR3b-Q5XTcHzvLDgnyoPXJVzJktYdIhJ-iQZqlrXbWxOMc_qwhNQPTdt-zQ#F!cLQlyaba!POGP8w8lIIo8DCNaSV4ezw!IDpmyC7I
    [Gnosticism]https://mega.nz/#F!xYpWSZIA!AIJmBr-RrBJeUdGwjt1b3A
    [loopy]https://mega.nz/#!c6J2xRqQ!wljN7A5u6OAo9zKGy4OhndDE4rZKYewe9EywpjKzlOE #one file?
    [Sage]https://mega.nz/#F!lWpRVDza!EYLGEJRgdCTlMIPbryzJCA
    [Deleted User___Historical norse and european texts] https://mega.nz/#F!u3Z2iC6A!hx3LvTezwSPrrYZAk9DeAA
    [Leviathan___The Temple of Soloman the King]https://mega.nz/#F!AE5yjIqB!y7Vdxdb5pbNsi2O3zyq9KQ
    [viper]https://www.amazon.com/clouddrive/share/ZGRVkFukMrISpXG6JSqFi9GdUlmMqeygW9HxYH7o4Uu #[looks good, untapped]
    [zaph___occ]https://mega.nz/#F!b3AzmLpR!36o66NWTJGvS5S5V3-sgig #nice #[cleaned enough]
    [Books of Spiritual Knowledge and Wisdom]https://mega.nz/#F!cLQlyaba!POGP8w8lIIo8DCNaSV4ezw #[nice relatively cleaned]
[Books of spiritual wisdom] https://mega.nz/#F!bEdHlQCa!ywRsZKQ19r7c7bR_oa_yIw!CAsBxC5Q
  [ FORGOTTEN BOOKS 1.2 MIL ]
    https://www.forgottenbooks.com/en
--- RELIGIOUS ]
  http://www.sacred-texts.com
  http://sacred-texts.com/eso/index.htm
  https://www.holybooks.com/

--- TECH
  http://it-ebooks.directory/
  http://it-ebooks.info/
  http://freecomputerbooks.com/
  http://history-computer.com/Library/

--- TORRENTS ]
  https://torrentz2.eu
  https://pirateproxy.live
  https://www.reddit.com/r/TPB/top/?t=all

--- WIDE REACHING? ]
  http://pdfdrive.com # VERY LARGE
  http://b-ok.xyz/ # LIMITED NUMBER OF DOWNLOADS BUT WIDE SELECTION
  http://en.bookfi.net/ # SAME AS B-OK?

--- OLDER? ]
  https://www.gutenberg.org/
  http://archive.org

--- UNSORTED
  https://opentrackers.org/downloading-ebooks-textbooks/ #OooOO
  https://cnx.org/ # open textbooks
  http://files.vsociety.net/data/
  http://files.vsociety.net/data/library/
  http://vsociety.net/wiki/V-Library
  http://vsociety.net/wiki/Spirituality_eBooks
  https://onlinebooks.library.upenn.edu/
  http://www.hermetics.org/ebooks.php
  https://onesearch.library.utoronto.ca/popular-databases

--- ONION ]
  http://lfbg75wjgi4nzdio.onion/wiki/List_of_Free_Online_Libraries #wiki
  http://lfbg75wjgi4nzdio.onion/f/books#s #raddit

--- MANGA ]
  https://theanimehq.com/category/manga/
  https://www.nyaa.si/ ### https://www.nyaa.se/ #torrents
  https://mangakakalot.com/
  https://kissmanga.com

--- GOOGLE COMMANDS ]
  intitle:index.of pdf "Book title" # very fucking cool, maybe works well with wget
  https://www.google.com/search?tbm=bks&q=inauthor%3A%22Plato%22

--- UNCHECKED
  https://it-eb.com/
  https://edoc.site/search
  https://www.foxebook.net/
  http://www.allitebooks.com/
  https://dlfeb.com/
  http://ebook-dl.com/
  https://anarchalibrary.blogspot.com/
  https://sci-hub.se/
  https://theanarchistlibrary.org/
  http://freeoccultbooks.weebly.com/
  https://starlightsanctum.wordpress.com/library/
  https://www.holtz.org/Library/
  http://ebooks.bharathuniv.ac.in/gdlc1/ #looks pretty huge

--- SMALL BUT UNIQ ]
  http://worrydream.com/refs/

--- THEOSOPHY LIBRARY ]
  http://www.blavatskyarchives.com/theosophypdfs/early_theosophical_publications_authors.htm

--- DEAD


--- FOOTER
class:list
class:websites
class:programming


see also ::: the net




questions, comments, suggestions/feedback, take-down requests, contribute, etc
contact me @ integralyogin@gmail.com or via the comments below
or join the integral discord server (chatrooms)
if the page you visited was empty, it may be noted and I will try to fill it out. cheers



--- OBJECT INSTANCES [1]


i2p

--- PRIMARY CLASS


list
media
programming
websites

--- SEE ALSO


--- SIMILAR TITLES [1]


torrents
select ::: Being, God, injunctions, media, place, powers, subjects,
favorite ::: cwsa, everyday, grade, mcw, memcards (table), project, project 0001, Savitri, the Temple of Sages, three js, whiteboard,
temp ::: consecration, experiments, knowledge, meditation, psychometrics, remember, responsibility, temp, the Bad, the God object, the Good, the most important, the Ring, the source of inspirations, the Stack, the Tarot, the Word, top priority, whiteboard,

--- DICTIONARIES (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)


torrent ::: 1. Of, or like a rushing stream. 2. A turbulent, swift-flowing stream. Also fig. **torrent’s.**

torrential ::: a. --> Alt. of Torrentine

torrentine ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to a torrent; having the character of a torrent; caused by a torrent .

torrent ::: n. --> A violent stream, as of water, lava, or the like; a stream suddenly raised and running rapidly, as down a precipice.
Fig.: A violent or rapid flow; a strong current; a flood; as, a torrent of vices; a torrent of eloquence.
Rolling or rushing in a rapid stream.

torrent
{BitTorrent}

torrential ::: a. --> Alt. of Torrentine

torrentine ::: a. --> Of or pertaining to a torrent; having the character of a torrent; caused by a torrent .

torrent ::: n. --> A violent stream, as of water, lava, or the like; a stream suddenly raised and running rapidly, as down a precipice.
Fig.: A violent or rapid flow; a strong current; a flood; as, a torrent of vices; a torrent of eloquence.
Rolling or rushing in a rapid stream.

torrent ::: 1. Of, or like a rushing stream. 2. A turbulent, swift-flowing stream. Also fig. **torrent’s.**


--- QUOTES [4 / 4 - 500 / 674] (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)



KEYS (10k)

   2 The Mother
   1 Sri Aurobindo
   1 Ralph Waldo Emerson

NEW FULL DB (2.4M)

   12 Anonymous
   8 Edgar Allan Poe
   6 Steven Erikson
   6 John Steinbeck
   6 Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
   6 H l ne Cixous
   6 Charlotte Bront
   5 William Shakespeare
   5 Vladimir Nabokov
   5 Roberto Bola o
   5 Ray Bradbury
   5 Paolo Cognetti
   4 Tessa Dare
   4 Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
   4 H P Lovecraft
   4 Herman Melville
   4 G K Chesterton
   4 Dhammapada
   4 Boris Pasternak
   3 Sun Tzu
   3 Stephen King
   3 Rumi
   3 Marcel Proust
   3 Jon Kabat Zinn
   3 John Ashbery
   3 Jack Kerouac
   3 Friedrich Nietzsche
   3 Emily Pauline Johnson
   3 Buddhist Texts
   3 Ben Jonson
   3 Alfred Lord Tennyson
   3 Alexander Pope
   2 Ursula K Le Guin
   2 Todd Gitlin
   2 Stephen Batchelor
   2 Samuel Johnson
   2 Rick Riordan
   2 Patti Smith
   2 Oliver Goldsmith
   2 Norbert Wiener
   2 Neal Stephenson
   2 M R Carey
   2 Marguerite Duras
   2 Marcus Aurelius
   2 Mahatma Gandhi
   2 Lisa Kleypas
   2 Kim Th y
   2 John Grisham
   2 Jean Paul Sartre
   2 James Madison
   2 James MacDonald
   2 James Allen
   2 Irvin D Yalom
   2 Honore de Balzac
   2 Homer
   2 H G Wells
   2 Hermann Hesse
   2 Henry David Thoreau
   2 Haile Selassie
   2 Gilbert K Chesterton
   2 Gautama Buddha
   2 Gabriel Garc a M rquez
   2 F Scott Fitzgerald
   2 Frithjof Schuon
   2 Ferran Torrent
   2 Ethel Lilian Voynich
   2 Edith Nesbit
   2 David Hume
   2 Cassandra Clare
   2 Carlos Ruiz Zaf n
   2 Bram Cohen
   2 A W Tozer
   2 Anthony Doerr
   2 Anna Godbersen
   2 Amy Lowell
   2 Ambrose Bierce
   2 Allen Tate

1:If anything could stand still, it would be crushed and dissipated by the torrent it resisted. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson,
2:All was gold and gold and gold, a torrent of golden light pouring down in an uninterrupted flow and bringing with it the consciousness that the path of the gods is a sunlit path in which difficulties lose all reality. Such is the path open before us if we choose to take it. ~ The Mother, Words Of The Mother II The Path of Yoga,
3:O Lord, O eternal Master, grant that all this may not be in vain, grant that the inexhaustible torrents of Thy divine Force may spread over the earth and penetrate its troubled atmosphere, the struggling energies, the violent chaos of battling elements; grant that the pure light of Thy Knowledge and the inexhaustible love of Thy Benediction may fill men's hearts, penetrate their souls, illumine their consciousness and, out of this obscurity, out of this sombre, terrible and potent darkness, bring forth the splendour of Thy majestic Presence! ~ The Mother, Prayers And Meditations ,
4:The Apsaras are the most beautiful and romantic conception on the lesser plane of Hindu mythology. From the moment that they arose out of the waters of the milky Ocean, robed in ethereal raiment and heavenly adornment, waking melody from a million lyres, the beauty and light of them has transformed the world. They crowd in the sunbeams, they flash and gleam over heaven in the lightnings, they make the azure beauty of the sky; they are the light of sunrise and sunset and the haunting voices of forest and field. They dwell too in the life of the soul; for they are the ideal pursued by the poet through his lines, by the artist shaping his soul on his canvas, by the sculptor seeking a form in the marble; for the joy of their embrace the hero flings his life into the rushing torrent of battle; the sage, musing upon God, sees the shining of their limbs and falls from his white ideal. The delight of life, the beauty of things, the attraction of sensuous beauty, this is what the mystic and romantic side of the Hindu temperament strove to express in the Apsara. The original meaning is everywhere felt as a shining background, but most in the older allegories, especially the strange and romantic legend of Pururavas as we first have it in the Brahmanas and the Vishnoupurana. ~ Sri Aurobindo,

*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:The torrent of the reaching shade ~ Allen Tate,
2:With BitTorrent, the cat's out of the bag. ~ Bram Cohen,
3:Ambition, like a torrent, never looks back. ~ Ben Jonson,
4:The joys of the evil flow away like a torrent. ~ Jean Racine,
5:Cross force-fully the torrent flood of the world. ~ Dhammapada,
6:long sweeping swathes of darkly torrential rain. ~ Iain M Banks,
7:Torrent of light and river of air, ~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,
8:FAR CRY 4 FULL UNLOCKED TORRENT RELOADED CRACK FREE DOWNLOAD ~ Fareed Zakaria,
9:Breaking some respected boundaries means a torrent of new life. ~ Nicole Mones,
10:Battle with all thy force to cross the great torrent of desire. ~ Buddhist Texts,
11:Prosperity of wicked men runs like a torrent past, and soon is spent. ~ Marcel Proust,
12:Compare the torrent and the glacier. Both get where they are going. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
13:It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet. ~ Jack Kerouac,
14:Make yourself a "capacity" and I will make myself a "torrent." ~ Saint Catherine of Siena,
15:It was roaring, sweeping, aching, bending, a torrent carrying her away. ~ Elizabeth Mckenzie,
16:A talent is formed in stillness, a character in the world's torrent. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
17:Fain would I glide down a gentle river, but I am carried away by a torrent. ~ Baron de Montesquieu,
18:Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, roll darkly down the torrent of his fate. ~ Samuel Johnson,
19:The lamp of war is kindled here, not to be extinguished but by torrents of blood. ~ Thomas Jefferson,
20:Cultivate the intelligence so that you may drink of the torrent of certitude. ~ Baha-ullah, “Tablets”,
21:A torrent of clarity streams from the mind which is purified in full of all its impurities. ~ Buddhist Texts,
22:So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,
23:Ne laissons pas le torrent de la mélancolie et de la philosophie débilitante noyer notre monde. ~ Ray Bradbury,
24:The imagination will not perform until it has been flooded by a vast torrent of reading. - 27-66 AD ~ Petronius,
25:When a being reveals his pain in such a torrent, you are bound to respect the whole of the tragedy. ~ Anne Rice,
26:...beneath torrents of spring rain, buds come to life - and we do too, beneath torments of tears... ~ John Geddes,
27:Navigation is power of a limited sort - it enables us to manage the immensity of the media torrent. ~ Todd Gitlin,
28:Talent develops in quiet, alone; character is sharpened in the torrent of the world. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
29:And what can still delight an inert stone except to become, once more, the bed of a raging torrent? ~ Julien Gracq,
30:How small these rescued tides appear! Earthly delights flow in torrents. Each object offers paradise. ~ Andr Breton,
31:How small these rescued tides appear! Earthly delights flow in torrents. Each object offers paradise. ~ Andre Breton,
32:His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it. ~ Anais Nin,
33:His life rushes onward in such torrential rhythm that...only angels and devils can catch the tempo of it. ~ Ana s Nin,
34:When my heart drank water from your fountain it drowned in you, and the torrent snatched me away. - ~ Jalaluddin Rumi,
35:nothing encourages unleashing a torrent of semen like having to fire at the same time as another male. ~ Marah J Hardt,
36:The vessel of Revolution can arrive at port only on a sea reddened by torrents of blood. ~ Louis Antoine de Saint Just,
37:He made her think of ruins, of mysterious places in shadow and darkness, of storms and torrents of rain. ~ Diana Palmer,
38:I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys of Switzerland - I mark the long winters and the isolation. ~ Walt Whitman,
39:I swam across the torrent of my madness, and pulled myself upon the shore of a new and better sanity. ~ Frances Hardinge,
40:When revival comes to the human heart, it's a torrent, it's a cascade, it's a deluge. It's a downpour! ~ James MacDonald,
41:He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet. ~ Tessa Dare,
42:I poured out the torrent of my long-standing discontent and I challenged them to do and dare anything. ~ Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
43:Jan-Fishan: Potreste seguire il torrente. Cercate di capire che conduce all’oceano. Non confondetelo con l’oceano. ~ Idries Shah,
44:And a kind of holy lightning I saw flashing from his excitement and his visions, which he described so torrentially ~ Jack Kerouac,
45:Through surrender the aspirant's ego is effaced, and . . . grace . . . pours down upon him like a torrential rain. ~ B K S Iyengar,
46:His scream was more of a roar, pouring out of him in a great torrent. Screaming for his loss, venting his pain. ~ Phillip W Simpson,
47:The world is information. An endless torrent. Whatever escapes you becomes something you will never completely understand. ~ M R Carey,
48:Those who are consecrated to Truth shall surely gain the other shore and they shall cross the torrent waves of death. ~ Buddhist Texts,
49:A torrent of language, a spring off the near-infinite stream of confessions he had harbored half his life, all of hers. ~ Anthony Doerr,
50:De torrente in via bibet, propterea exaltabit caput. Z strumienia na drodze pić będzie: dlatego wywyższy głowę. Psalm CIX. ~ Jacek Dehnel,
51:I am a railing alongside the torrent; whoever is able to grasp me may grasp
me! Your crutch, however, I am not.-- ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
52:David's life was a torrent of spiritual desire, and his psalms ring with the cry of the seeker and the glad shout of the finder. ~ A W Tozer,
53:There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed. ~ Gautama Buddha,
54:The world is information. An endless torrent. Whatever escapes you becomes something you will never completely understand. Other ~ M R Carey,
55:On rails we leaned and looked at the great brown father of waters rolling down from mid-America like the torrent of broken souls ~ Jack Kerouac,
56:That man whose mind attaches itself only to sensible objects, death carries away like a torrent dragging with it a sleeping village. ~ Dhammapada,
57:He was poured forth into a thunderous torrent of souls, ejected from the earth and any sense of order and into this other, older chaos. ~ Joe Hill,
58:Fire is bright and fire is clean. That way lies melancholy. Don't let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. ~ Ray Bradbury,
59:The Xanthus or Scamander is not a mere dry channel and bed of a mountain torrent, but fed by the ever-flowing springs of fame... ~ Henry David Thoreau,
60:If left unchecked, global change will create violent conflict, torrential storms, shrinking coastlines, and irreversible catastrophe. ~ Valerie Jarrett,
61:"There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed." ~ Teachings of the Buddha,
62:That had been an all-consuming love that had swept me up in a torrent of emotion that had been unimaginable until I'd experienced it. ~ Monica Alexander,
63:I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it—in such a way did I learn to live beside the rushing torrent if his doom. ~ Madeline Miller,
64:I was tempted to cease struggling with him - to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. ~ Charlotte Bront,
65:My small torrent of words dissipated into an elaborate sense of expanding and receding. It was my entrance into the radiance of imagination. ~ Patti Smith,
66:You must vie with time's swiftness in the speed of using it, and, as from a torrent that rushes by and will not always flow, you must drink quickly. ~ Seneca,
67:Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,
68:That man whose mind is solely attached to the objects of sense, him death drags with it as an impetuous torrent sweeps away a slumbering village. ~ Dhammapada,
69:When torrential water tosses boulders, it is because of its momentum. When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing. ~ Sun Tzu,
70:In fact man's career has been less like a mountain torrent hurtling from rock to rock, than a great sluggish river, broken very seldom by rapids. ~ Olaf Stapledon,
71:For in the very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. ~ William Shakespeare,
72:A house built on granite and strong foundations, not even the onslaught of pouring rain, gushing torrents and strong winds will be able to pull down. ~ Haile Selassie,
73:By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. ~ Henry David Thoreau,
74:Increasingly, during those classes, longings had seized me, foreign, torrential aches that overran my heart. I wanted to know things, to become someone. ~ Sue Monk Kidd,
75:In order to master the unruly torrent of life the learned man meditates, the poet quivers, and the political hero erects the fortress of his will. ~ Jose Ortega y Gasset,
76:The job of taste was to thin the insane torrent of human creativity down to manageable levels. But the job of appetite was never to be happy with taste. ~ Richard Powers,
77:When a torrent sweeps a man against a boulder, you must expect him to scream, and you need not be surprised if the scream is sometimes a theory. ~ Robert Louis Stevenson,
78:God wants sin out of your life because it's the only thing that keeps you from experiencing the torrential downpour of blessing He wants to rain upon you. ~ James MacDonald,
79:When I fully enter time’s swift current, enter into the current moment with the weight of all my attention, I slow the torrent with the weight of me all here. ~ Ann Voskamp,
80:He who would study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice. ~ Washington Irving,
81:Know that a word suddenly shot from the tongue is like an arrow shot from the bow. Son, that arrow won't turn back on its way; you must damn the torrent at its source. ~ Rumi,
82:One cannot attain divine knowledge till one gets rid of pride. Water does not stay on the top of a mound; but into low land it flows in torrents from all sides. ~ Sri Ramakrishna,
83:The world is carried away in the torrent of desire, in its eddies there is no soil of safety. Wisdom alone is a solid raft and meditation a firm foothold. ~ Fo-shu-hing-tsan king,
84:Le tumultueux torrent qui descend des montagnes va se perdre dans les ravins, mais la plus modeste goutte de rosée est aspirée par le soleil qui l'élève jusqu'aux étoiles. ~ Saadi,
85:From a distance the rushing of the torrent delights and uplifts us, but it rocks us in a flimsy boat, we are overwhelmed by despair. The same applies to danger. ~ Franz Grillparzer,
86:[…] knowing his mood was miserable from lack of sleep […], knowing he was unfair […], knowing all these things but unable to stop the dark torrent of his thoughts. ~ Steven Erikson,
87:and vaulting the rest of the torrents above to be locked behind a glassy firmament, complete with doors that opened for the moon and windows to let out the rain. ~ Rachel Held Evans,
88:When shall I be able to allay and quench The dreadful heat of suffering’s blazing fires With plenteous rains of my own bliss That pour torrential from my clouds of merit? ~ ntideva,
89:It's always hard to predict what's coming up next. My main guess is that content creators will increasingly start using BitTorrent to distribute their own work directly. ~ Bram Cohen,
90:La montagna non è solo nevi e dirupi, creste, torrenti, laghi, pascoli. La montagna è un modo di vivere la vita. Un passo davanti all'altro, silenzio tempo e misura. ~ Paolo Cognetti,
91:The collapsing of an empire. This changing word moves inexorably on. Thoughts bubble and the stiller the mind the more palpable the dazzling torrent of life becomes. ~ Stephen Batchelor,
92:The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us. ~ Paul Val ry,
93:Torrents of blood have been spilt in the world in vain attempts of the secular arm to extinguish religious discord, by proscribing all differences in religious opinions. ~ James Madison,
94:All conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But... if you leave a thing alone you leave it to a torrent of change. ~ G K Chesterton,
95:Beside him, at that very moment of existence, at the heart of a torrential downpour, he was exquisitely real, and she, too, seemed content to go on sitting there forever. ~ Anna Godbersen,
96:Guarda quel torrente, lo vedi? - disse. - Facciamo finta che l'acqua sia il tempo che scorre. Se qui dove siamo noi è il presente, da quale parte pensi che sia il futuro? ~ Paolo Cognetti,
97:I like storms. Thunder, torrential rain, puddles, wet shoes. When the clouds roll in, I get filled with this giddy expectation. Everything is more beautiful in the rain ~ Penelope Douglas,
98:The word, in the end, is the only system of encoding thoughts—the only medium—that is not fungible, that refuses to dissolve in the devouring torrent of electronic media. ~ Neal Stephenson,
99:I wish it would rain. Torrents. So hard it would cleanse me of worry and trouble; so hard it would lift the stain of death from me and carry it to the rivers and out the sea. ~ Jeff Zentner,
100:Something had changed. He had journeyed—as on rare occasions a man must—till he stood behind right and wrong. On the banks of the grey torrent of life, love is the only flower. ~ E M Forster,
101:And the Morrigan, I noted, had been right about thrice-cursed trickster gods. They were torrential fucksluices spraying their happy juices on the innocent and the damned alike. ~ Kevin Hearne,
102:But we little know until tried how much of the uncontrollable there is in us, urging across glaciers and torrents, and up dangerous heights, let the judgement forbid as it may. ~ Donald Barthelme,
103:Not satisfied with endlessly pulling drowning men from the torrents rushing past, Day went upstream to see who was throwing the poor bastards into the water in the first place—and ~ James Carroll,
104:The spirit of rebellion is present in every great city, and the great task of wise government is to keep it dormant, for if it wakes it is a torrent which no dam can hold back. ~ Giacomo Casanova,
105:Vaig entendre que només som la part insignificant d'una cadena de paradoxes. ¿O potser no és una paradoxa que allò que en diuen amor sovint acaba sent un desacord entre infeliços? ~ Ferran Torrent,
106:The material came bubbling up inside like a geyser or an oil gusher. It streamed up of its own accord, down my arm and out of my fountain pen in a torrent of six thousand words a day. ~ C S Forester,
107:Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies, Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies; The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare, And shed their substance on the floating air. ~ George Crabbe,
108:All conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you do not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it to a torrent of change. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
109:The newspaper press is a great power, but just as an unchained torrent of water submerges whole countrysides and devastates crops, even so an uncontrolled pen serves but to destroy. If ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
110:In the course of the century, so many individual decisions are made that no single one of them is ever critical. Each decision is lost in the torrent of judgments that make up a century. ~ George Friedman,
111:Para evitar el derramamiento de torrentes de sangre fue necesario derramarla un poco. La paz era necesaria, aun una paz forzosa, para que la nación tuviese tiempo de pensar y trabajar. ~ Pedro J Fern ndez,
112:The rain comes down harder as I write. It sheets off the roof in torrents. I wish it would pound against me. Pound the life from my body. The flesh from my bones. The pain from my heart. ~ Jennifer Donnelly,
113:The spirit of Greece, passing through and ascending above the world, hath so animated universal nature, that the very rocks and woods, the very torrents and wilds burst forth with it. ~ Walter Savage Landor,
114:He looked utterly bewildered. Well, what did he expect, after the power he’d given her? He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet. ~ Tessa Dare,
115:Love is neither a tale nor a game.
Love is such a powerful torrent
that no one can stand in front of it.
Love is the flame which, when it blazes,
consumes everything other than the Beloved ~ Rumi,
116:Maybe love is like rain. Sometimes gentle, sometimes torrential, flooding, eroding, joyful, steady, filling the earth, collecting in underground springs. When it rains, when we love, life grows. ~ Carol Gilligan,
117:My haptic suit did its best to simulate the sensation of torrents of falling water striking my body, but it felt more like someone pounding on my head, shoulders, and back with a bundle of sticks. ~ Ernest Cline,
118:El dragón carmesí crecía día tras día y devoraba cuanto encontraba a su paso. Los cuerpos desgarrados llovían del cielo y las llamas de su aliento fluían por las calles como un torrente de sangre. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
119:For a fraction of a second he was a yellow blossom of flame in the stream of light, and then he was one with it. All that remained of what he'd been was a wisp of steam coiling above the torrent of fire. ~ Neal Stephenson,
120:Time is a flood, an impetuous torrent which drags with it all that is born. A thing has scarcely appeared when it is carried away; another has already passed; and this other will soon fall into the gulf. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
121:Revolution does not mean torrents of blood, the taking of the Winter Palace, and so on. Revolution means a radical transformation of society's institutions. In this sense, I certainly am a revolutionary. ~ Cornelius Castoriadis,
122:Behind us I saw the water, still welling up from the tunnel, curving round in a frothing serpentine torrent to plunge down the other descending passage. For a moment we all sat there and watched, numb and exhausted. ~ Kenneth Oppel,
123:There is a kind of river of things passing into being and Time is a violent torrent. For no sooner is each seen, than it has been carried away, and another is being carried by, and that, too, will be carried away. ~ Marcus Aurelius,
124:I felt the protective dam I'd built around my heart began to crumble. I turned my eyes back to him and felt the love finally start to trickle out through the fissures. And hoped that one day it would become a torrent. ~ Lucinda Riley,
125:La musique me transporte dans un monde où la douleur ne cesse pas d'exister, mais s'élargit, se tranquillise, devient tout à la fois plus calme et plus profonde, comme un torrent qui se transforme en lac. (p. 81) ~ Marguerite Yourcenar,
126:Ser o no ser, ésa es la cuestión. ¿Cuál es más digna acción del ánimo, sufrir los tiros penetrantes de la fortuna injusta, u oponer los brazos a este torrente de calamidades, y darlas fin con atrevida resistencia? ~ William Shakespeare,
127: Vitipuration Falls
Have you ever heard the torrent of abuse
As it curses it's way to Vitipuration Falls
Through rapids vitriolic and cataracts obtuse
To it's final foul mutterings in The Bay of Catcalls
~ Anonymous,
128:The rain fluctuates between drizzle and torrential. It messes with your mind. It makes you think things will always be like this, never getting better, always letting you down right when you though the worst was over. ~ Susane Colasanti,
129:Anava enfundat en un vestit blau marí, collita Rodier, calçava sabates noves de trinca i lluïa una corbata amb dibuixos verds i vermells sobre fons blanc, que li queia com un joc de maraques en mans de Montserrat Caballé. ~ Ferran Torrent,
130:It seemed to be a makeshift replacement for love, absenting oneself from stifling atmospheres, because love basically was a torrential storm of feeling; it thrived only in partnership with laughing generosity and truthfulness. ~ Bessie Head,
131:Who of us does not recognize that the life we live, however larded with brave talk about values and thought and ideals, is not actually a life dedicated to immersion in the endless torrent of images, songs, sounds and stories? ~ Todd Gitlin,
132:waited for sleep, that gentle mockery of death, to take me. I longed for its effacing grace. But its peace eluded me, and I rose from the bed, my head pounding from the salty torrent of my tears and the ache deep in my stomach. ~ Rick Yancey,
133:Without shedding of blood there is no anything. Everything, it seems to me, has to be purchased by selfsacrifice. Our race has marked every step of its painful ascent with blood. And now torrents of it must flow again. ~ Lucy Maud Montgomery,
134:I was proceeding slowly one afternoon through torrents of rain and kept seeing that red ghost swimming and shivering with lust in my mirror, when presently the deluge dwindled to a patter, and then was suspended altogether. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
135:Images and physical sensations may deluge patients at this point, and the therapist must be familiar with ways to stem torrents of sensation and emotion to prevent them from becoming retraumatized by accessing the past. ~ Bessel A van der Kolk,
136:To be an adult was to be a river rock blasted by an endless torrent of mundane terrors — from resume formatting to electricity bills — that would inevitably smooth all my hard edges until I looked and felt just like everything else. ~ John Green,
137:Self abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, I felt the torrent come; to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. ~ Charlotte Bront,
138:Self abandoned, relaxed and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, I felt the torrent come; to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. ~ Charlotte Bronte,
139:There are some varieties of fiction that I never touch - mystery stories, for instance, which I abhor, and historical novels. I also detest the so-called "powerful" novel - full of commonplace obscenities and torrents of dialog. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
140:The strong wind cannot last the whole morning, the torrential rain cannot last all day. It is nature that causes these things, but even nature cannot cause them to go on forever. If nature cannot do this, then certainly man cannot do so. ~ Lao Tzu,
141:There is no feminine gaze that I would not forget at the sight of mountains covered with curly vegetation, and illumined by the southern sun, at the sight of the blue sky, or at the sound of a torrent that falls from crag to crag. ~ Mikhail Lermontov,
142:“This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, Rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain.” ~ Buddha,
143:There are two things that must be rooted out in human beings - arrogant opinion and mistrust. Arrogant opinion expects that there is nothing further needed, and mistrust assumes that under the torrent of circumstance there can be no happiness. ~ Epictetus,
144:My aspiration to spend time at sea as requisite literary training died long ago, as a teenager, on a white-knuckled ferry ride to Elba during a torrential rainstorm [Kushner, Rachel, Diary, London Review of Books, January 14, 2015]. ~ Rachel Kushner,
145:With a massive act of will he held himself steady, but emotions were pouring through him like a torrent. He could no longer understand why he had fought so long and so hard with his father. The disagreements seemed unimportant, even silly. ~ Herbie Brennan,
146:Nowadays, everyone—whether we’re the head of an organization or its freshest hire—faces a torrent of information. The McKinsey Global Institute estimates that the typical American hears or reads more than one hundred thousand words every day. ~ Daniel H Pink,
147:This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, Rushing by, like a torrent down a steep mountain. ~ Gautama Buddha,
148:«Webster hizo más que cualquier otro hombre en todo el país y con un mayor riesgo de popularidad personal, para detener y hacer retroceder el torrente de seccionalismo que amenazaba en 1850 con derrocar los pilares de la Constitución y la Unión». ~ Anonymous,
149:A brief note on the legend of Pandora's Box: Ever wondered why bundled in with all the torrents, and suffering of man kind the Gods put hope down there at the bottom, answer because in certain circumstances hope can be the worst torment of them all. ~ Tom Holt,
150:God’s great grace wipes out everything else on the landscape. It is not puny but plentiful. Not teeny but torrential. Not mini but majestic. It meets us right now and equips us with courage, wisdom, and strength. So hang on—the next wave is coming! ~ Max Lucado,
151:She let herself be lulled by the perfume of the words and was soon lost among them, succumbing to the torrent of images and rhythms that oozed from the story of Ariadna’s adventures and her descent into the depths of that enchanted Barcelona. ~ Carlos Ruiz Zaf n,
152:Una noche se embadurnaron de pies a cabeza con melocotones en almíbar, se lamieron como perros y se amaron como locos en el piso del corredor, y fueron despertados por un torrente de hormigas carniceras que se disponían a devorarlos vivos ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,
153:You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel—a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady ~ H G Wells,
154:You cannot imagine the craving for rest that I feel-a hunger and thirst. For six long days, since my work was done, my mind has been a whirlpool, swift, unprogressive and incessant, a torrent of thoughts leading nowhere, spinning round swift and steady. ~ H G Wells,
155:But alas, my dear child, we are the slaves of custom, the dupes of prejudice, and dare not stem the torrent of the opposing world, even though our judgments condemn our compliance! However, since the die is cast, we must endeavor to make the best of it. ~ Fanny Burney,
156:Ambition, like a torrent, ne'er looks back; And is a swelling, and the last affection A high mind can put off; being both a rebel Unto the soul and reason, and enforceth All laws, all conscience, treads upon religion, and offereth violence to nature's self. ~ Ben Jonson,
157:What is human life? A bubble on a torrent produced by the rain, which dances and balances itself gaily on the waves, full of new life. And suddenly it bursts and disappears leaving no trace to mark hereafter the place that for a few moments it had occupied. ~ Zeisho Aisuho,
158:In the context of stress, the great paradox of the modern age may be that there is not more hardship, just more news—and too much of it. The 24/7 streaming torrent of tragedy and demands flashing at us from an array of digital displays keeps the amygdala flying. ~ John J Ratey,
159:Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way! ~ Herman Melville,
160:The sign of a truly totalitarian culture is that important truths simply lack cognitive meaning and are interpretable only at the level of ‘Fuck You’, so they can then elicit a perfectly predictable torrent of abuse in response. We’ve long ago reached that level. ~ Noam Chomsky,
161:He turned his dark eyes on the girl whom he had dreamed of so often over the previous months. Beside him, at that very moment of existence, at the heart of torrential downpour, she was exquisitely real, and she, too, seemed content to go on sitting there forever. ~ Anna Godbersen,
162:Are you really reading that, or are you just trying to show off?" I asked, lowering myself into the seat.
He looked over the paper, opened his mouth, and a torrent of foreign words flew out.
"Okay, sorry, just asking. Wait, how many of those were curse words? ~ Myra McEntire,
163:The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harasses me. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
164:Ese vínculo humano esencial entre el mundo y el infinito. El único sitio donde el torrente sanguíneo toca la eternidad. Lo que importa es el amor y el deseo. Aquí en la oscuridad se puede hacer como en cualquier otra parte. Quizá mejor que en muchas otras... Así es volar ~ Stephen King,
165:That night's dream: a narrow column of dark liquid in a tall glass; a blue-black waterspout plunging from the sky; a swirl of black-fruit icing piped over a pastry hot from the oven; a long, feminine finger laid over lips; a torrent of whispers that that finger cannot hush. ~ J J Abrams,
166:I ... overflow; my desires have invented new desire, my body knows unheard-of-songs. Time and again ... I have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst - burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. ~ H l ne Cixous,
167:Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he sees you, Give you the thing he has for you? ~ John Ashbery,
168:You might discover that, nationwide, America's food banks are experiencing 'a torrent of need which [they] cannot meet' and that, according to a survey conducted by the U.S. Conference of Mayors, 67 percent of the adults requesting emergency food aid are people with jobs. ~ Barbara Ehrenreich,
169:No one ever said that making love had to be a gently-flowing river which slowly became a flood. Sometimes the raging torrent came first. As it did now, as tempers drove it and the desire to fight each other became as compelling as the desire to drown in each other‘s surging swell. ~ Michelle Reid,
170:This is that eloquence the ancients represented as lightning, bearing down every opposer; this the power which has turned whole assemblies into astonishment, admiration and awe- - that is described by the torrent, the flame, and every other instance of irresistible impetuosity. ~ Oliver Goldsmith,
171:A generation that had gone to school on a horse-drawn streetcar now stood under the open sky in a countryside in which nothing remained unchanged but the clouds, and beneath these clouds, in a field of force of destructive torrents and explosions, was the tiny, fragile human body. ~ Walter Benjamin,
172:The beauty of merism is that it's absolutely unnecessary. It's words for words' sake: a gushing torrent of invention filled with noun and noun and signifying nothing. Why a rhetorical figure that gabs on and on for no good reason should be central to the rite of marriage is beyond me. ~ Mark Forsyth,
173:PEREGRINE
It seems, Sir, you know all.

POLITICK WOULD-BE
Not all, Sir: but
I have some general notions. I do love
To note, and to observe: though I live out
From the active torrent: yet I’ll mark
The currents and the passages of things
For mine own private use. ~ Ben Jonson,
174:Here's the problem right now; the person who is savvy enough to want to have a good PC to upgrade their video card, is a person who is savvy enough to know bit torrent to know all the elements so they can pirate software. Therefore, high-end videogames are suffering very much on the PC. ~ Cliff Bleszinski,
175:It wasn't a crow from dangling head down from the the car roof and looking in at the window. It was the little gargoyle from Belgravia. When he saw my horrified expression, his catlike face twisted into a triumphant smile, and he spewed a torrent of water over the windshield. - Sapphire Blue ~ Kerstin Gier,
176:Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents,
through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you? ~ John Ashbery,
177:t’s a torrent of feeling, a simultaneous, ephemeral taste of death and bliss and my eyes close, white - hot heat flashes behind my eyelids and I have to fight the need to call out his name even as I feel us shatter together, destroyed and restored all at once and he gasps
He says, “ Juliette — ~ Tahereh Mafi,
178:It was a fresh rain-repentant afternoon, following a morning that had been sultry and torrentially wet by turns; the sort of afternoon that impels people to talk graciously of the rain as having done a lot of good, its chief merit in their eyes probably having been its recognition of the art of moderation. ~ Saki,
179:Few among men come to that other shore of deliverance; the common run of mortals only wander parallel to its bank. But those who are consecrated to Truth and live according to its Law and strive for one only end, they shall come by that other shore and they shall swim across death’s impetuous torrent. ~ Dhammapada,
180:A few little flowers will spring up briefly in the dry gulley through which torrents of water pass occasionally. But it is steady streams that bring thick and needed crops. In the agriculture of the soul that has to do with nurturing attributes, flash floods are no substitute for regular irrigation. ~ Neal A Maxwell,
181:Antoinette felt a pain in her chest that seemed to be a lump made of all the tears she had cried over the years. Where do they come from, she wondered. Is there a sac made of a thin membrane that our grief enters and becomes water, then, once filled, it finally bursts, releasing an unstoppable torrent? ~ Toni Maguire,
182:In fact, the average person online today writes more words in a year than many professional writers of the past. This torrent is unedited, unmanaged, completely bottom up. And the attention given to this immense corpus of prosumer content is significant—it was sold to advertisers for $24 billion in 2015. ~ Kevin Kelly,
183:In a bull market, one must avoid the error of the preening duck that quacks boastfully after a torrential rainstorm, thinking that its paddling skills have caused it to rise in the world. A right-thinking duck would instead compare its position after the downpour to that of the other ducks on the pond. ~ Warren Buffett,
184:...but this is the real objection to that torrent of modern talk about treating crime as disease, about making prison merely a hygienic environment like a hospital, of healing sin by slow scientific methods. The fallacy of the whole thing is that evil is a matter of active choice whereas disease is not. ~ G K Chesterton,
185:The housekeeper and her husband were both of that decent phlegmatic order of people, to whom one may at any time safely communicate a remarkable piece of news without incurring the danger of having one’s ears pierced by some shrill ejaculation, and subsequently stunned by a torrent of wordy wonderment. ~ Charlotte Bront,
186:No life’s path is bloodless. Spill that of those blocking your path. Spill your own. Struggle on, wade the growing torrent with all the frenzy that is the brutal unveiling of self-preservation. The macabre dance in the tugging currents held no artistry, and to pretend otherwise was to sink into delusion. ~ Steven Erikson,
187:the phantom of the burning house faded, I found myself screaming and struggling madly in the arms of two men, one of whom was the spy who had followed me to the tomb. Rain was pouring down in torrents, and upon the southern horizon were flashes of the lightning that had so lately passed over our heads. My ~ H P Lovecraft,
188:You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience—the pen still behind your ear, the ink stains on your fingers and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. ~ James Allen,
189:It has been an assault on her senses: smells that suddenly overpower her, and heat she can taste, thick as dust on her tongue. Not only does she feel powerless in the face of Indian bureaucracy, but as further punishment, the torrential downpours also keep them trapped inside Krishnan’s parents’ flat. ~ Shilpi Somaya Gowda,
190:I will always be there, I will say to you, the next time. Even after the door. It's neither a gift nor a promise. It's a natural phenomenon. As durable but no more so than a mountain. You can climb on me for millions of years. I am stable, etched by ravines, immobile, torn and flooded by torrential springs. ~ H l ne Cixous,
191:E diceva: siete voi di città che la chiamate natura. È così astratta nella vostra testa che è astratto pure il nome. Noi qui diciamo bosco, pascolo, torrente, roccia, cose che uno può indicare con il dito. Cose che si possono usare. Se non si possono usare, un nome non glielo diamo perché non serve a niente. ~ Paolo Cognetti,
192:Já não eram dois instrumentos que soavam, eram lúbricos gemidos e suspiros soltos em torrente, a correrem serpenteando, como cobras numa floresta incendiada; eram ais convulsos, chorados em frenesi de amor; música feita de beijos e soluços gostosos; carícia de fera, carícia de doer, fazendo estalar de gozo. ~ Alu sio Azevedo,
193:...but this is the real objection to that torrent of modern talk about treating crime as disease, about making prison merely a hygienic environment like a hospital, of healing sin by slow scientific methods. The fallacy of the whole thing is that evil is a matter of active choice whereas disease is not. ~ Gilbert K Chesterton,
194:There is a death far worse than physical death, and that is the death of the mind and soul, when, despite toiling night and day, under sweltering heat, torrential rain, blistering winds, you still cannot make enough to clothe, shelter and feed your loved ones, suffering miles away, forcibly separated from you. ~ Mark Mathabane,
195:No compact among men... can be pronounced everlasting and inviolable, and if I may so express myself, that no Wall of words, that no mound of parchment can be so formed as to stand against the sweeping torrent of boundless ambition on the one side, aided by the sapping current of corrupted morals on the other. ~ George Washington,
196:¡Cuán interesante para contemplativos solitarios que gustan de embriagarse a placer con los encantos de la naturaleza, y de recogerse en un silencio que ningún otro ruido turba más que el chillido de las águilas, el gorjeo entrecortado de algunos pájaros y el estrépito de los torrentes que caen de la montaña! ~ Jean Jacques Rousseau,
197:It’s hard to walk briskly at this time of year; the accelerating pace of unfolding spring slows my own. I repeatedly stop- to watch what’s moving. Soon the torrent of migrants will completely overwhelm my ability to keep up with all the changes. But it’s easy to revel in the exuberance and the sense of rebirth, renewal. ~ Carl Safina,
198:Ironically, even the torrent of media coverage figured as an additional reason, creating a kind of scandal fatigue as allegations surfaced, often in the form of anonymous leaks, and were initially spun by an administration under intense political heat, then dismissed as “old news” when later confirmed by hard evidence. ~ Malcolm Byrne,
199: Song
The nymph in vain bestows her pains
That seeks to thrive where Bacchus reigns;
In vain are charms, or smiles, or frowns,
All images his torrent drowns.
Flames to the head he may impart,
But makes an island of the heart,
So inaccessible and cold,
That to be his is to be old.
~ Anne Kingsmill Finch,
200: Thanksgiving
I thank thee, Earth, for water good,
The sea's great bath of buoyant green
Or the cold mountain torrent's flood,
That I may keep this body clean.
I thank thee more for goodly wine,
That wise as Omar I may be,
Or Horace when he went to dine
With Lydia or with Lalage.
~ Bliss William Carman,
201:What do I remember of that night? The night I escaped from North Korea? There are so many things that I don’t remember, that I’ve put out of my mind forever . . . But I’ll tell you what I do recall. It’s drizzling. But soon the drizzle turns to torrential rain. Sheets of rain so heavy, I’m soaked to the skin. I collapse ~ Masaji Ishikawa,
202:Mystery allows for dreams and uncertainty for romance, forgetfulness opens the door for forgiveness and even redemption. In my house the hearth is unbroken by the endless torrent of the outer world. It is, like marriage or liberty, not a thing but an action: a process we must create rather than a rock on which we may stand. ~ Nick Harkaway,
203:The torrent of verbiage comes about because professional politicians are more concerned with spin than substance, the media never cease to howl for ‘something’ to be done after every mishap, the lobbyists ensure that the small print protects the vested interests they serve, and the lawyers profit from the whole sorry mess.5 ~ Niall Ferguson,
204:How did it feel, Herald?” The memory of power ripping from her in a torrent surfaced in her mind, followed by a spike of pain as she said the power word after her incantation had paved the way. She heard the sound of Adams’ bones breaking and patted Peanut’s nose. “How did it feel?” The Herald of Atlanta smiled. “It felt good. ~ Ilona Andrews,
205:We have to make the physical music a little more valuable instead of just having a download link and a bunch of songs you downloaded from some torrent site. People try to make the music value-less, and I don't think we're going to stop that train, but the one thing that they can't devalue are things that are in the outside world. ~ Lupe Fiasco,
206:HERE THE DARKNESS REIGNS ETERNAL. There is no sun, no dawn; just the perpetual gloom of night. The only illumination comes from jagged forks of lightning, carving a wicked path through angry clouds. In their savage wake thunder shreds the sky, unleashing a torrent of hard, cold rain. The storm is coming, and there is no escape. ~ Drew Karpyshyn,
207:I stumbled away from the circle. Setne writhed and spun as all the magic he’d tried to absorb now came gushing out in a disgusting torrent. I’d heard about people ‘puking rainbows’, because they saw something that was just too cute.

Let me tell you: if you actually see someone puking rainbows … there’s nothing cute about it. ~ Rick Riordan,
208:It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton,
209:Torrents of blood have been spilt in the old world, by vain attempts of the secular arm, to extinguish Religious discord, by proscribing all difference in religious opinion. Time has at length revealed the true remedy. Every relaxation of narrow and rigorous policy, wherever it has been tried, has been found to assuage the disease. ~ James Madison,
210:she would miss something important. The letters drained her. The lyrics put her to sleep. The novels produced migraines. The poetry could not be penetrated. She wrote back twice a week, without fail, because if she neglected her youngest by even a day or so, she could expect a torrent of abuse, a four-pager or maybe a five-pager with ~ John Grisham,
211:And as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it - as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips - it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. ~ Charlotte Bront,
212:Another way to look at meditation is to view thinking itself as a waterfall, a cascading of thought. In cultivating mindfulness, we are going beyond or behind our thinking, much the way you might find a vantage point in a cave or depression in the rock behind a waterfall. We still see and hear the water, but we are out of the torrent. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,
213:It was the last time I stood beside my brother, the last time he held my flank and I his. For a time, then . . .'and his voice fell away, 'we were happy.' Though Torrent knew nothing of these Wars of Shadow, nor the other players involved, he could not but hear the sorrow in Ruin's voice, and it stung him deep inside. Fucking regrets. ~ Steven Erikson,
214:Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way! ~ Herman Melville,
215:The effects of human-induced climate change are being felt in every corner of the United States, scientists reported Tuesday, with water growing scarcer in dry regions, torrential rains increasing in wet regions, heat waves becoming more common and more severe, wildfires growing worse, and forests dying under assault from heat-loving insects. ~ Anonymous,
216:The weakest living creature, by concentrating his powers on a single object, can accomplish something. The strongest, by dispensing his over many, may fail to accomplish anything. The drop, by continually falling, bores its passage through the hardest rock. The hasty torrent rushes over it with hideous uproar, and leaves no trace behind. ~ Thomas Carlyle,
217:We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dike. Hold steady. Don’t let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don’t think you realize how important you are, we are, to our happy world as it stands now. ~ Ray Bradbury,
218:(Later in my journey I was told of an outrageous but apparently successful attempt to bring tourists to Great Nicobar. During the monsoon torrential rain comes down spectacularly. A bright Indian entrepreneur advertised a tour for rich Arabs from the arid Gulf who could sit on their hotel balcony and watch rain for a week. It was a sell-out.) ~ Michael Palin,
219:That night, the sky poured out such torrents that the city was a drum set, every surface a source of rhythms, pavements and windows and canvas awnings, street signs and parked cars, Dumpsters throbbing like tom-toms, garbage-can lids swishing as the wind swirled bursts of rain in imitation of a drummer brush-stroking the batter head of a snare. ~ Dean Koontz,
220:My eyes shifted to the trickling river. Come spring, it would be ten times as wide and just as deep. On and on it went, rushing toward the distant horizon. Like time. Like life. Sometimes gently falling from one pool into the other, other times fast and cascading, and still other times narrowing into a funnel, a torrent of knots and waves. ~ Lisa Tawn Bergren,
221:Deviarmi? Voi non potete deviarmi. La via del mio fermo proposito è segnata da rotaie di ferro per correre sulle quali il mio spirito è scanalato. Su precipizi senza fondo, attraverso i cuori infestati dalle montagne, sotto i letti dei torrenti, io mi precipito infallibilmente. Nessun ostacolo c'è, nessun gomito su questa mia strada di ferro! ~ Herman Melville,
222:seekers of free video, too. In the past year, a program called Popcorn Time has become the kinder, gentler face of piracy online, taming BitTorrent to make it far more userfriendly and less obviously sketchy. Free incarnations for PCs, phones, and tablets look pretty much like Netflix, Hulu, or Amazon Instant Video, except with vastly deeper catalogs ~ Anonymous,
223:From Kathmandu there is a road through Gorkha Country to Pokhara, in the central foothills; farther west, no roads exist at all. The road winds through steep gorges of the Trisuli River, now in torrent; dirty whitecaps filled the rapids, and the brown flood was thickened every now and again by thunderous rockslides down the walls of the ravine. ~ Peter Matthiessen,
224:of those buzzword-addicted startups are definitely not Web 2.0, while some of the applications we identified as Web 2.0, like Napster and BitTorrent, are not even properly web applications!) We began trying to tease out the principles that are demonstrated in one way or another by the success stories of web 1.0 and by the most interesting of the new ~ Tim O Reilly,
225:It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents - except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. ~ Edward Bulwer Lytton 1st Baron Lytton,
226:My response came without thinking. I made a gesture that said, I know. I believe you. And when he held out his hand to help me up the bank, I took it without flinching, as I had done once before in a torrential downpour, when that hand had been my only grip on reality in a flight from death. I trusted him. He was a Briton, and I trusted him. ~ Juliet Marillier,
227:1. From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still
From the torrent or the fountain
From the red cliff of the mountain
My heart to joy at the same tone....
And all I loved,
I Loved Alone...

২. একজন শিক্ষিত মানুষ দিয়ে কী হয় ? কিন্তু একশজন খাঁটি মানুষ দিয়ে একটা দেশ পাল্টে দেয়া যায় । - ড.মুহম্মদ জাফর ইকবাল স্যার ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
228:Another way to look at meditation is to view the process of thinking itself as a waterfall, a continual cascading of thought. In cultivating mindfulness we are going beyond or behind our thinking, much the way you might find a vantagepoint in a cave or depression in a rock behind a waterfall. We still see and hear the water, but we are out of the torrent. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,
229:Indeed, Mr. Jefferson, what could be invented to debase the ancient Christianism, which Greeks, Romans, Hebrews and Christian factions, above all the Catholics, have not fraudulently imposed upon the public? Miracles after miracles have rolled down in torrents, wave succeeding wave in the Catholic church, from the Council of Nicea, and long before, to this day. ~ John Adams,
230:Não sei do que falámos. O sol entrava pela janela e traçava uma torrente certa de luz que atravessava o ar, que iluminava pó a agitar-se e que se fixava de encontro aos mosaicos. A minha mulher, a temperar a salada, a procurar guardanapos, a correr com o prato de plástico do Simão, atravessava essa torrente de luz, desorientava o movimento do pó e sorria. ~ Jos Lu s Peixoto,
231:He calls me a whore, a slut, he says I'm his only love, and that's what he ought to say, and what you do say when you just let things says themselves, when you let the body alone, to seek and find and take what it likes, and then everything is right, and nothing's wasted, the waste is covered over and all is swept away in the torrent, in the force of desire. ~ Marguerite Duras,
232:Must it ever be thus-that the source of our happiness must also be the fountain of our misery? The full and ardent sentiment which animated my heart with the love of nature, overwhelming me with a torrent of delight, and which brought all paradise before me, has now become an insupportable torment, a demon which perpetually pursues and harrasses me. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
233:She had to assume that she was under some kind of surveillance, because that was just what national intelligence agencies did, it was axiomatic. The most common form of surveillance – because it was the least labour-intensive – was monitoring of communications and internet usage, algorithms ceaselessly winnowing a torrent of content for hotphrases and keywords. ~ Dave Hutchinson,
234:A house built on granite and strong foundations, not even the onslaught of pouring rain, gushing torrents and strong winds will be able to pull down. Some people have written the story of my life representing as truth what in fact derives from ignorance, error or envy; but they cannot shake the truth from its place, even if they attempt to make others believe it. ~ Haile Selassie,
235:Go ahead into life, full-blooded, courageous and leap for the adventure. But you must do it soon—before the summer of your youth has cooled off into caution. You are magnificently charming—and you come like a torrent. But you will be spent on the futility of little things. You are not a watercolor. You are carved out of life—and there can be no petty hesitancies about you. ~ Ruth Reichl,
236:Categories such as Category:Male reproductive system and Category:Penis show that Commons has a large quantity of images relating to human genitalia,” reads the site’s official guidelines on nudity, created in response to the near-​constant torrent of boners. “Commons does not need you to drop your pants and grab a camera.” The exhibitionists, however, seem to think otherwise. ~ Anonymous,
237:Television is a constant stream of fact, opinions, lies, moral dilemmas, plots: an infinitely complex and sophisticated torrent of information. How could it not make you cleverer? The only people who ever thought television rotted the brain and made kids dumb were those with a vested interest in other ways of learning, or those who were intellectually insecure, usually about books. ~ A A Gill,
238:Es imposible describir la ternura que he empezado a sentir por ellos: hienas, camellos y todos los demás. Hasta el oso polar, que veo tumbado sobre su costado, mordisqueando sus zarpas de doce centímetros con sus dientes de doce centímetros. El amor por estos animales me invade repentinamente, como un torrente, y se eleva dentro de mí, sólido como un obelisco y fluido como el agua. ~ Sara Gruen,
239:The pine trees were rows of knife-blades whispering: “Fall upon us!” and in the gathering darkness the torrent roared and howled, beating against its rocking prison walls with the frenzy of an everlasting despair.
“Padre!” Arthur rose, shuddering, and drew back from the precipice. “It is like hell.”
“No, my son,” Montanelli answered softly, “it is only like a human soul. ~ Ethel Lilian Voynich,
240:The pine trees were rows of knife-blades whispering: “Fall upon us!” and in the gathering darkness the torrent roared and howled, beating against its rocking prison walls with the frenzy of an everlasting despair.
“Padre!” Arthur rose, shuddering, and drew back from the precipice. “It is like hell.”
“No, my son,” Montanelli answered softly, “it is only like a human soul. ~ Ethel Lilian Voynich,
241:Aha, I thought. Even among the pandai there were frustrated musicians. Amax suddenly reminded me of my father, Zeus, when he came storming down the hallway on Mount Olympus (literally storming, with thunder, lightning, and torrential rain) and ordered me to stop playing my infernal zither music. A totally unfair demand. Everyone knows 2:00 a.m. is the optimal time to practice the zither. ~ Rick Riordan,
242:The greatest crisis of our lives is neither economic, intellectual, nor even what we usually call religious. It is a crisis of imagination. We get stuck on our paths because we are unable to reimagine our lives differently from what they are right now. We hold on desperately to the status quo, afraid that if we let go, we will be swept away by the torrential undercurrents of our emptiness. ~ Marc Gafni,
243:The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that ’round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
244:I see the regions of snow and ice, I see the sharp-eyed Samoiede and the Finn, I see the seal-seeker in his boat poising his lance, I see the Siberian on his slight-built sledge drawn by dogs, I see the porpoise-hunters, I see the whale-crews of the south Pacific and the north Atlantic, I see the cliffs, glaciers, torrents, valleys of Switzerland - I mark the long winters and the isolation. ~ James Joyce,
245:Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow: Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. ~ Alexander Pope,
246:Creativity is not a solitary movement. That is its power. Whatever is touched by it, whoever hears it, sees it, senses it, knows it, it's fed. That is why beholding someone else's creative word, images, idea, fills us up, and inspires us to our own creative work. A single creative act has the potential to feed a continent. One creative act can cause a torrent to break through stone. ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes,
247:currency, so he wouldn’t be seen as questioning American credit, but by the summer of 1779 he could no longer afford these massive losses and discontinued the practice. The previous winter Washington had been sufficiently confident of his troops to risk a six-week stay in Philadelphia, but he now felt compelled to stick close to his restive men, “to stem a torrent which seems ready to overwhelm us. ~ Ron Chernow,
248:The mind too can be imagined as a landscape, but only the minds of sages might resemble the short-grass prairie in which I played with getting lost and vanishing. The rest of us have caverns, glaciers, torrential rivers, heavy fogs, chasms that open up underfoot, even marauding wildlife bearing family names. It’s a landscape in which getting lost is easy and some regions are terrifying to visit. ~ Rebecca Solnit,
249:The Carmel is a lovely little river. It isn't very long but in its course it has everything a river should have. It ... tumbles down a while, runs through shallows, ... crackles among round boulders, wanders lazily under sycamores, spills into pools where trout live ... In the winter, it becomes a torrent, ... and in the summer it is a place for children to wade in and for fishermen to wander in. ~ John Steinbeck,
250:Muad’dib’s Jihad was less than an eye-blink in this larger movement. The Bene Gesserit swimming in this tide, that corporate entity trading in genes, was trapped in the torrent as he was. Visions of a falling moon must be measured against other legends, other visions in a universe where even the seemingly eternal stars waned, flickered, died . . . What mattered a single moon in such a universe? Far ~ Frank Herbert,
251:A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then-the glory-so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. ~ John Steinbeck,
252:felt great numbers of people on my left side relaxing the cords to such a degree, that I was able to turn upon my right, and to ease myself with making water; which I very plentifully did, to the great astonishment of the people; who, conjecturing by my motion what I was going to do, immediately opened to the right and left on that side, to avoid the torrent, which fell with such noise and violence from ~ Jonathan Swift,
253:Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you-trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and as I may say, the whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. ~ William Shakespeare,
254:In our hallway, ablaze with welcoming lights, my Lolita peeled off her sweater, shook her gemmed hair, stretched towards me two bare arms, raised one knee:

“Carry me upstairs, please. I feel sort of romantic tonight.”

It may interest physiologists to learn, at this point, that I have the ability - a most singular case, I presume - of shedding torrents of tears throughout the other tempest. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
255:The Divinity is a boundless Ocean of Bliss and Glory: Human minds are smaller streams, which, arising at first from the ocean, seek still, amid all wanderings, to return to it, and to lose themselves in that immensity of perfection. When checked in this natural course, by vice or folly, they become furious and enraged, and, swelling to a torrent, do then spread horror and devastation on the neighboring plains. ~ David Hume,
256:Then the storm came swiftly, first falling from the heavens, then doubly falling in torrents from the mountains and washing loud down the roads and stone ditches; with it came a dark, frightening sky and savage filaments of lightning and world-splitting thunder, while ragged, destroying clouds fled along past the hotel. Mountains and lake disappeared - the hotel crouched amid tumult, chaos and darkness. ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,
257:Après un premier avantage, n'allez pas vous endormir ou vouloir donner à vos troupes un repos hors de saison. Poussez votre pointe avec la même rapidité qu'un torrent qui se précipiterait de mille toises de haut. Que votre ennemi n'ait pas le temps de se reconnaître, et ne pensez à recueillir les fruits de votre victoire que lorsque sa défaite entière vous aura mis en état de le faire sûrement, avec loisir et tranquillité. ~ Sun Tzu,
258:He nodded, a torrent of emotions flooding through him at her words. They’d won the Blood Dagger and won the right to fight in the Arena of the Sej Elders. In front of all the crowds that gathered to watch the fights. Talis remembered his father’s beaming face after his older brother Xhan had won his first Blood Dagger competition. It was his turn to earn Father’s pride. He couldn’t wait to run home and tell his family. ~ John Forrester,
259:We do not need to plug a fiber optic cable into our brains in order to access the Internet. Not only can the human retina transmit data at an impressive rate of nearly 10 million bits per second, but it comes pre-packaged with a massive amount of dedicated wetware, the visual cortex, that is highly adapted to extracting meaning from this information torrent and to interfacing with other brain areas for further processing. ~ Nick Bostrom,
260:In common with Russia, American children seldom play outdoors. Russia can use the excuse of cold weather, but in the United States, the daily torrent of bad news from televisions and smartphones leads most parents to believe that murder or abduction lies at the end of their driveways. In both countries, men escape. In Russia, men disappear on fishing boats weighed down with cases of vodka. In American, men go golfing. In ~ Martin Lindstrom,
261:If you look from a distance, you observe a sea of roofs, and have no more knowledge of the dark streams of people than of denizens of some unknown ocean. But the city is always a heaving and restless place, with its own torrents and billows, its foam and spray. The sound of its streets is like the murmur from a sea shell and in the great fogs of the past the citizens believed themselves to be lying on the floor of the ocean. ~ Peter Ackroyd,
262:I wrapped my head in my arms, and let the torrent consume me. I had never let myself cry like this. I had feared that if I opened the floodgates I would drown. But as the waves crashed over me, I was not consumed, I was swept up, washed, my soul blanketed with blessed relief. Hope rose within me like a buoy. And with the hope, came peace. And the peace calmed the waters and quieted the storm, until I sat, spent, bled out, done. ~ Amy Harmon,
263:[M]an is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, in other respect is free; because, once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. The Existentialist does not believe in the power of passion. He will never agree that a sweeping passion is a ravaging torrent which fatally leads a man to certain acts and is therefore an excuse. He thinks that man is responsible for his passion. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
264:Hitler’s technique of throwing out a torrent of statistics – correct, fabricated, or embellished – to support an argument made countering it extremely difficult. Adam, struck – so he later claimed – by Hitler’s ‘lack of education (Unbildung)’, inability to confront reality, and readiness to resort to lies to get his way, retorted provocatively that if that was the case, there was little point in worrying any longer about the western ~ Ian Kershaw,
265:in the morning.” “Do oak, forget that bronze and copper crap. We buried Momma last year in oak and it was the prettiest damned thang I’d ever seen. Magargel can get one out of Tupelo in two hours. And forget the vault, too. They’re just rip-offs. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, bury ’em and let ’em rot is the only way to go. The Episcopalians do it right.” Ray was a little dazed by the torrent of advice, but was thankful nonetheless. ~ John Grisham,
266:Is it not High Time for the People of this Country explicitly to declare, whether they will be Freemen or Slaves? It is an important Question which ought to be decided. It concerns us more than any Thing in this Life. The Salvation of our Souls is interested in the Event: For wherever Tyranny is establish'd, Immorality of every Kind comes in like a Torrent. It is in the Interest of Tyrants to reduce the People to Ignorance and Vice. ~ Samuel Adams,
267:Without a physical presence on the shelves, the Kindle books seemed slightly insubstantial. There was no equivalent of the satisfying cracked spine. There was nothing to bequeath to the next generation, nothing to sell on to live a new life in someone else’s library. But at least the torrent of books that kept arriving had slowed down and there was space to walk up the stairs. I was being freed from the burden of all those bloody books. ~ Linda Grant,
268:all conservatism is based upon the idea that if you leave things alone you leave them as they are. But you do not. If you leave a thing alone you leave it to a torrent of change. If you leave a white post alone it will soon be a black post. If you particularly want it to be white you must be always painting it again; that is, you must be always having a revolution. Briefly, if you want the old white post you must have a new white post. ~ G K Chesterton,
269:So while it is true that children are exposed to more information and a greater variety of experiences than were children of the past, it does not follow that they automatically become more sophisticated. We always know much more than we understand, and with the torrent of information to which young people are exposed, the gap between knowing and understanding, between experience and learning, has become even greater than it was in the past. ~ David Elkind,
270:They tell me we're living in an information age, but none of it seems to be the information I need or brings me closer to what I want to know. In fact (I'm becoming more and more convinced) all this electronic wizardry only adds to our confusion, delivering inside scoops and verdicts about events that have hardly begun: a torrent of chatter moving at the speed of light, making it nearly impossible for any of the important things to be heard ~ Matthew Flaming,
271:Sorrow is God's plowshare that turns up and subsoils the depths of the soul, that it may yield richer harvests. If we had never fallen, or were in a glorified state, then the strong torrents of Divine joy would be the normal force to open up all our souls' capacities; but in a fallen world, sorrow, with despair taken out of it, is the chosen power to reveal ourselves to ourselves. Hence it is sorrow that makes us think deeply, long, and soberly. ~ Lettie Cowman,
272:We are tossed about by external causes in many ways, and like waves driven by contrary winds, we waver and are unconscious of the issue and our fate.' We think we are most ourselves when we are most passionate, whereas it is then we are most passive, caught in some ancestral torrent of impulse or feeling, and swept on to a precipitate reaction which meets only part of the situation because without thought only part of a situation can be perceived. ~ Will Durant,
273:Born often under another sky, placed in the middle of an always moving scene, himself driven by the irresistible torrent which draws all about him, the American has no time to tie himself to anything, he grows accustomed only to change, and ends by regarding it as the natural state of man. He feels the need of it, more he loves it; for the instability; instead of meaning disaster to him, seems to give birth only to miracles all about him. ~ Alexis de Tocqueville,
274:We are swimming upstream against a great torrent of disorganization, which tends to reduce everything to the heat death of equilibrium and sameness.… This heat death in physics has a counterpart in the ethics of Kierkegaard, who pointed out that we live in a chaotic moral universe. In this, our main obligation is to establish arbitrary enclaves of order and system.… Like the Red Queen, we cannot stay where we are without running as fast as we can. ~ James Gleick,
275:You have wondered, perhaps, why all real accountants wear hats? They are today's cowboys. As will you be. Riding the American range. Riding herd on the unending torrent of financial data. The eddies, cataracts, arranged variations, fractious minutiae. You order the data, shepherd it, direct its flow, lead it where it's needed ... You deal in facts, gentlemen, for which there has been a market since man first crept from the primeval slurry. ~ David Foster Wallace,
276:In the lacquered house the storms of life took their course quietly; nevertheless the storms of life here took their course calamitously: they did not thunder with events; they did not shine a cleansing light into the inhabitants’ hearts with arrows of lightning; but from a hoarse throat they wrung the air in a torrent of poisonous fluids; and in the consciousness of the inhabitants cerebral games swirled round, like dense gases in hermetically sealed jars. ~ Andrei Bely,
277:The important thing for you to remember, Montag, is we're the Happiness Boys, the Dixie Duo, you and I and the others. We stand against the small tide of those who want to make everyone unhappy with conflicting theory and thought. We have our fingers in the dike. Hold steady. Don't let the torrent of melancholy and drear philosophy drown our world. We depend on you. I don't think you realize how important you are, we are, to our happy world as it stands now. ~ Ray Bradbury,
278:When Thorhall heard this he was so shocked that he could not speak a word. He sprang out of bed, snatched with both hands the spear that Skarp-Hedin had given him, and drove it deep into his own leg. The flesh and core of the boil clung to the blade as he gouged it out of his leg, and a torrent of blood and matter gushed across the floor like a stream. Then he strode from the booth without a limp, walking so fast that the messenger could not keep pace with him. ~ Anonymous,
279:This is the thing: He isn't calling about his exam. I don't want to know that, but I do. He's calling to be reassured about something he can't put into words yet. I glimpsed it in him when he was young, but told myself, No, don't imagine that. Children have stages; he'll change. Then the words started running out of him in a torrent, and I knew they were being chased out by a force he couldn't see. What was I supposed to say to Margaret? That I see it in him? ~ Adam Haslett,
280:Is there a support group for people who didn’t like ‘Brokeback Mountain’? We must, if the rave reviews and the newspaper reports are to be believed, be a very tiny — not to mention vulnerable — minority. Am I dead inside because I didn’t experience the torrent of emotions I’ve been reading about? Am I as emotionally crippled as Ennis because I didn’t blub and hug after sitting through this ‘visceral’ movie, but instead wanted to go and ‘help with the roundup’? ~ Mark Simpson,
281:Arthur looked deeply into the boy’s clear blue eyes and scanned the contours of his handsome face. Arthur could hear something, faintly, in the distance. A rushing sound. A crash of water against rock. He wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but he heard it all the same. Torrents of water rushing over a cliff. He tuned his ears to the noise and recognized the tone. He steadied his hand and listened to the sound, from the back of his mind, of the Reichenbach Falls. ~ Graham Moore,
282:Google is a shape-shifter, but each shape harbors the same aim: to hunt and capture raw material. Baby, won’t you ride my car? Talk to my phone? Wear my shirt? Use my map? In all these cases the varied torrent of creative shapes is the sideshow to the main event: the continuous expansion of the extraction architecture to acquire raw material at scale to feed an expensive production process that makes prediction products that attract and retain more customers. ~ Shoshana Zuboff,
283:Existir o no existir, ésta es la cuestión. ¿Cuál es más digna acción del ánimo, sufrir los tiros penetrantes de la fortuna injusta, u oponer los brazos a este torrente de calamidades, y darlas fin con atrevida resistencia? Morir es dormir. ¿No más? ¿Y por un sueño, diremos las aflicciones se acabaron y los dolores sin número, patrimonio de nuestra débil naturaleza?... Este es un término que deberíamos solicitar con ansia. Morir es dormir... y tal vez soñar. ~ William Shakespeare,
284:Sweetie. Look at me.”

She did, but it was difficult now, when she could never remember a time she hadn’t wanted to look at his beloved face. She blinked, trying to force
the fresh torrent of tears back where they belonged. It just wasn’t possible. No, there was no emptiness now. She was bursting at the seams, overflowing.

“Don’t cry,” he said gently, swiping her cheeks with his thumbs. “You cry and I want to break something. Or someone. What is it? ~ Cherrie Lynn,
285:Where then shall Hope and Fear their objects find?
Must dull Suspense corrupt the stagnant Mind?
Must helpless Man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the Torrent of his Fate?
Must no Dislike alarm, no Wishes rise,
Nor Cries invoke the Mercies of the Skies?
Enquirer, cease, Petitions yet remain
Which Heaven may hear, nor deem Religion vain.
Still raise for Good the supplicating Voice,
But leave to Heaven the Measure and the Choice. ~ Samuel Johnson,
286:Il y a des moments rares dans l’existence où une porte s’ouvre et où la vie vous offre une rencontre que vous n’attendiez plus. Celle de l’être complémentaire qui vous accepte tel que vous êtes, qui vous prend dans votre globalité, qui devine et admet vos contradictions, vos peurs, votre ressentiment, votre colère, le torrent de boue sombre qui coule dans votre tête. Et qui l’apaise. Celui qui vous tend un miroir dans lequel vous n’avez plus peur de vous regarder. ~ Guillaume Musso,
287: Master Or Slave
Lo, this land that lifts around it
Threatening peaks, while stern seas bound it,
With cold winters, summers bleak,
Curtly smiling, never meek,
'Tis the giant we must master,
Till he work our will the faster.
He shall carry, though he clamor,
He shall haul and saw and hammer,
Turn to light the tumbling torrent,All his din and rage abhorrent
Shall, if we but do our duty,
Win for us a realm of beauty.
~ Bjornstjerne Bjornson,
288:Un discepolo va dal suo guru e gli dice che vuole la verità più di ogni altra cosa. Il maestro non risponde. Lo prende per il collo, lo trascina al vicino torrente e gli tiene la testa sott’acqua finché il poveretto sta per soffocare. All’ultimo momento lo tira fuori. «Allora, che cos’è che volevi più di ogni altra cosa quand’eri sott’acqua?» «L’aria», dice quello con un fil di voce. «Bene. Quando vorrai la verità come un momento fa volevi l’aria sarai pronto a imparare.» ~ Tiziano Terzani,
289:I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn't open my mouth, I didn't repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! ~ H l ne Cixous,
290:All rights reserved, of course, though if you really can’t afford the few dollars to pay for the book, go ahead and read it anyway; life’s too short for DRM. It would be rad if you’d tell other people about this work if you enjoy the stories, though, whether you paid or not. Let it be known that all profits from this book allow me to party like a rockstar, and if you paid for it (despite the overwhelming desire to find a torrent for it somewhere) you’re my fave. Muchas gracias. ~ Colin Wright,
291:He wanted to write urgent love letters to her all day long and crowd the endless pages with desperate, uninhibited confessions of his humble worship and need with careful instructions for administering artificial respiration. He wanted to pour out to her in torrents of self-pity all his unbearable loneliness and despair and warn her never to leave the boric acid or the aspirin in reach of the children or to cross a street against the traffic light. He did not wish to worry her. ~ Joseph Heller,
292:Menta y manzanilla. Siento el rubor subiendo por mis mejillas y me pregunto cómo no se me ha ocurrido a mí. A eso supongo el beso que cerró nuestra boda, y a partir de ese todos los que vinieron y que me pasan como un torrente por la cabeza. El día del banquete con mi padre, cuando se lanzó sobre mi boca con ferocidad, dispuesto a arrebatarme el aliento. Todos los que abandonamos en labios del otro en la torre. En aquel momento me perdí en ese sabor. Menta. Menta y manzanilla. ~ Iria G Parente,
293:The only people discussing “race” with any insight and courage are loud middle-aged white men who romanticize the Kennedys and Motown, well-read open-minded white kids like the tie-dyed familiar sitting next to me in the Free Tibet and Boba Fett T-shirt, a few freelance journalists in Detroit, and the American hikikomori who sit in their basements pounding away at their keyboards composing measured and well-thought-out responses to the endless torrent of racist online commentary. ~ Paul Beatty,
294:My small torrent of words dissipated into an elaborate sense of expanding and receding. It was my entrance into the radiance of imagination. This process was especially magnified within the fevers of influenza, measles, chickenpox, and mumps. I got them all and with each I was privileged with a new level of awareness. Lying deep within myself, the symmetry of a snowflake spinning above me, intensifying through my lids, I seized a most worthy souvenir, a shard of heaven’s kaleidoscope. ~ Patti Smith,
295:It took seconds for the deluge to wipe the battlefield clean. A few seconds more, and the city was completely enveloped. The water smothered everything that breathed. It dissolved man-made structures as if they were sand castles. The torrential wave made its way across the plain, extinguishing everything in its path. All flesh that moved on the land died, everything in whose nostrils was the breath of life died. Elohim blotted out every living thing that was on the face of the ground. ~ Brian Godawa,
296:Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench. ~ Roberto Bola o,
297:Divorce too often is the bitter fruit of anger. A man and a woman fall in love, as they say; each is wonderful in the sight of the other; they feel romantic affection for no one else; they stretch their finances to buy a diamond ring; they marry. All is bliss-that is, for a season. Then little inconsequential activities lead to criticism. Little flaws are magnified into great torrents of faultfinding; they fall apart, they separate, and then with rancor and bitterness they divorce. ~ Gordon B Hinckley,
298:That is the idea I shall try to convey when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet, in other respects is free; because, once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. The existentialist does not believe in the power of passion. He will never agree that a sweeping passion is a ravaging torrent which fatally leads a man to certain acts and is therefore an excuse. He thinks that man is responsible for his passion. ~ Jean Paul Sartre,
299:Hardy! Hardy —” He had come for me. I nearly lost it then. In the wild torrent of relief and gratitude, there were at least a dozen things I wanted to tell him at once. But the first thing that came out was a fervent, “I'm so sorry I didn't have sex with you.”

I heard his low laugh. “I am too. But honey, there are a couple of maintenance guys with me who can hear every word we're saying.”

“I don't care,” I said desperately. “Get me out of here and I swear I'll sleep with you. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
300:Insistente, reunida en alegres torrenteras, empezó a llevarse toda la miseria de nuestros días, toda la crueldad, el hambre, el delirio, la sorda y mezquina furia de los guardias. Todo se lo fue llevando la lluvia hasta que fuimos quedando sin otra cosa que nos separara del aire viajero que corre por entre las complicadas construcciones de Lecumberri, que el agua transparente que caía de lo más alto del cielo, del rincón en donde nos esperaba la libertad como una loba rabiosa que busca sus hijos. ~ lvaro Mutis,
301:David's life was a torrent of spiritual desire, and his psalms ring with the cry of the seeker and the glad shout of the finder. Paul confessed the mainspring of his life to be his burning desire after Christ. "That I may know Him," was the goal of his heart, and to this he sacrificed everything. "Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but refuse, that I may win Christ. ~ A W Tozer,
302:Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,
303:Of four infernal rivers that disgorge/ Into the burning Lake their baleful streams;/Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,/Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;/Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud/ Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon/ Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage./ Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/ Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks,/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/ Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain. ~ John Milton,
304:She thought soon all the land would sound like nothing, and no one would know it had once made sounds, that small civilizations had thrived in the grass. It would never register with life again. And what was coming? Concrete. Glassed fronts and sale signs and cash registers. And with it all, people in a torrential surge, carnivorous men and women looking to smear their skin with colors and creams, to bleach their hair, to shave their hides, to cinch themselves breathless in order to think themselves beautiful. ~ C E Morgan,
305:La insulina es un regulador clave del metabolismo energético, y constituye una de las hormonas fundamentales que promueven la acumulación y el almacenamiento de grasa. Facilita que las células absorban la glucosa para obtener energía. Si no producimos la suficiente insulina, la glucosa se acumula en el torrente sanguíneo. La diabetes tipo 1 es el resultado de la destrucción autoinmune de las células productoras de insulina en el páncreas, lo que da como resultado unos niveles de esta hormona extremadamente bajos. ~ Jason Fung,
306:One preacher described it as if you and I were standing a short hundred yards away from a dam of water ten thousand miles high and ten thousand miles wide. All of a sudden that dam was breached, and a torrential flood of water came crashing toward us. Right before it reached our feet, the ground in front of us opened up and swallowed it all. At the Cross, Christ drank the full cup of the wrath of God, and when he had downed the last drop, he turned the cup over and cried out, “It is finished.” This is the gospel. ~ David Platt,
307:Nous sommes les joyeux drilles, les boute-en-train, toi, moi et les autres. Nous faisons front contre la marée de ceux qui veulent plonger le monde dans la désolation en suscitant le conflit entre la théorie et la pensée. Nous avons les doigts accrochés au parapet. Tenons bon. Ne laissons pas le torrent de la mélancolie et de la triste philosophie noyer notre monde. Nous comptons sur toi. Je ne crois pas que tu te rendes compte de ton importance, de notre importance pour protéger l'optimisme de notre monde actuel. ~ Ray Bradbury,
308:...trust in Creation which is made fresh daily and doesn’t suffer in translation. This God does not work in especially mysterious ways. The sun here rises and sets at six exactly. A caterpillar becomes a butterfly. A bird raises its brood in the forest and a greenheart tree will only grow from a greenheart seed. He brings drought sometimes followed by torrential rains and if these things aren’t always what I had in mind, they aren’t my punishment either. They’re rewards, let’s say for the patience of a seed. ~ Barbara Kingsolver,
309:My grandmother, in all weathers, even when the rain was coming down in torrents and Françoise had rushed indoors with the precious wicker armchairs, so that they should not get soaked—you would see my grandmother pacing the deserted garden, lashed by the storm, pushing back her grey hair in disorder so that her brows might be more free to imbibe the life-giving draughts of wind and rain. She would say, “At last one can breathe!” and would run up and down the soaking paths—too straight and symmetrical for her liking. ~ Marcel Proust,
310:What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench. ~ Roberto Bola o,
311:It was as if the curtains came down on all this, if not entirely obliterated it, when the monsoon rose up in the thunderous clouds from the parched valley below to engulf the hills, invade them with the opaque mist in which a pine tree or a mountain top appeared only intermittently, and then unleashed a downpour that brought Ravi's rambling to a halt and confined him to the house for days at a time, deafened by the rain drumming on the rooftop and cascading down the gutters and through the spouts to rush downhill in torrents. ~ Anita Desai,
312:What a sad paradox, though Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze the path into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench. ~ Roberto Bola o,
313:This dim coolness of my room was to the broad daylight of the street what the shadow is to the sunbeam, that is to say equally luminous, and presented to my imagination the entire panorama of summer, which my senses, if I had been out walking, could have tasted and enjoyed only piecemeal; and so it was quite in harmony with my state of repose which (thanks to the enlivening adventures related in my books) sustained, like a hand reposing motionless in a stream of running water, the shock and animation of a torrent of activity. ~ Marcel Proust,
314:[Fire] is lightfooted and shamanic, dancing between the visible and invisible, undoing matter one collapsed molecule at a time, wreaking utter destruction with a touch softer than breath. Its poor cousins, wind and water, are one-dimensional rubes by comparison. Wind is all push, push, push. Water is suffocating, but passively so. And even when water gets it together to be a torrent or a tsunami, it is but wet wind. Fire is at once elemental and otherworldly. Fire dances on the grave of all it destroys. Fire is serious voodoo. ~ Michael Perry,
315:I often joke with my audiences that I make most of my income on a ski pole. People smile but they get my point. You need to make time for your genius to flow. We get our creative bursts, those idea torrents that take our business and personal lives to the next level, while we are skiing or drinking coffee in a Starbucks or walking in the woods or meditation with a sunrise. Those pursuits are not a waste of time. Creativity comes when you are relaxed, happy and enjoying the moment. And when it comes, it brings ideas that rock your world. ~ Robin Sharma,
316:While it is easy to become paralyzed by the world's suffering and the inequalities created by corruption and greed, we actually hold immense power for change, simply by virtue of our wealth and economic independence. Because we decide where our dollars go. Never has so much wealth been so concentrated; our prosperity is unprecedented. If enough of us decided to share, we would unleash a torrent of justice to sweep away disparity, extreme poverty, and hopelessness. The world is waiting. Our kids are watching. Time is wasting. Are we willing? ~ Jen Hatmaker,
317:The two forces met with a fearful din of spears and bossed shields, clashing in a fierce and furious melees of bronze-breasted fighters. And there the screams of the dying were mingled with cries of triumph s blood flowed over the earth. As when two winter torrents flow down from great mountain springs to mingle their turbulent floods; where the two streams meet and thunder on down a deep gorge, and the shepherd far off in the mountains hears the roar, so now as the two armies clashed in the fury of battle a terrible roar of toil and shouting arose. ~ Homer,
318:History, she realized, was mostly lost. No matter how diligent the recorders, the witnesses, the researchers, most of the past simply no longer existed. Would never be known. The notion seemed to empty her out somewhere deep inside, as if the very knowledge of loss somehow released a torrent of extinction within her own memories-moments swirling away, never to be retrieved. She set a finger in one groove etched into the stone, followed its serpentine track downward as far as she could reach, then back up again. The first to do so in how long? ~ Steven Erikson,
319:De repente, foi como se ela estivesse na sala ao lado e ele tivesse acabado de sair de junto dela. Sentiu um formigueiro nas mãos, como se lhe tivesse tocado. E a sensação de perda, que durante tanto tempo contivera dentro do si, jorrou em torrente, engoliu-o e ele deixou-se arrastar, sem se debater; não se queria salvar. Depois, sorriu com ternura, como que perante uma recordação. Pensou que tinha quase sessenta anos e que devia estar para lá da força de uma tal paixão, de um tal amor.
Mas não estava, sabia que não estava e que nunca estaria. ~ John Williams,
320:Those who applaud social production and networked amateurism, the colorful cacophony that is the Internet, and the creative capacities of everyday people to produce entertaining and enlightening things online, are right to marvel. There is amazing inventiveness, boundless talent and ability, and overwhelming generosity on display. Where they go wrong is thinking that the Internet is an egalitarian, let alone revolutionary, platform for our self-expression and development, that being able to shout into the digital torrent is adequate for democracy. ~ Astra Taylor,
321:The torrent, swollen by the melting snow, plunges into a tremendous abyss, from which the spray rolls up like the smoke from a burning house. The shaft into which the river hurls itself is an immense chasm, lined by glistening coal-black rock, and narrowing into a creaming, boiling pit of incalculable depth, which brims over and shoots the stream onward over its jagged lip. The long sweep of green water roaring forever down, and the thick flickering curtain of spray hissing forever upward, turn a man giddy with their constant whirl and clamor. ~ Arthur Conan Doyle,
322:Secession, Pickering believed, could be the one way “to resist the torrent” of Jefferson’s government.42 Massachusetts was thought to be the most likely leader. If she went, then Connecticut would, followed by New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont. If New York were convinced it would be the center of the new nation, she would surely join, he said, which could, in turn, bring along New Jersey and Pennsylvania east of the Susquehanna. And Britain—Britain would probably agree to let parts of its North America holdings join forces with a northern union. ~ Jon Meacham,
323:I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion, which represented the state of departed souls in such a light,as would render it eligible for human kind, that there should be such a state. These fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. For as death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event is so shocking to nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions which lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea of Cerberus and Furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone. ~ David Hume,
324:Shreiking, slithering, torrential shadows of red viscous madness chasing one another through endless, ensanguinated condors of purple fulgurous sky... formless phantasms and kalaidoscopic mutations of a ghoulish, remembered scene; forests of monstrous over-nourished oaks with serpent roots twisting and sucking unnamable juices from an earth verminous with millions of cannibal devils; mound-like tentacles groping from underground nuclei of polypous perversion... insane lightning over malignant ivied walls and demon arcades choked with fungous vegetation... ~ H P Lovecraft,
325:Life is like a flood. Life is like a stream. Life is like the little drops of rain water that fall from the roof and come together to meander its way in turbulence and in torrent without order or border moving to wherever it faces. When we build the tunnels; when we build the gutters; when we show the paths which it must take and to where it must go, it moves within boundaries to a definite direction and destination. A life without boundaries, a life without a definite destination, a life without orderliness, is indeed a life in wander. Just ponder! ~ Ernest Agyemang Yeboah,
326:Yes, great God, these torrents of tears which flow down from my eyes announce thy divine presence in my soul. This heart hitherto so dry, so arid, so hard; this rock which thou hast struck a second time, will not resist thee any longer, for out of it there now gushes healthful waters in abundance. The selfsame voice of God which overturns the mountains, thunders, lightens, and divides the heaven above, now commands the clouds to pour forth showers of blessings, changing the desert of his soul into a field producing a hundredfold; that voice I hear. ~ Jean Baptiste Massillon,
327: The Bird And The Hour
The sun looks over a little hill
And floods the valley with goldA torrent of gold;
And the hither field is green and still;
Beyond it a cloud outrolled,
Is glowing molten and bright;
And soon the hill, and the valley and all,
With a quiet fall,
Shall be gathered into the night.
And yet a moment more,
Out of the silent wood,
As if from the closing door
Of another world and another lovelier mood,
Hear'st thou the hermit pourSo sweet! so magical!His golden music, ghostly beautiful.
~ Archibald Lampman,
328:The night was blustery and raw, with a chill wet wind blowing down the avenues, and when Rose and I met Françoise and her son and a friend at La Lorraine, a glittering brassiere not far from L'Étoile, rain was descending from the heavens in torrents. Someone in the group, sensing my state of mind, apologized for the evil night, but I recall thinking that even if this were one of those warmly scented and passionate evenings for which Paris is celebrated I would respond like the zombie I had become. The weather of depression is unmodulated, its light a brownout. ~ William Styron,
329:Ah, seja como fôr, seja para onde fôr, partir!
Largar por aí fora, pelas ondas, pelo perigo, pelo mar,
Ir para Longe, ir para Fóra, para a Distância Abstrata,
Indefinidamente, pelas noites misteriosas e fundas,
Levado, como a poeira, plos ventos, plos vendavais!
Ir, ir, ir, ir de vez!
Todo o meu sangue raiva por asas!
Todo o meu corpo atira-se para a frente!
Galgo pla minha imaginação fora em torrentes!
Atropelo-me, fujo, precipito me!...
Estoiram em espuma as minhas ânsias
E a minha carne é uma onda dando de encontro a rochêdos! ~ lvaro de Campos,
330:There was a hubbub in Billy's head all night. He would hardly call so raging and discombobulated a torrent of images a dream. Call it a vomit, call it a gush.

He was back in the water, not braving but frowning, synchronised swimming, not swimming but sinking, toward the godsquid he knew was there, a tentacular fleshscape and the moon-sized eye that he never saw but knew, as if the core of the fucking planet was not searing metal but mollusc, as if what we fall toward when we fall, what the apple was heading for when Newton's head got in the way, was kraken. ~ China Mi ville,
331:And it's a preference, a long-held preference, what you might call a 'habit of mind'—putting words into other people's mouths. And those people are played by people whose profession is to pretend to be other people. For which purpose, they adopt gestures, voices, intonations, even sexual attitudes not their own. On stage, they affect to be ravished and amused by someone whom they will, afterwards, run a mile to avoid having dinner with. Likewise, they spit torrents of abuse against an actor who later, later, in the softness of the night, they will share their bed with. ~ David Hare,
332:Everything becomes agitated. Ideas quick-march into motion like battalions of a grand army to its legendary fighting ground, and the battle rages. Memories charge in, bright flags on high; the cavalry of metaphor deploys with a magnificent gallop; the artillery of logic rushes up with clattering wagons and cartridges; on imagination's orders, sharpshooters sight and fire; forms and shapes and characters rear up; the paper is spread with ink - for the nightly labor begins and ends with torrents of this black water, as a battle opens and concludes with black powder. ~ Honore de Balzac,
333:What is necessary beforehand. – A man who is not willing to become master over his wrath, his gall and a vengefulness, and his lust, and who tries to become master in anything else, is as stupid as the farmer who lays out his field beside a torrential stream without protecting himself from it…
This most shortsighted and pernicious way of thinking wants to make the great sources of energy, those wild torrents of the soul that often stream forth so dangerously and overwhelmingly, dry up altogether, instead of taking their power into service and economizing it. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
334:Chère Amy Winehouse,

[...] Quand ton premier album est sorti, tu avais encore l'air innocente, tu étais une jolie fille qui, dans les interviews, disait se trouver laide. Mais, à ton deuxième disque, on aurait dit que tu t'étais inventée un nouveau personnage. Tu montais sur scène dans ta petite robe, en sirotant un verre, avec ta grosse choucroute sur la tête et tes yeux maquillés à la Cléopâtre, et tu chantais d'une voix qui tombait comme un torrent de ton corps frêle. Tu portais tes vêtements comme une armure, mais, dans tes chansons, tu te livrais totalement. ~ Ava Dellaira,
335:Me paro a contemplar con creciente fascinación la catarata que atraviesa rápida el desfiladero. De salto en salto, forma ahora mil remolinos y luego se derrama en mil torrentes que borbotean lanzando al aire su espuma que cae sobre más espuma. Aprovechando esta caída, se tensa en bóveda, magnífico, el cambiante y permanente arco iris, tan pronto nítido como difuminado en el aire, que va difundiendo una lluvia fresca y olorosa. Con él se simboliza el esfuerzo del hombre. Reflexiona sobre este y comprenderás que en el colorido reflejo de la luz está la vida. ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
336:Justamente sempre acontecia uma pequena coisa que a desviava da torrente principal. Era tão vulnerável. Odiava-se por isso? Não, odiar-se-ia mais se já fosse um tronco imutável até a morte, apenas capaz de dar frutos mas não de crescer dentro de si mesma. Desejava ainda mais: renascer sempre, cortar tudo o que aprendera, o que vira, e inaugurar-se num terreno novo onde todo pequeno ato tivesse um significado, onde o ar fosse respirado como da primeira vez. Tinha a sensação de que a vida corria espessa e vagarosa dentro dela, borbulhando como um quente lençol de lavas. ~ Clarice Lispector,
337:Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. Pursuing these reflections, I thought that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to corruption. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,
338:I know. And I couldn't wait any longer, I have to tell you - "
The panic rises, and I grip the French band tighter. "Cricket, please -"
But his words pour forth in a torrent. "I can't stop thinking about you, and I'm not the guy I used to be, I've changed -"
"Cricket -" I look back up, feeling faint.
His blue eyes are bright. Sincere. Desperate. "Go out with me tonight. Tomorrow night, every ni -" The words cut off in his throat as he sees something behind me.
Cigarettes and spearmint. I want to die.
"This is Max. My boyfriend. Max, this is Cricket Bell. ~ Stephanie Perkins,
339:I am above the forest region, amongst grand rocks & such a torrent as you see in Salvator Rosa's paintings vegetation all a scrub of rhodods. with Pines below me as thick & bad to get through as our Fuegian Fagi on the hill tops, & except the towering peaks of P. S. that, here shoot up on all hands there is little difference in the mt scenery—here however the blaze of Rhod. flowers and various colored jungle proclaims a differently constituted region in a naturalists eye & twenty species here, to one there, always are asking me the vexed question, where do we come from? ~ Joseph Dalton Hooker,
340:The Founding Fathers of the United States understood the risk of tribal religious conflict very well. George Washington observed, “Of all the animosities which have existed among mankind those which are caused by difference of sentiments in religion appear to be the most inveterate and distressing and ought most to be deprecated.” James Madison agreed, noting the “torrents of blood” that result from religious competition. John Adams insisted that “the government of the United States is not in any sense founded on the Christian religion.” America has slipped a bit since then. ~ Edward O Wilson,
341:The leaves streamed down, trembling in the sun. They were not green, only a few, scattered through the torrent, stood out in single drops of green so bright and pure that it hurt the eyes; the rest were not a color, but a light, the substance of fire on metal, living sparks without edges. And it looked as if the forest were a spread of light boiling slowly to produce this color, the green rising in small bubbles, the condensed essence of spring. The trees met, blending over the road and the spots of sun on the ground moved with the shifting of the branches, like a conscious caress. ~ Ayn Rand,
342:This coffee falls into your stomach, and straightway there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move like the battalions of the Grand Army on the battlefield, and the battle takes place. Things remembered arrive at full gallop, ensign to the wind. The light cavalry of comparisons deliver a magnificent deploying charge, the artillery of logic hurry up with their train and ammunition, the shafts of wit start up like sharpshooters. Similes arise, the paper is covered with ink; for the struggle commences and is concluded with torrents of black water, just as a battle with powder. ~ Honor de Balzac,
343:This coffee falls into your stomach, and straightway there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move like the battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield, and the battle takes place. Things remembered arrive at full gallop, ensuing to the wind. The light cavalry of comparisons deliver a magnificent deploying charge, the artillery of logic hurry up with their train and ammunition, the shafts of with start up like sharpshooters. Similes arise, the paper is covered with ink; for the struggle commences and is concluded with torrents of black water, just as a battle with powder. ~ Honore de Balzac,
344:Only two. Practically an innocent. So unlike all the men she'd known, and he must have known it. And yet the thoughts swelled and crashed and swelled again, a torrent of unprecedented jealousy, raw and unfamiliar: Who? Who knows how it feels to be covered by your body? Who knows the taste of your mouth, the feel of you inside her? Who has tangled her bare legs with yours, seen your eyelashes against your cheek while you sleep, your hair smashed across the pillow, knows the scrape of your morning beard against her cheek?
What are you like when you lose control, Reverend Sylvaine? ~ Julie Anne Long,
345:There was a time in our lives when we were so close that nothing seemed to obstruct our friendship and brotherhood, and only a small footbridge separated us. Just as you were about to step on it, I asked you "Do you want to cross the footbridge to me?" - Immediately you did not want to anymore; and when I asked you again you remained silent. Since then mountains and torrential rivers and whatever separates and alienates have been cast between us, and even if we wanted to get together, we couldn't. But when you now think of that little footbridge, words fail you and you sob and marvel. ~ Irvin D Yalom,
346:Igual que bajo la tormenta la oscura tierra se empapa entera el día otoñal en que con insuperable violencia vierte el agua Zeus para manifestar su ira, rencoroso contra los hombres que en la plaza dictan sentencias torcidas abusando de su poder y destierran la justicia sin ningún miramiento por los dioses; los cauces de todos sus ríos se desbordan, los torrentes hienden entonces barrancos en muchas colinas y en la ondulante costa se precipitan con grandes clamores desde la cima de los montes, anegando las labores de las gentes;
tan grandes eran los clamores de las yeguas troyanas al correr. ~ Homer,
347:I turned and held the blade above us all as an ineffective shield.
The bloodstain on the ceiling now spread almost wall to wall; in our corner, a single triangle of clean space remained. Elsewhere torrents of blood fell in curtains, roaring, driving, gusting like rain waves in a thunderstorm. The floor was awash. It pooled between the floorboards and lashed up against the wainscoting. The chandelier dripped with it: the crystals shone red. Now I knew why the chamber was without furniture of any kind, why it had been deserted for so many years. Now I knew why it had the name it did. ~ Jonathan Stroud,
348:He must be always on his guard and devote every minute and module of life to the decoding of the undulation of things. The very air he exhales is indexed and filed away. If only the interest he provokes were limited to his immediate surroundings, but, alas, it is not! With distance, the torrents of wild scandal increase in volume and volubility. The silhouettes of his blood corpuscles, magnified a million times, flit over vast plains; and still farther away, great mountains of unbearable solidity and height sum up, in terms of granite and groaning firs, the ultimate truth of his being. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
349:I will insist you be man enough to take it. I won’t have you making light of my feelings, or making light of yourself—as if you’re not worthy of them. Because you are worthy, Colin. You’re a generous, good-hearted person, and you deserve to be loved. Deeply, truly, well, and often.”

He looked utterly bewildered. Well, what did he expect, after the power he’d given her? He couldn’t compare a woman to a torrentially beautiful monsoon, and then look surprised that he’d gotten wet. “You reckless man.” She laid a touch to his cheek. “You really should be more careful with those compliments. ~ Tessa Dare,
350:February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels To where the ink and all you grieving Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more true The poetry that sobs its heart out. ~ Boris Pasternak,
351:Ascoltavo la mia prof preferita, quella di lettere. Stava spiegando che non si dice ma però, e neanche ma d'altra parte. Sono pleonasmi, allungano il discorso, e continuava a parlare, parlare e io pensavo che aveva ragione, ma però d'altra parte contemporaneamente d'altronde, per spiegarci di non farla lunga la stava facendo lunghissima, ma però non se ne accorgeva.
E ci sono periodi molto maperò nella vita. Il fiume degli eventi ristagna e non si sa quale direzione prenderà, e andiamo alla deriva in acque torbide. Poi l'acqua diventa limpida, il torrente scorre, e tutto torna trasparente. ~ Stefano Benni,
352:Maybe I'd never see him again... maybe he'd gone for good... swallowed up, body and soul, in the kind of stories you hear about... Ah, it's an awful thing... and being young doesn't help any... when you notice for the first time... the way you lose people as you go along ... the buddies you'll never see again... never again... when you notice that they've disappeared like dreams... that it's all over... finished... that you too will get lost someday... a long way off but inevitably... in the awful torrent of things and people... of the days and shapes... that pass... that never stop. ~ Louis Ferdinand Celine,
353: Storm, Momentary, Forever
Then summer said goodbye
to the station. Lifting its cap,
the thunder took souvenirs,
hundreds of shots on the fly.
The lilac went black. And that
instant, gathering whole armfuls
of lightning, the far clearing lit
the white station-master’s shack.
And when the whole roof ran
with a fierce torrent of malice,
and, like charcoal onto a sketch,
the rain crashed down on the fence,
consciousness started to flash,
here, it seems, flooding in play
even the corners of mind
where it’s always bright as day.
~ Boris Pasternak,
354:In young beings there is something wild, ungovernable, uncultured, which first has to be tamed. It is like a dangerous flame that has to be controlled or it will destroy. Natural man is unpredictable, opaque, dangerous, like a torrent cascading out of uncharted mountains. At the start, his soul is a jungle without paths or order. And, like a jungle, it must first be cleared and its growth thwarted. Thus it is the school's task to subdue and control man with force and make him a useful member of society, to kindle those qualities in him whose development will bring him to triumphant completion. ~ Hermann Hesse,
355:Maybe I'd never see him again... maybe he'd gone for good... swallowed up, body and soul, in the kind of stories you hear about... Ah, it's an awful thing... and being young doesn't help any... when you notice for the first time... the way you lose people as you go along ... the buddies you'll never see again... never again... when you notice that they've disappeared like dreams... that it's all over... finished... that you too will get lost someday... a long way off but inevitably... in the awful torrent of things and people... of the days and shapes... that pass... that never stop... ~ Louis Ferdinand C line,
356:Some children are born seeking God outside themselves, and it is a lifelong quest, but one that can never be fulfilled, so that they are often left, in the end, sitting among the remnants of the things they have accumulated, and love is not one of them.
Yet other children - born in awe of the roaring torrents of their own arteries, the wide deserts of their skins, the uncharted forests of their silken hair, and the craggy mountains of their own knees, knuckles, and toes - sense instinctively from birth that the Creator is within, that in the hidden depths of movement lies the secret of existence. ~ Alan Bradley,
357:I did not think you would be angry, Jem burst out, and it was like ice cracking across a frozen waterfall, freeing a torrent. We were engaged, Tessa. A proposal-an offer of marriage-is a promise. A promise to love and care for someone always. I did not mean to break mine to you. But it was that or die. I wanted to wait, to be married to you and live wit you for years, but that wasn't possible. I was dying too fast. I would have given it up-all of it up-to be married to you for a day. A day that would never have come. You are a reminder-a reminder of everything I am losing. The life I will not have. ~ Cassandra Clare,
358:If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through the shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,
359:Yes sir,” Tink said from behind Podo. “Help yer sister with her things, then have yer bow and arrow ready. You ride on Nugget with her and shoot at anything you’re sure you can hit. Be sure, understand? Arrows are precious.” “Yes,” said a papery voice just above them. “Arrows are precious. But they’ll do the Igibys no good, I’m afraid.” Zouzab Koit perched high in the overstory and looked down on them with an expressionless face. Oskar sputtered, so enraged that he could think of no one to quote. “You!” shouted Podo, his face already reddening for the torrent of curses about to burst from his mouth. ~ Andrew Peterson,
360:If you fell outward to the limit of the universe, would you find a board fence and signs reading DEAD END? No. You might find something hard and rounded, as the chick must see the egg from the inside. And if you should peck through that shell (or find a door), what great and torrential light might shine through your opening at the end of space? Might you look through and discover our entire universe is but part of one atom on a blade of grass? Might you be forced to think that by burning a twig you incinerate an eternity of eternities? That existence rises not to one infinite but to an infinity of them? ~ Stephen King,
361:Like a wind, like a storm, like a fire, like an earthquake, like a mud slide, like a deluge, like a tree falling, a torrent roaring, an ice floe breaking, like a tidal wave, like a shipwreak, like an explosion, like a lid blown off, like a consuming fire, like spreading blight, like a sky darkening, a bridge collapsing, a hole opening. Like a volcano erupting.

Surely more than just the actions of people: choosing, yielding, braving, lying, understanding, being right, being deceived, being consistent, being visionary, being reckless, being cruel, being mistaken, being original, being afraid . . . ~ Susan Sontag,
362:Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism, once said, This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds. To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the move-ments of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, Rushing by like a torrent down a steep mountain. We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring, lightheart-edness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other. And then this moment will have been worthwhile. ~ Anonymous,
363:10.  In battle, there are not more than two methods of attack—the direct and the indirect; yet these two in combination give rise to an endless series of maneuvers. 11.  The direct and the indirect lead on to each other in turn. It is like moving in a circle—you never come to an end. Who can exhaust the possibilities of their combination? 12.  The onset of troops is like the rush of a torrent which will even roll stones along in its course. 13.  The quality of decision is like the well-timed swoop of a falcon which enables it to strike and destroy its victim. [The Chinese here is tricky and a certain key word in ~ Sun Tzu,
364: When You Were Reading Those Tormented Lines
When you were reading those tormented lines
In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams
And passion's fatal torrents rear up,Didn't you recall a single thing?
I can't believe it! That night on the steppe
When, in the midnight mist a premature dawn,
Transparent, lovely as a miracle,
Broke in the distance before you
And your unwilling eye was to this beauty drawn
To that majestic glow beyond the realm of darkness,How could it be that nothing whispered to you then:
A man has perished in that fire!
~ Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet,
365:My pain builds like storm clouds―massive, dark, and heavy with teardrops. Moisture falls torrential as if my world is a violent, eternal downpour; however, at long last the source runs dry and the bitter storm does cease. Blue skies dare to glow where the gloom has dissipated. I breathe it in, hoping to cleanse my inner soul. A laden heart tells me the truth: the clear sky is an illusion. Old pain rushes back like a flood, providing means for clouds to form and expand once again until it is too much to bear and the heaviness turns to rain. I cannot find refuge from this woe. It is my never-ending heartache. ~ Richelle E Goodrich,
366: At Crow's Nest Pass
At Crow's Nest Pass the mountains rend
Themselves apart, the rivers wend
A lawless course about their feet,
And breaking into torrents beat
In useless fury where they blend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
The nesting eagle, wise, discreet,
Wings up the gorge's lone retreat
And makes some barren crag her friend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
Uncertain clouds, half-high, suspend
Their shifting vapours, and contend
With rocks that suffer not defeat;
And snows, and suns, and mad winds meet
To battle where the cliffs defend
At Crow's Nest Pass.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
367:breathed breakfast Madeira in my face. “Charlot, he has robbed me!” I looked at her blankly; not breathing until she removed her face from mine, and sank back onto the velvet cushions. “I have married a thief!” Madame clutched her reticule to her bosom as though I had designs on one or the other, and in a torrent of Frenchified English told me how she had owned stock in a toll-bridge near Hartford. During the first raptures of their honeymoon in the house of Governor Edwards, the Colonel persuaded her to sell the stock. So trusting, so loving, so secure in her new place as the bride of a former vice-president, Madame ~ Gore Vidal,
368:If a choreographer had been underneath the plastic sheet on a rainy day or night, he would certainly have reproduced the scene: twenty-five people, short and tall, on their feet, each holding a tin can to collect the water that dripped off the roof, sometimes in torrents, sometimes drop by drop. If a musician had been there, he would have heard the orchestration of all that water striking the sides of the tins. If a filmmaker had been there, he would have captured the beauty of the silent and spontaneous complicity between wretched people. But there was only us, standing on a floor that was slowly sinking into the clay. ~ Kim Th y,
369:But for the man who watches the leaves trembling in the wind’s breath, the rivers meandering through the meadows, life twisting and turning and swirling through things, men living, doing good and evil, the sea rolling its waves and the sky with its expanse of lights, and who asks himself why these leaves are there, why the water flows, why life itself is such a terrible torrent plunging towards the boundless ocean of death in which it will lose itself, why men walk about, labor like ants, why the tempest, why the sky so pure and the earth so foul – these questions lead to a darkness from which there is no way out. ~ Gustave Flaubert,
370:I wished that that woman would write and proclaim this unique empire so that other women, other unacknowledged sovereigns, might exclaim: I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn't open my
mouth, I didn't repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are
mad! ~ H l ne Cixous,
371:My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim around me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried up bed of a great river: I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life like within me- a remembrance of God: it be got an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy found to express them ~ Charlotte Bront,
372:He hated it when women cried. At the first sign of tears, he had always bolted like a hare at a coursing. But as soon as his arms had gone around Kathleen, in one ordinary instant, the world, the past, everything he'd always been certain of had all been obliterated. She had reached for him, not out of passion or fear, but the simple human need for closeness. It had electrified him. No one had ever sought comfort from him before, and the act of giving it had felt more unspeakably intimate than the most torrent sexual encounter. He'd felt the force of his entire being wrap around her in a moment of sweet, raw connection. ~ Lisa Kleypas,
373:There were opera cloaks stitched of myriad, many-colored silks and furs; there were jewels dripping from arms and throats and ear-tips of white and rose; there were innumerable broad shimmers down the middles of innumerable silk hats; there were shoes of gold and bronze and red and shining black; there were the high-piled, tight-packed coiffures of many women and the slick, watered hair of well-kept men—most of all there was the ebbing, flowing, chattering, chuckling, foaming, slow-rolling wave effect of this cheerful sea of people as to-night it poured its glittering torrent into the artificial lake of laughter…. After ~ F Scott Fitzgerald,
374: To A River In Which A Child Was Drowned
Smiling river, smiling river,
On thy bosom sun-beams play;
Though they're fleeting, and retreating,
Thou hast more deceit than they.
In thy channel, in thy channel,
Choak'd with ooze and grav'lly stones,
Deep immersed, and unhearsed,
Lies young Edward's corse: his bones
Ever whitening, ever whitening,
As thy waves against them dash;
What thy torrent, in the current,
Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.
As if senseless, as if senseless
Things had feeling in this case;
What so blindly, and unkindly,
It destroy'd, it now does grace.
~ Charles Lamb,
375:Türk Sanat Müziği, herkesi mağrurlaştırmış, olgunlaştırmıştı. Sanki o birbirinin kuyusunu kazan müdürler, Iphone 4S almak için para biriktiren çalışanlar, birbirlerinin arkasından konuşan stajyerler, küçük hesap adamları gitmiş, yerine Münir Nurettinler, Tatyos Efendiler, Tamburi Haham Moşe Efendiler gelmişti. Sanki bu insanlar eve gidip, televizyon karşısında dizi izlemiyorlar, Torrent’den film indirmiyorlar da petunyaları suluyor, kumrulara bi kap su bırakıyorlardı. Adeta yanacağını bile bile ateşe uçan pervanelerdi bunlar! Sadece ellerinde rakı var ve musiki dinliyorlar diye bu ne mağrurluktu, bu ne vecd içinde kendinden geçmeydi böyle? ~ Anonymous,
376:No, no, I will not live among the wild scenes of nature, the enemy of all that lives. I will seek the towns—Rome, the capital of the world, the crown of man's achievements. Among its storied streets, hallowed ruins, and stupendous remains of human exertion, I shall not, as here, find every thing forgetful of man; trampling on his memory, defacing his works, proclaiming from hill to hill, and vale to vale,—by the torrents freed from the boundaries which he imposed—by the vegetation liberated from the laws which he enforced—by his habitation abandoned to mildew and weeds, that his power is lost, his race annihilated for ever. ~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley,
377:He then offered one of the most infamous pronouncements that has ever been made about the Grand Canyon: Ours has been the first, and will doubtless be the last, party of whites to visit this profitless locality. It seems intended by nature that the Colorado River, along the greater portion of its lonely and majestic way, shall be forever unvisited and undisturbed. . . . Excepting when the melting snows send their annual torrents through the avenues to the Colorado, conveying with them sound and motion, these dismal abysses, and the arid table-lands that enclose them, are left as they have been for ages, in unbroken solitude and silence. That ~ Kevin Fedarko,
378:Sylvia Plath"

A miniature mad talent? Sylvia Plath,
who'll wipe off the spit of your integrity,
rising in the saddle to slash at Auschwitz,
life tearing this or that, I am a woman?
Who'll lay the graduate girl in marriage,
queen bee, naked, unqueenly, shaming her shame?
Each English major saying, "I am Sylvia,
I hate marriage, I must hate babies."
Even men have a horror of giving birth,
mother-sized babies splitting us in half,
sixty thousand American infants a year,
U.I.D., Unexplained Infant Deaths,
born physically whole and hearty, refuse to live,
Sylvia...the expanding torrent of your attack. ~ Robert Lowell,
379:At North Farm"

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you,
At incredible speed, traveling day and night,
Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes.
But will he know where to find you,
Recognize you when he sees you,
Give you the thing he has for you?

Hardly anything grows here,
Yet the granaries are bursting with meal,
The sacks of meal piled to the rafters.
The streams run with sweetness, fattening fish;
Birds darken the sky. Is it enough
That the dish of milk is set out at night,
That we think of him sometimes,
Sometimes and always, with mixed feelings? ~ John Ashbery,
380:Each house looks secure in good weather. But Palestine is known for torrential rains that can turn dry wadis into raging torrents. Only storms reveal the quality of the work of the two builders. The thought reminds us of the parable of the sower, in which the seed sown on rocky ground lasts only a short time, until “trouble or persecution comes because of the word” (13:21). The greatest storm is eschatological (cf. Isa 28:16–17; Eze 13:10–13; see also Pr 12:7). But Jesus’ words about the two houses need not be thus restricted. The point is that the wise man (a repeated term in Matthew; cf. 10:16; 24:45; 25:2, 4, 8–9) builds to withstand anything. ~ D A Carson,
381:February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.

Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas,
Race through the noice of bells and wheels
To where the ink and all you grieving
Are muffled when the rainshower falls.

To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal,
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees,
Fall down into the puddles, hurl
Dry sadness deep into the eyes.

Below, the wet black earth shows through,
With sudden cries the wind is pitted,
The more haphazard, the more true
The poetry that sobs its heart out. ~ Boris Pasternak,
382:He would have admired one of those fantastic visions, those magic apparitions one sometimes sees in the great theaters of Europe, in which the deafening melodies of an orchestra are made to appear among a deluge of light, a torrent of oriental diamonds and gold surrounded by a diaphanous mist, from which a deity, a sylph comes forward, her feet barely touching the floor encircled and accompanied by a luminous cloud. In her wake flowers shoot forth, a dance bursts out, harmonies awaken, and choirs of devils, nymphs, satyrs, spirits, country maidens, angels, and shepherds dance, shake tambourines gesticulate wildly, and lay tribute at the goddess’s feet. ~ Jos Rizal,
383:La Tejedora pensaba en un continuo, incomprensible, giratorio torrente de consciencia. No había capas en su mente, no había ego que controlase las funciones inferiores ni córtex animal que mantuviera la mente asentada. Para la Tejedora, no había sueños durante la noche, no habían mensajes ocultos provenientes de las esquinas secretas de la mente, no había limpieza a fondo de la basura acumulada con el material sobrante de una consciencia ordenada. Para la Tejedora, el sueño y la vigilia eran una misma cosa. La Tejedora soñaba con ser consciente y su consciencia era su sueño, en una interminable e insondable sucesión de imagen, deseo, cognición y emoción. ~ Anonymous,
384: The Lady To Her Guitar
For him who struck thy foreign string,
I ween this heart has ceased to care;
Then why dost thou such feelings bring
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?
It is as if the warm sunlight
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.
It is as if the glassy brook
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman's stroke
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh;
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.
~ Emily Jane Brontë,
385: The Torrent
I found a torrent falling in a glen
Where the sun’s light shone silvered and leaf-split;
The boom, the foam, and the mad flash of it
All made a magic symphony; but when
I thought upon the coming of hard men
To cut those patriarchal trees away,
And turn to gold the silver of that spray,
I shuddered. Yet a gladness now and then
Did wake me to myself till I was glad
In earnest, and was welcoming the time
For screaming saws to sound above the chime
Of idle waters, and for me to know
The jealous visionings that I had had
Were steps to the great place where trees and torrents go.
~ Edwin Arlington Robinson,
386:Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite…. A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then—the glory—so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. And I guess a man’s importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. ~ John Steinbeck,
387: The Stream
'Twas Sabbath morn. I lay 'neath pensive spell,
And saw, in reverie or waking dream,
My life elapse, in likeness of a stream
That in a slant and steady torrent fell,
As if it gushed beneath the force supreme
Of some high reservoir or lofty well.
E'en such a stream I saw as, from a bank
Verdant with mosses and perpetual dank,
I have observed leap forth when heavy rains
Have, through the uplands filtered, fed earth's veins
To bursting. This I saw with troubled eye,
Anticipating when the stream no more
In ceaseless, crystalline cascade should pour,
But sudden stop, or slowly dribble dry.
~ Charles Heavysege,
388: A Dampened Ardor
The Chinatown at Bakersfield
Was blazing bright and high;
The flames to water would not yield,
Though torrents drenched the sky
And drowned the ground for miles around
The houses were so dry.
Then rose an aged preacher man
Whom all did much admire,
Who said: 'To force on you my plan
I truly don't aspire,
But streams, it seems, might quench these beams
If turned upon the fire.'
The fireman said: 'This hoary wight
His folly dares to thrust
On _us_! 'Twere well he felt our might
Nay, he shall feel our must!'
With jet of wet and small regret
They laid that old man's dust.
~ Ambrose Bierce,
389:If a man, having lashed two hulls together, is crossing a river, and an empty boat happens along and bumps into him, no matter how hot-tempered the man may be, he will not get angry. But if there should be someone in the other boat, then he will shout out to haul this way or veer that. If his first shout is unheeded, he will shout again, and if that is not heard, he will shout a third time, this time with a torrent of curses following. In the first instance, he wasn't angry; now in the second he is. Earlier he faced emptiness, now he faces occupancy. If a man could succeed in making himself empty, and in that way wander through the world, then who could do him harm? ~ Zhuangzi,
390:The stranger was still smiling. He transformed himself into a rose bush and entwined me. My Christian education meant that ever since childhood I have had a horror of vice and it was not without a quite understandable terror that I discerned the pleasure I felt in the embrace of this vigorous bush whose branches gradually mingled with my limbs, my hair and my looks. When one of its flowers came apart in my mouth, I could feel myself grasping the sorcerer in my arms in my turn. He was transformed into a torrent, and I was a barge, into desert and I was smoke, into a car and I was a road, into a man and I was a woman. 'What we are doing is very wrong,' he said and was off. ~ Robert Desnos,
391:Western Europe was better placed than any other region to profit from the vast flows of goods and ideas within the emerging global system of exchange. The European scientific revolution was, in part, a response to the torrent of new ideas pouring into Europe as a result of its expanded contacts with the rest of the world. Awareness of new ideas, crops, religions, and commodities undermined traditional behaviors, cosmologies, and beliefs and posed sharply the question of how to distinguish between false and true knowledge of the world. The reinvention and spread of printing with movable type ensured that new information would circulate more easily in Europe than elsewhere. ~ David Christian,
392:Siempre me aterra esa cosa siamesa de las parejas: opinan lo mismo, comen lo mismo, se emborrachan a la par, como si compartieran el torrente sanguíneo. Debe haber un resultado químico de nivelación después de años de mantener esa coreografía constante. Mismo lugar, mismas rutinas, misma alimentación, vida sexual simultánea, estímulos idénticos, coincidencia en temperatura, nivel económico, temores, incentivos, caminatas, proyectos… ¿Qué monstruo bicéfalo se va creando así? Te volvés simétrico con el otro, los metabolismos se sincronizan, funcionás en espejo; un ser binario con un solo deseo. Y el hijo llega para envolver ese abrazo y sellarlos con un lazo eterno. Es pura asfixia la idea. ~ Pedro Mairal,
393:And many years later, as an adult student of history, Knecht was to perceive more distinctly that history cannot come into being without the substance and the dynamism of this sinful world of egoism and instinctuality, and that even such sublime creations as the Order were born in this cloudy torrent and sooner or later will be swallowed up by it again...Nor was this ever merely an intellectual problem for him. Rather, it engaged his innermost self more than any other problem, and he felt it as partly his responsibility. His was one of those natures which can sicken, languish, and die when they see an ideal they have believed in, or the country and community they love, afflicted with ills. ~ Hermann Hesse,
394:In the very first month of Indian Opinion, I realized that the sole aim of journalism should be service. The newspaper press is a great power, but just as an unchained torrent of water submerges whole countrysides and devastates crops, even so an uncontrolled pen serves but to destroy. If the control is from without, it proves more poisonous than want of control. It can be profitable only when exercised from within. If this line of reasoning is correct, how many of the journals in the world would stand the test? But who would stop those that are useless? And who should be the judge? The useful and the useless must, like good and evil generally, go on together, and man must make his choice. ~ Mahatma Gandhi,
395:124  x If it had not been the LORD who was on our side—          y let Israel now say— 2    if it had not been the LORD who was on our side         when people rose up against us, 3    then they would have  z swallowed us up alive,         when their anger was kindled against us; 4    then  a the flood would have  b swept us away,         the torrent would have gone  c over us; 5    then over us would have gone         the raging waters.     6 Blessed be the LORD,         who has not given us         as prey to their teeth! 7    We have escaped like a bird         from  d the snare of the fowlers;     the snare is broken,         and we have escaped!     8  e Our help is in the name of the LORD, ~ Anonymous,
396:Jelly beans! Millions and billions of purples and yellows and greens and licorice and grape and raspberry and mint and round and smooth and crunchy outside and soft-mealy inside and sugary and bouncing jouncing tumbling clittering clattering skittering fell on the heads and shoulders and hardhats and carapaces of the Timkin works, tinkling on the slidewalk and bouncing away and rolling about underfoot and filling the sky on their way down with all the colors of joy and childhood and holidays, coming down in a steady rain, a solid wash, a torrent of color and sweetness out of the sky from above, and entering a universe of sanity and metronomic order with quite-mad coocoo newness. Jelly beans! ~ Harlan Ellison,
397:As André and I left for South America, the newspaper boys were screaming headlines like: 'Stocks Collapse: Nationwide stampede to unload'; 'Unexpected torrent of liquidation'; and 'Two and a half billion in savings lost'. The worst part was the stories of ruined businessmen leaping from windows thirty storeys high and from the Brooklyn Bridge.
'If they calmed down things would stabilise faster. They might even see opportunities for fortunes to be made,' said André.
I nodded my agreement. But I knew something that André didn't; something those businessmen might have known too. I knew what it was like to be poor--and that once you had become rich, anything was better than being poor again. ~ Belinda Alexandra,
398:My Heart's In The Highlands



Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Chorus.-My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the mountains, high-cover'd with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green vallies below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, &c. ~ Robert Burns,
399:There is a sacred horror about everything grand. It is easy to admire mediocrity and hills; but whatever is too lofty, a genius as well as a mountain, an assembly as well as a masterpiece, seen too near, is appalling. Every summit seems an exaggeration. Climbing wearies. The steepnesses take away one's breath; we slip on the slopes, we are hurt by the sharp points which are its beauty; the foaming torrents betray the precipices, clouds hide the mountain tops; mounting is full of terror, as well as a fall. Hence, there is more dismay than admiration. People have a strange feeling of aversion to anything grand. They see abysses, they do not see sublimity; they see the monster, they do not see the prodigy. ~ Victor Hugo,
400: Sonnet Xxvi. To The River Arun
ON thy wild banks, by frequent torrents worn,
No glittering fanes, or marble domes appear,
Yet shall the mournful muse thy course adorn,
And still to her thy rustic waves be dear.
For with the infant Otway, lingering here,
Of early woes she bade her votary dream,
While thy low murmurs sooth'd his pensive ear
And still the poet--consecrates the stream.
Beneath the oak and birch that fringe thy side,
The first-born violets of the year shall spring;
And in thy hazles, bending o'er the tide,
The earliest nightingale delight to sing:
While kindred spirits, pitying, shall relate
Thy Otway's sorrows, and lament his fate.
~ Charlotte Smith,
401:Yurii Andreievich kept trying to get up and go. The commissar's naïveté embarrassed him, but the sly sophistication of the commandant and his aide—two sneering and dissembling opportunists—was no better. The foolishness of the one was matched by the slyness of the others. And all this was expressed itself in a torrent of words, superfluous, utterly false, murky, profoundly alien to life itself.
Oh, how one wishes sometimes to escape from the meaningless dullness of human eloquence, from all those sublime phrases, to take refuge in nature, apparently so inarticulate, or in the wordlessness of long, grinding labor, of sound sleep, of true music, or of a human understanding rendered speechless by emotion! ~ Boris Pasternak,
402:It’s a Snark!” was the sound that first came to their ears, And seemed almost too good to be true. Then followed a torrent of laughter and cheers: Then the ominous words “It’s a Boo–” Then, silence. Some fancied they heard in the air A weary and wandering sigh That sounded like “–jum!” but the others declare It was only a breeze that went by. a face in the underbrush They hunted till darkness came on, but they found Not a button, or feather, or mark, By which they could tell that they stood on the ground Where the Baker had met with the Snark. In the midst of the word he was trying to say, In the midst of his laughter and glee, He had softly and suddenly vanished away— For the Snark was a Boojum, you see. THE END. ~ Lewis Carroll,
403:From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were; I have not seen As others saw; I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow; I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone; And all I loved, I loved alone. Then — in my childhood, in the dawn Of a most stormy life — was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still: From the torrent, or the fountain, From the red cliff of the mountain, From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold, From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by, From the thunder and the storm, And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view.   ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
404:He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial, he chose Bartleby over Moby-Dick, he chose A Simple Heart over Bouvard and Pecuchet, and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench. ~ Roberto Bola o,
405:He chose The Metamorphosis over The Trial, he chose Bartleby over Moby-Dick, he chose A Simple Heart over Bouvard and Pécuchet, and A Christmas Carol over A Tale of Two Cities or The Pickwick Papers. What a sad paradox, thought Amalfitano. Now even bookish pharmacists are afraid to take on the great, imperfect, torrential works, books that blaze paths into the unknown. They choose the perfect exercises of the great masters. Or what amounts to the same thing: they want to watch the great masters spar, but they have no interest in real combat, when the great masters struggle against that something, that something that terrifies us all, that something that cows us and spurs us on, amid blood and mortal wounds and stench. ~ Roberto Bola o,
406:Shrieking, slithering, torrential shadows of red viscous madness chasing one another through endless, ensanguined corridors of purple fulgurous sky . . . formless phantasms and kaleidoscopic mutations of a ghoulish, remembered scene; forests of monstrous overnourished oaks with serpent roots twisting and sucking unnamable juices from an earth verminous with millions of cannibal devils; mound-like tentacles groping from underground nuclei of polypous perversion . . . insane lightning over malignant ivied walls and daemon arcades choked with fungous vegetation. . . . Heaven be thanked for the instinct which led me unconscious to places where men dwell; to the peaceful village that slept under the calm stars of clearing skies. ~ H P Lovecraft,
407:You might attach many superlatives to Vice—it may be the hottest, savviest, coolest, richest, Brooklyn-est new media company on the block (Vice, according to Smith, is now the biggest employer in Williamsburg, the epicenter of Brooklyn-ness), but one peerless thing it does not necessarily have is a super-size audience. Vice makes a torrent of YouTube videos but most, according to YouTube stats, have only a limited viewership. The New York Times, in its coverage of Vice’s TCV deal, seemed both eager to believe in Vice and at the same time perplexed by it, quoting the company’s monthly global audience claim of 150 million viewers, but, as well, comScore’s more official and low-wattage number of 9.3 million unique visitors a month. ~ Michael Wolff,
408: Sound And Sense
True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar;
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
~ Alexander Pope,
409:I laugh and hoot at ye, ye cricket-players, ye pugilists, ye deaf Burkes and blinded Bendigoes! I will not say as schoolboys do to bullies—Take some one of your own size; don't pommel me! No, ye've knocked me down, and I am up again; but ye have run and hidden. Come forth from behind your cotton bags! I have no long gun to reach ye. Come, Ahab's compliments to ye; come and see if ye can swerve me. Swerve me? ye cannot swerve me, else ye swerve yourselves! man has ye there. Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents' beds, unerringly I rush! Naught's an obstacle, naught's an angle to the iron way! ~ Herman Melville,
410:The Lurking Fear:
Shrieking, slithering, torrential shadows of red viscous madness chasing one another through endless, ensanguined condors of purple fulgurous sky... formless phantasms and kaleidoscopic mutations of a ghoulish, remembered scene; forests of monstrous over-nourished oaks with serpent roots twisting and sucking unnamable juices from an earth verminous with millions of cannibal devils; mound-like tentacles groping from underground nuclei of polypous perversion... insane lightning over malignant ivied walls and demon arcades choked with fungous vegetation... Heaven be thanked for the instinct which led me unconscious to places where men dwell; to the peaceful village that slept under the calm stars of clearing skies. ~ H P Lovecraft,
411:First I sink,
Then I trickle,
Then I rush.
I am here; and here; and here. I touch this surface and also that.
I mingle, I quiver with a thousand voices, and all these voices my own. I am a great tumble of motion which torrents all in unison.
And learning and knowing are the same, and I am a mite, and we are all the space allowed to us.
And if I am made of grief, well! Here is joy, and if I am made a fury, here is peace. Rush, rush, we rush, a sparkling stream through rock and moss, deep in the cold stone of the earth. No daylight here, no dying breaths to catch up. We rush young and bright, and ever-widening, and these bitter atoms are lost in new-minted freshness. We hasten, hasten, onward to the boundless sea. ~ Imogen Hermes Gowar,
412:Tacitus laughed at the Germanic tribes who tried to stop a torrent with their shields, but it is no less naive to believe in planetary migration or to believe in the establishment by purely human means of a society fully satisfied and perfectly inoffensive and continuing to progress indefinitely. All this proves that man ,though he has inevitably become less naive in some things, has nonetheless learned nothing as far as essentials are concerned; the only thing that man is capable of when left to himself is to "commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways," as Shakespeare would say. And the world being what it is, one is doubtless not guilty of a truism in adding that it is better to go to Heaven naively than to go intelligently to hell. ~ Frithjof Schuon,
413:Soon the heavens will burst and torrential rains will flood the earth. The sea will rise and submerge the land. When this happens collect the seed of every plant and a pair of every animal and wait for me on a boat with your wife.’ Realizing this was no ordinary fish, but Vishnu himself, Satyavrata did as he was told. The great fish appeared before him, bigger than before, with a horn on its head. Satyavrata tied his boat to the horn with Adi Sesha as the rope. The fish then towed the boat through the great deluge to the only piece of dry land, the peak of Mount Mandara. There Satyavrata and his wife waited for the waters to recede. With the seed of every plant and a pair of all animals he would establish the new world. (Bhagavata Purana) ~ Devdutt Pattanaik,
414:Some of us are fated to live in a box from which there is only temporary release. We of the damned-up spirits, of the thwarted feelings, of the blocked hearts, and the pent-up thoughts, we who long to blast out, flood forth in a torrent of rage or joy or even madness, but there is nowhere for us to go, nowhere in the world because no one will have us as we are, and there is nothing to do except to embrace the secret pleasures of our sublimations, the arc of a sentence, the kiss of a rhyme, the image that forms on paper or canvas, the inner cantata, the cloistered embroidery, the dark and dreaming needlepoint from hell or heaven or purgatory or none of those three, but there must be some sound and fury from us, some clashing cymbals in the void. ~ Siri Hustvedt,
415:Fire!
Your nose ignites,
flameless kerosene
(and, some say, Drano)
laced with ephedrine
you want to cry
powdered demons bite
through cartilage and sinuses,
take dead aim at your
brain, jump inside
want to scream
troops of tapping feet
fall into rhythm,
marking time, right
between your eyes
get the urge to dance
louder, louder, ultra
gray-matter power,
shock waves of energy
mushroom inside your head
you want to let go
detonate,
annihilate barriers,
bring down the walls,
unleashing floodwaters,
freeing long-captive dreams
to ride the current
through
arteries and capillaries,
pulsing, rushing,
raging torrents
pounding against your heart
sweeping you away ~ Ellen Hopkins,
416:Escucha
el rumor escucha
las cadenas que lleva el torrente
oye, mira
el terror cabalga en aras de bayoneta
Acércate amor mío, no temas, ya pasará
Nos cubrieron con lazos de dolor
nos robaron el lenguaje de los astros
No temas ya llegará la aurora
En la negritud se volcó la imagen
nos rompieron los cráneos
y mis cabellos bañan la simiente
Estréchate ya pasará el frío
Se crecieron las negras raíces
Serpiente verdesmeralda
formada de cristal de gritos
Nos negaron el silencio
y nos acogotaron con sus voces
Ya pasará amor mío no temas

•Eduardo Santos, de la Facultad de Comercio de la UNAM, Revista de la Universidad, vol. XXIII, n. 1, septiembre de 1968 ~ Elena Poniatowska,
417: Fairy
For Helen, in the virgin shadows and the
impassive radiance in astral silence,
ornamental saps conspired.
Summer's ardour was confided
to silent birds and due indolence
to a priceless mourning boat
through gulfs of dead loves
and fallen perfumes.
-After the moment of the woods women's song
to the rumble of the torrent in the ruin of the wood,
of the tinkle of the cowbells to the echo of the vales,
and the cries of the steppes.
- For Helen's childhood, furs and shadows trembled,
and the breast of the poor and the legends of heaven.
And her eyes and her dance superior
even to the precious radiance,
to cold influences, to the pleasure of the unique
setting and the unique hour.
~ Arthur Rimbaud,
418:Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being Pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.

But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the Devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. ~ Lord Byron,
419:I hope, too, that you will hear these words within your hearts, for that would be profitable. But if a thousand thieves come from outside, they cannot open the door without some fellow-thief inside who can unlock that door.
Speak a thousand words from the outside, still, so long as there is none to answer from within, the door never opens.
So too with a tree—as long as there is no moist thirst in its roots, even if you poured a thousand torrents of water over it, it would accomplish nothing. First there must be a thirst in its roots for the water to nourish it.
Although the whole world is ablaze with the sun’s light, unless there is that spark of light within the eye, no one can behold that light.
The root of the matter is the receptiveness within Soul. ~ Rumi,
420:From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
421:That was enough dialogue for a few pages - he had to get into some fast, red-hot action.

There weren't any more hitches now. The story flowed like a torrent. The margin bell chimed almost staccato, the roller turned with almost piston-like continuity, the pages sprang up almost like blobs of batter from a pancake skillet. The beer kept rising in the glass and, contradictorily, steadily falling lower. The cigarettes gave up their ghosts, long thin gray ghosts, in a good cause; the mortality rate was terrible.

His train of thought, the story's lifeline, beer-lubricated but no whit impeded, flashed and sputtered and coursed ahead like lightning in a topaz mist, and the loose fingers and hiccuping keys followed as fast as they could. ("The Penny-A-Worder") ~ Cornell Woolrich,
422:Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to
you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it,
as many of your players do, I had as lief the
town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air
too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently;
for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say,
the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget
a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it
offends me to the soul to hear a robustious
periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to
very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who
for the most part are capable of nothing but
inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such
a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it
out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it. ~ William Shakespeare,
423:From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view. ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
424:Brian ebbe un attimo di illuminazione. Guardò tutta quella spazzatura in perenne aumento e per la prima volta capì in cosa consistesse il suo lavoro. Non in progettazione o trasporto o riduzione alla fonte. Lui si occupava di comportamento umano, delle abitudini e degli impulsi della gente, dei loro incontrollabili bisogni e innocenti desideri, forse delle loro passioni, sicuramente dei loro eccessi e delle loro debolezze ma anche della loro gentilezza, della loro generosità, e la domanda era come impedire questo metabolismo di massa di sopraffare l'umanità.
La discarica gli mostrava senza mezzi termini come finiva il torrente dei rifiuti, dove sfociavano tutti gli appetiti e le brame, i grevi ripensamenti, le cose che si desideravano ardentemente e poi non si volevano più. ~ Don DeLillo,
425:In the beautiful words of Staton Kirkham Davis, 'You may be keeping accounts, and presently you shall walk out of the door that for so long has seemed to you the barrier of your ideals, and shall find yourself before an audience — the pen still behind your ear, the ink-stains on you fingers — and then and there shall pour out the torrent of your inspiration. You may be driving sheep, and you shall wander to the city — bucolic and open-mouthed; shall wander under the intrepid guidance of a spirit into the studio of the master, and after a time he shall say, 'I have nothing more to teach you.' And now you have become the master, who did so recently dream of great things while driving sheep. You shall lay down the saw and the plane to take upon yourself the regeneration of the world. ~ James Allen,
426: God Save The King
God save great George our king
Long live our noble king,
God save the king.
Send him victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the king.
O Lord our God arise,
Scatter his enemies,
And make them fall:
Confound their politics,
Frustrate their knavish tricks,
On him our hopes we fix,
God save us all.
Thy choicest gifts in store,
On him be pleas'd to pour,
Long may he reign.
May he defend our laws,
And ever give us cause,
To sing with heart and voice
God save the king.
Lord grant that Marshal Wade
May by thy mighty aid
Victory bring.
May he sedition hush,
And like a torrent rush,
Rebellious Scots to crush,
God save the king.
~ Anonymous Americas,
427:Alone"

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
428: The Fyghtynge Seventh
It is the gallant Seventh
It fyghteth faste and free!
God wot the where it fyghteth
I ne desyre to be.
The Gonfalon it flyeth,
Seeming a Flayme in Sky;
The Bugel loud yblowen is,
Which sayeth, Doe and dye!
And (O good Saints defende us
Agaynst the Woes of Warr)
Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly
To smyte the Foeman sore!
With divers kinds of Riddance
The smoaking Earth is wet,
And all aflowe to seaward goe
The Torrents wide of Sweat!
The Thunder of the Captens,
And eke the Shouting, mayketh
Such horrid Din the Soule within
The boddy of me quayketh!
Who fyghteth the bold Seventh?
What haughty Power defyes?
Their Colonel 'tis they drubben sore,
And dammen too his Eyes!
~ Ambrose Bierce,
429:From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view— ~ Edgar Allan Poe,
430:Who that knows this terrible process can fail to see the truth in these words of Peter Kropotkin: "Those who will hold the balance between the benefits thus attributed to law and punishment and the degrading effect of the latter on humanity; those who will estimate the torrent of depravity poured abroad in human society by the informer, favored by the Judge even, and paid for in clinking cash by governments, under the pretext of aiding to unmask crime; those who will go within prison walls and there see what human beings become when deprived of liberty, when subjected to the care of brutal keepers, to coarse, cruel words, to a thousand stinging, piercing humiliations, will agree with us that the entire apparatus of prison and punishment is an abomination which ought to be brought to an end. ~ Emma Goldman,
431:If a choreographer had been underneath the plastic sheet on a rainy day or night, he would certainly have reproduced the scene: twenty-five people, short and tall, on their feet, each holding a tin can to collect the water that dripped off the roof, sometimes in torrents, sometimes drop by drop. If a musician had been there, he would have heard the orchestration of all that water striking the sides of the tins. If a filmmaker had been there, he would have captured the beauty of the silent and spontaneous complicity between wretched people. But there was only us, standing on a floor that was slowly sinking into the clay. After three months it tilted so severely to one side that we all had to find new positions so sleeping women and children wouldn’t slip onto the plump bellies of their neighbours. ~ Kim Th y,
432:The relationship lurched up and down for five years. Redse hated living in his sparsely furnished Woodside house. Jobs had hired a hip young couple, who had once worked at Chez Panisse, as housekeepers and vegetarian cooks, and they made her feel like an interloper. She would occasionally move out to an apartment of her own in Palo Alto, especially after one of her torrential arguments with Jobs. “Neglect is a form of abuse,” she once scrawled on the wall of the hallway to their bedroom. She was entranced by him, but she was also baffled by how uncaring he could be. She would later recall how incredibly painful it was to be in love with someone so self-centered. Caring deeply about someone who seemed incapable of caring was a particular kind of hell that she wouldn’t wish on anyone, she said. ~ Walter Isaacson,
433:Mother." Alec's voice as he interrupted his mother was firm, implacable, and not
unkind. "Father. There's something I have to tell you." He smiled at them. "I'm seeing someone."
Robert Lightwood looked at his son with some exasperation. "Alec," he said.
"This is hardly the time."
"Yes, it is. This is important. You see, I'm not just seeing anyone." Words
seemed to be pouring out of Alec in a torrent, while his parents looked on in
confusion. Isabelle and Magnus were staring at him with expressions of nearly identical astonishment. "I'm seeing a Downworlder. In fact, I'm seeing a war—"
Magnus's fingers moved, quick as a flash of light, in Alec's direction. There was a faint shimmer in the air around Alec — his eyes rolled up — and he dropped to the floor, felled like a tree. ~ Cassandra Clare,
434:We are travelers on a cosmic journey — stardust, swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is eternal. But the expressions of life are ephemeral, momentary, transient. Gautama Buddha, the founder of Buddhism, once said, This existence of ours is as transient as autumn clouds. To watch the birth and death of beings is like looking at the movements of a dance. A lifetime is like a flash of lightning in the sky, Rushing by like a torrent down a steep mountain. We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other, to meet, to love, to share. This is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring, lightheartedness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other. And then this moment will have been worthwhile. ~ Deepak Chopra,
435: Alone
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
~ Edgar Allan Poe,
436:Despairingly she looked all round. She was completely encircled by the tremendous ice walls, which were made fluid by explosions of blinding light, so that they moved and changed with a continuous liquid motion, advancing in torrents of ice, avalanches as big as oceans, flooding everywhere over the doomed world. Wherever she looked, she saw the same fearful encirclement, soaring battlements of ice, an over-hanging ring of frigid, fiery, colossal waves about to collapse upon her. Frozen by the deathly cold emanating from the ice, dazzled by the blaze of crystalline ice-light, she felt herself becoming part of the polar vision, her structure becoming one with the ice and snow. As her fate, she accepted the world of ice, shining, shimmering, dead; she resigned herself to the triumph of glaciers and the death of her world. ~ Anna Kavan,
437:All men of talent, whether they be men of feeling or not; whether they be zealots, or aspirants, or despots--provided only they be sincere--have their sublime moments, when they subdue and rule. I felt veneration for St. John--veneration so strong that its impetus thrust me at once to the point I had so long shunned. I was tempted to cease struggling with him--to rush down the torrent of his will into the gulf of his existence, and there lose my own. I was almost as hard beset by him now as I had been once before, in a different way, by another. I was a fool both times. To have yielded then would have been an error of principle; to have yielded now would have been an error of judgment. So I think at this hour, when I look back to the crisis through the quiet medium of time: I was unconscious of folly at the instant ~ Charlotte Bront,
438:Children learn best from the adults they love. They watch carefully to see how you handle your strong emotions. Most of us, however, have not been taught to enjoy the richness intensity adds to our lives; nor have we been instructed in the safety measures needed to use it appropriately. To help our children understand and manage their intense emotions, we have to feel comfortable with our own. DEALING WITH YOUR OWN INTENSITY The intensity of spirited kids sizzles and snaps. It can burn you to the core. You breathe deeply trying your best to block the blows. At first, like drops on a rainproof jacket they roll off. But the torrent grows heavier, the drops more penetrating, roaring in your ear, and piercing your composure until you may find yourself also in the red zone screaming, threatening and slamming doors. ~ Mary Sheedy Kurcinka,
439:Tacite se moquait des Germains qui tentaient d'arrêter un torrent avec leur boucliers ; ce n'est pourtant pas plus naïf que de croire à l'émigration planétaire, ou de croire à l'installation, avec des moyens purement humains, d'une société humaine définitivement satisfaite et parfaitement inoffensive, et continuant indéfiniment à progresser. Tout cela prouve que l'homme, s'il est forcément devenu moins naïf pour certaines choses, n'a pourtant rien appris quant à l'essentiel, pour dire le moins ; la seule chose dont l'homme livré à lui-même soit capable, c'est de "faire les péchés les plus anciens de la manière la plus nouvelle", comme dirait Shakespeare. Et le monde étant ce qu'il est, ce n'est sans doute pas commettre un truisme que d'ajouter qu'il vaut mieux aller naïvement au Ciel que d'aller intelligemment en enfer. ~ Frithjof Schuon,
440: The Moors
NOT in rich glebe and ripe green garden only
Does Summer weave her sweet resistless spells,
But in high hills, and moorlands waste and lonely,
The vast enchantment of her presence dwells.
Wide sky, and sky-wide waste of thyme and heather,
Perpetual sleepy hum of golden bees-If you and I were only there together,
Free from the weight of all your garden's trees!
The north is mine; though bred by elm and meadow,
Pines, torrents, rocks, and moors my heart loves best;
I love the plover's wail, the cleft hill's shadow,
The sun-browned grass that is the skylark's nest.
Ah, yes! you too I love, dear wistful pleader,
You most I love, dear southern rose, half-blown,
And rather lounge with you beneath your cedar,
Than greet the moor's wide heaven-on-earth alone.
~ Edith Nesbit,
441:Doubt swells and surges, with swelling doubt behind!
My soul in storm is but a tattered sail,
Streaming its ribbons on the torrent gale;
In calm, 'tis but a limp and flapping thing:
Oh! swell it with thy breath; make it a wing,
To sweep through thee the ocean, with thee the wind
Nor rest until in thee its haven it shall find.

Roses are scentless, hopeless are the morns,
Rest is but weakness, laughter crackling thorns,

But love is life. To die of love is then
The only pass to higher life than this.
All love is death to loving, living men;
All deaths are leaps across clefts to the abyss.

Weakness needs pity, sometimes love's rebuke;
Strength only sympathy deserves and draws -
And grows by every faithful loving look.

Ripeness must always come with loss of might. ~ George MacDonald,
442:Words for everyday showers of prettiness, and the kind of misty loveliness that disappears whenever you try to grasp it. Beauty that’s heralded by impressive thunder, but turns out to be all flash. And beyond all these, there’d be this word . . . a word that even the most grizzled, wizened elders might have uttered twice in their lifetimes, and in hushed, fearful tones at that. A word for a sudden, cataclysmic torrent of beauty with the power to change landscapes. Make plains out of valleys and alter the course of rivers and leave people clinging to trees, alive and resentful, shaking their fists at the heavens.” A hint of sensual frustration roughened his voice. “And I will curse the gods along with them, Min. Some wild monsoon raged through me as I looked at you just now. It’s left me rearranged inside, and I don’t have a map. ~ Tessa Dare,
443:The slave’s grin was hard with malice. ‘Damn you, Fear Sengar.’ ‘How did that offend you?’ ‘You just stated the central argument – both for and against the institution of slavery. I was wasted, was I? Or of necessity kept under firm heel. Too many people like me on the loose and no ruler, tyrant or otherwise, could sit assured on a throne. We would stir things up, again and again. We would challenge, we would protest, we would defy. By being enlightened, we would cause utter mayhem. So, Fear, kick another basket of fish over here, it’s better for everyone.’ ‘Except you.’ ‘No, even me. This way, all my brilliance remains ineffectual, harmless to anyone and therefore especially to myself, lest my lofty ideas loose a torrent of blood.’ Seren Pedac grunted, ‘You are frightened by your own ideas, Udinaas?’ ‘All the time, Acquitor. Aren’t you? ~ Steven Erikson,
444:Our Wordy World OVER THE LAST few decades we have been inundated by a torrent of words. Wherever we go we are surrounded by words: words softly whispered, loudly proclaimed, or angrily screamed; words spoken, recited, or sung; words on records, in books, on walls, or in the sky; words in many sounds, many colors, or many forms; words to be heard, read, seen, or glanced at; words which flicker off and on, move slowly, dance, jump, or wiggle. Words, words, words! They form the floor, the walls, and the ceiling of our existence. It has not always been this way. There was a time not too long ago without radios and televisions, stop signs, yield signs, merge signs, bumper stickers, and the ever-present announcements indicating price increases or special sales. There was a time without the advertisements which now cover whole cities with words. ~ Henri J M Nouwen,
445:We tend to be particularly unaware that we are thinking virtually all the time. The incessant stream of thoughts flowing through our minds leaves us very little respite for inner quiet. And we leave precious little room for ourselves anyway just to be, without having to run around doing things all the time. Our actions are all too frequently driven rather than undertaken in awareness, driven by those perfectly ordinary thoughts and impulses that run through the mind like a coursing river, if not a waterfall. We get caught up in the torrent and it winds up submerging our lives as it carries us to places we may not wish to go and may not even realize we are headed for.
Meditation means learning how to get out of this current, sit by its bank and listen to it, learn from it, and then use its energies to guide us rather than to tyrannize us. ~ Jon Kabat Zinn,
446:in the mountains, and tumbles down a while, runs through shallows, is dammed to make a lake, spills over the dam, crackles among round boulders, wanders lazily under sycamores, spills into pools where trout live, drops in against banks where crayfish live. In the winter it becomes a torrent, a mean little fierce river, and in the summer it is a place for children to wade in and for fishermen to wander in. Frogs blink from its banks and the deep ferns grow beside it. Deer and foxes come to drink from it, secretly in the morning and evening, and now and then a mountain lion crouched flat laps its water. The farms of the rich little valley back up to the river and take its water for the orchards and the vegetables. The quail call beside it and the wild doves come whistling in at dusk. Raccoons pace its edges looking for frogs. It’s everything a river should be. ~ John Steinbeck,
447:Whether white, black, Asian, or Latino, American students rarely arrive at college as habitual readers, which means that few of them have more than a nominal connection to the past. It is absurd to speak, as does the academic left, of classic Western texts dominating and silencing everyone but a ruling elite or white males. The vast majority of white students do not know the intellectual tradition that is allegedly theirs any better than black or brown ones do. They have not read its books, and when they do read them, they may respond well, but they will not respond in the way that the academic left supposes. For there is only one ‘hegemonic discourse’ in the lives of American undergraduates, and that is the mass media. Most high schools can't begin to compete against a torrent of imagery and sound that makes every moment but the present seem quaint, bloodless, or dead. ~ David Denby,
448:A one-armed bunk master sets forth rules in a belligerent torrent. “This is your parade uniform, this is your field uniform, this is your gym uniform. Suspenders crossed in the back, parallel in the front. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Each boy is to carry a knife in a scabbard on the right side of the belt. Raise your right arm when you wish to be called upon. Always align in rows of ten. No books, no cigarettes, no food, no personal possessions, nothing in your locker but uniforms, boots, knife, polish. No talking after lights-out. Letters home will be posted on Wednesdays. You will strip away your weakness, your cowardice, your hesitation. You will become like a waterfall, a volley of bullets—you will all surge in the same direction at the same pace toward the same cause. You will forgo comforts; you will live by duty alone. You will eat country and breathe nation.” Do ~ Anthony Doerr,
449:And as he turned away from what he knew must be their curious stares, he felt a desperation that scared him, a raw torrent of pain clawing at his heart, making his throat so tight it ached with desperate, unshed emotion.  Amy.  God help him, he wanted Amy, needed Amy, with an intensity he could no longer explain or ignore. He straightened up and it was a compliment to his self-control that he managed to keep his voice perfectly calm, his expression perfectly still.  "Please — will you tell me when your sister will return?" "Around five.  But really, Lord Charles, why wait for her when we're here to read the other letter for you?" He shook his head, desperate to escape before his rising emotions tore him apart and embarrassed him.  Wordlessly, he held out his hand for both letters, shoved them into his pocket, and, pausing only long enough to pick up his walking stick, strode out the door. ~ Danelle Harmon,
450:In Gotama’s time, it was impossible to wander through the countryside of north India during the three months of monsoon because the rivers flooded and the paths and roads became muddy torrents. The Buddha and his followers would settle in a park or grove, dedicating themselves to discussion and contemplation. Inevitably, people became curious as to what this man did during these retreats. “Why,” they may have asked, “did this person known as the ‘Awakened One’ have to practice meditation at all?” Here is the answer Gotama told his followers to give such people: “During the Rains’ residence, friend, the Teacher generally dwells in concentration through mindfulness of breathing. . . . [For] if one could say of anything: ‘this is a noble dwelling, this is a sacred dwelling, this is a tathāgata’s dwelling,’ it is of concentration through mindfulness of breathing that one could truly say this. ~ Stephen Batchelor,
451:Uma das razões da doutrina progressista é que as coisas tendem, naturalmente, a tornar-se melhores. Mas a única razão para sermos progressivos é que as coisas tendem, naturalmente, a tornar-se piores. A corrupção nas coisas não é, apenas, o melhor argumento para ser progressista: é, também, o único argumento contra ser conservador. [...] Todo o conservadorismo baseia-se na ideia de que, se deixarmos as coisas entregues a si mesmas, elas ficarão como estão. Mas não é isso o que acontece. Se deixarmos uma coisa entregue a si mesma, a deixaremos entregue a uma torrente de mudanças. Um poste branco abandonado logo ficará preto. Se quisermos que ele se conserve branco, temos de estar sempre repintando-o; isto é, somos obrigados a fazer sempre uma revolução. É necessária uma vigilância quase sobrenatural por parte de todos os cidadãos, devido à terrível rapidez com que as instituições humanas envelhecem. ~ G K Chesterton,
452:Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!
Meantime, along the narrow rugged path,
Thyself hast trod,
Lead, Saviour, lead me home in childlike faith,
Home to my God.
To rest forever after earthly strife
In the calm light of everlasting life. ~ John Henry Newman,
453:1I love you, LORD, my strength. 2The LORD is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shieldb and the hornc of my salvation, my stronghold. 3I called to the LORD, who is worthy of praise, and I have been saved from my enemies. 4The cords of death entangled me; the torrents of destruction overwhelmed me. 5The cords of the grave coiled around me; the snares of death confronted me. 6In my distress I called to the LORD; I cried to my God for help. From his temple he heard my voice; my cry came before him, into his ears. 7The earth trembled and quaked, and the foundations of the mountains shook; they trembled because he was angry. 8Smoke rose from his nostrils; consuming fire came from his mouth, burning coals blazed out of it. 9He parted the heavens and came down; dark clouds were under his feet. 10He mounted the cherubim and flew; he soared on the wings of the wind. ~ Anonymous,
454: Freedom
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
455: Shadow And Shade
The shadow streamed into the wallThe wall, break-shadow in the blast;
We lingered wordless while a tall
Shade enclouded the shadow's cast.
The torrent of the reaching shade
Broke shadow into all its parts,
What then had been of shadow made
Found exigence in fits and starts
Where nothing properly had name
Save that still element the air,
Burnt sea of universal frame
In which impounded now we were:
I took her hand, I shut her eyes
And all her shadow cleft with shade,
Shadow was crushed beyond disguise
But, being fear, was unafraid.
I asked fair shadow at my side:
What more shall fiery shade require?
We lay long in the immense tide
Of shade and shadowy desire
And saw the dusk assail the wall,
The black surge, mounting, crash the stone!
Companion of this lust, we fall,
I said, lest we should die alone.
~ Allen Tate,
456:My uncle asked me in an e-mail for news about sectarian clashes. I said that I felt as if we had been struck with an earthquake which had changed everything. For decades to come, we would be groping our way around in the rubble it left behind. In the past there were streams between Sunnis and Shiites, or this group and that, which could be easily crossed and were even invisible at times. Now, after the earthquake, the earth had all these fissures, and the streams had become rivers. The rivers became torrents filled with blood, and whoever tried to cross, drowned. The images of those on the other side of the river had been inflated and disfigured. And out of these rivers came creatures which were extinct, or so we had thought. Old myths returned to cover the sun with their darkness and to crush it into pieces. Now each sect or group had a sun, moon, and world of its own. Concrete walls rose to seal the tragedy. ~ Sinan Antoon,
457:When Mussolini was informed of this fact, he angrily gave orders to categorically repeat the announcement. A torrent of reviews naturally followed, first in the pompous Evening Courier (Corriere della Seraf and then in other important newspapers which had hardly bothered to mention my books in the past. In such a way, many people in Italy came to know me only as the author of a book on race, and I was soon
labelled a 'racist' - this proving a rather sticky label - as if I had dealt with no other subject in the course of my career. As should be evident from what I have written so far, mine had been an attempt to engage with the issue of race from a superior, spiritual perspective. Racism I actually regarded as a secondary matter: my purpose was rather that of contrasting the errors of the materialist and primitive brand of racism which had surfaced in Germany, and which some people amateurishly sought to emulate in Italy. ~ Julius Evola,
458: Of Old Sat Freedom On The Heights
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fulness of her face-Grave mother of majestic works,
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.
The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth
Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine,
Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes!
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
459:I think Homer outwits most writers who have written on the War, by not taking sides. The Trojan war is not and you cannot make it be the War of Good vs. Evil. It’s just a war, a wasteful, useless, needless, stupid, protracted, cruel mess full of individual acts of courage, cowardice, nobility, betrayal, limb-hacking-off, and disembowelment. Homer was a Greek and might have been partial to the Greek side, but he had a sense of justice or balance that seems characteristically Greek—maybe his people learned a good deal of it from him? His impartiality is far from dispassionate; the story is a torrent of passionate actions, generous, despicable, magnificent, trivial. But it is unprejudiced. It isn’t Satan vs. Angels. It isn’t Holy Warriors vs. Infidels. It isn’t hobbits vs. orcs. It’s just people vs. people. Of course you can take sides, and almost everybody does. I try not to, but it’s no use, I just like the Trojans better than the Greeks. ~ Ursula K Le Guin,
460:There is, then, the feeling that we live in a time of unusual insecurity. In the past hundred years so many long-established traditions have broken down—traditions of family and social life, of government, of the economic order, and of religious belief. As the years go by, there seem to be fewer and fewer rocks to which we can hold, fewer things which we can regard as absolutely right and true, and fixed for all time. To some this is a welcome release from the restraints of moral, social, and spiritual dogma. To others it is a dangerous and terrifying breach with reason and sanity, tending to plunge human life into hopeless chaos. To most, perhaps, the immediate sense of release has given a brief exhilaration, to be followed by the deepest anxiety. For if all is relative, if life is a torrent without form or goal in whose flood absolutely nothing save change itself can last, it seems to be something in which there is “no future” and thus no hope. ~ Alan W Watts,
461: To Edward Lear: On His Travels In Greece
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls
Of water, sheets of summer glass,
The long divine Peneian pass,
The vast Akrokeraunian walls,
Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,
With such a pencil, such a pen,
You shadow forth to distant men,
I read and felt that I was there:
And trust me while I turn'd the page,
And track'd you still on classic ground,
I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.
For me the torrent ever pour'd
And glisten'd -- here and there alone
The broad-limb'd gods at random thrown
By fountain urns; -- and Naiads oar'd
A glimmering shoulder under gloom
Of cavern pillars; on the swell
The silver lily heaved and fell;
And many a slope was rich in bloom
From him that on the mountain lea
By dancing rivulets fed his flocks,
To him who sat upon the rocks,
And fluted to the morning sea.
~ Alfred Lord Tennyson,
462:There was a time in our lives when we were so close that nothing seemed to obstruct our friendship and brotherhood, and only a small footbridge separated us. Just as you were about to step on it, I asked you: "Do you want to cross the footbridge to me?"--Immediately you did not want to anymore; and when I asked you again you remained silent.

Since then mountains and torrential rivers and whatever separates and alienates have been cast between us, and even if we wanted to get together, we couldn't But when you now think of that little footbridge, words fail you and you sob and marvel.

It's a curious little story. Let's reason it out. One person is about the cross the footbridge--that is, get closer to the other--when the second person invites him to do the very thing he planned. Then the first person cannot take the step because now it would seem as though he were submitting to the other--power apparently getting in the way of closeness. ~ Irvin D Yalom,
463: Penseroso
Soulless is all humanity to me
To-night. My keenest longing is to be
Alone, alone with God's grey earth that seems
Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams.
To-night my soul desires no fellowship,
Or fellow-being; crave I but to slip
Thro' space on space, till flesh no more can bind,
And I may quit for aye my fellow kind.
Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lash
Of whipping wind, but hear the torrent dash
Adown the mountain steep, 'twere more my choice
Than touch of human hand, than human voice.
Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled,
Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled;
The breathing of the salt sea on my hair,
My outstretched hands but grasping empty air.
Let me but feel the pulse of Nature's soul
Athrob on mine, let seas and thunders roll
O'er night and me; sands whirl; winds, waters beat;
For God's grey earth has no cheap counterfeit.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
464: Wallace Ferguson
There at Geneva where Mt. Blanc floated above
The wine-hued lake like a cloud, when a breeze was blown
Out of an empty sky of blue, and the roaring Rhone
Hurried under the bridge through chasms of rock;
And the music along the cafés was part of the splendor
Of dancing water under a torrent of light;
And the purer part of the genius of Jean Rousseau
Was the silent music of all we saw or heard -There at Geneva, I say, was the rapture less
Because I could not link myself with the I of yore,
When twenty years before I wandered about Spoon River?
Nor remember what I was nor what I felt?
We live in the hour all free of the hours gone by.
Therefore, O soul, if you lose yourself in death,
And wake in some Geneva by some Mt. Blanc,
What do you care if you know not yourself as the you
Who lived and loved in a little corner of earth
Known as Spoon River ages and ages vanished?
~ Edgar Lee Masters,
465: Invocation A La Poesie
Nymphe tendre et vermeille, ô jeune Poésie!
Quel bois est aujourd'hui ta retraite choisie?
Quelles fleurs, près d'une onde où s'égarent tes pas,
Se courbent mollement sous tes pieds délicats?
Où te faut-il chercher? Vois la saison nouvelle:
Sur son visage blanc quelle pourpre étincelle!
L'hirondelle a chanté; Zéphir est de retour:
Il revient en dansant; il ramène l'amour.
L'ombre, les prés, les fleurs, c'est sa douce famille,
Et Jupiter se plaît à contempler sa fille,
Cette terre où partout, sous tes doigts gracieux,
S'empressent de germer des vers mélodieux.
Le fleuve qui s'étend dans les vallons humides
Roule pour toi des vers doux, sonores, liquides.
Des vers, s'ouvrant en foule aux regards du soleil,
Sont ce peuple de fleurs au calice vermeil.
Et les monts, en torrents qui blanchissent leurs cimes,
Lancent des vers brillants dans le fond des abîmes.
~ Andre Marie de Chenier,
466:We are swimming upstream against a great torrent of disorganization...In this, our main obligation is to establish arbitrary enclaves of order and system...It is the greatest possible victory to be, to continue to be, and to have been. No defeat can deprive us of the success of having existed for some moment of time in a universe that seems indifferent to us.

This is no defeatism...The declaration of our own nature and the attempt to build up an enclave of organization in the face of nature's overwhelming tendency to disorder is an insolence against the gods and the iron necessity that they impose. Here lies tragedy, but here lies glory too...

All this represents the manner in which I believe I have been able to add something positive to the pessimism of...the existensialists. I have not replaced the gloom of existence by a philosophy which is optimistic in any Pollyanna sense, but...with a positive attitude toward the universe and toward our life in it. ~ Norbert Wiener,
467:And just as he had tried, on the southern beach, to find again that unique rounded black pebble with the regular little white belt, which she had happened to show him on the eve of their last ramble, so now he did his best to look up all the roadside items that retained her exclamation mark: the special profile of a cliff, a hut roofed with a layer of silvery-gray scales, a black fir tree and a footbridge over a white torrent, and something which one might be inclined to regard as a kind of fatidic prefiguration: the radial span of a spider’s web between two telegraph wires that were beaded with droplets of mist. She accompanied him: her little boots stepped rapidly, and her hands never stopped moving, moving—to pluck a leaf from a bush or stroke a rock wall in passing—light, laughing hands that knew no repose. He saw her small face with its dense dark freckles, and her wide eyes, whose pale greenish hue was that of the shards of glass licked smooth by the sea waves. ~ Vladimir Nabokov,
468:We are swimming upstream against a great torrent of disorganization...In this, our main obligation is to establish arbitrary enclaves of order and system...It is the greatest possible victory to be, to continue to be, and to have been. No defeat can deprive us of the success of having existed for some moment of time in a universe that seems indifferent to us.

This is no defeatism...The declaration of our own nature and the attempt to build up an enclave of organization in the face of nature's overwhelming tendency to disorder is an insolence against the gods and the iron necessity that they impose. Here lies tragedy, but here lies glory too...

All this represents the manner in which I believe I have been able to add something positive to the pessimism of...the existensialists. I have not replaced the gloom of existence by a philosophy which is optimistic in any Pollyanna sense, but...with a positive attitude toward the universe and toward our life in it. ~ Norbert Wiener,
469:The Carmel is a lovely little river. It isn't very long but in its course it has everything a river should have. It rises in the mountains, and tumbles down a while, runs through shallows, is damned to make a lake, spills over the dam, crackles among round boulders, wanders lazily under sycamores, spills into pools where trout live, drops in against banks where crayfish live. In the winter it becomes a torrent, a mean little fierce river, and in the summer it is a place for children to wade in and for fishermen to wander in. Frogs blink from its banks and the deep ferns grow beside it. Deer and foxes come to drink from it, secretly in the morning and evening, and now and then a mountain lion crouched flat laps its water. The farms of the rich little valley back up to the river and take its water for the orchards and the vegetables. The quail call beside it and the wild doves come whistling in at dusk. Raccoons pace its edges looking for frogs. It's everything a river should be. ~ John Steinbeck,
470:Is there any finer phrase in the English language than Midsummer Day? There are no words to touch it for conjuring. It is the beginning of blooming roses and ripening corn, of days that stretch on, reaching for midnight until the spangled blue velvet of night descends and beginning again before cockcrow, when the dew jewels the grass like diamonds scattered while the earth slumbers. I, of course, expected rain. Not just rain, but torrential, heaving, biblical rain—the sort to set arks afloat. Everything else had gone awry, why not that? But when I awoke on Midsummer Day, the sun greeted me cordially, coaxing the dew from the grass and the early roses as a light breeze wafted the scent of charred chimney over the gardens. I stood at the window and breathed in deeply all the scents of summer, fresh grass and carp ponds and blossoming herb knots until the whole of it mingled in my head and made me dizzy. A bee floated lazily in the window and out again as if beckoning me to follow. ~ Deanna Raybourn,
471:PATER PROFUNDUS. [Far below]   The chasm at my feet, dark, yawning,   Rests on a chasm deeper still,   A thousand streams, their waters joining,   In a cascade terrific fall;   The tree’s own life, its strength from nature,   Its trunk lifts skywards straight and tall—   All, all, show love’s almighty power   That shapes all things, cares for them all.   The storm breaks round me, fiercely howling,   The woods, ravines, all seem to quake, 12240 And yet, swelled by the deluge falling,   The torrent plunges down the rock   To water lovingly the valley;   The lightning burns the overcast   And clears the air, now smelling freshly,   Of all its foulness, dankness, mist—   All love proclaim! the creating power   By which the whole world is embraced.   Oh kindle, too, in me your fire,   Whose thoughts, disordered, cold, depressed, 12250 Inside the cage of dull sense languish,   Tormented, helpless, hard beset!   Dear God, relieve my spirit’s anguish,   My needy heart illuminate! ~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe,
472:He knew that she was to have an elaborate wedding, and the being who loved her most, who would love her forever, would not even have the right to die for her. Jealousy, which until that time had been drowned in weeping, took possession of his soul. He prayed to God that lightning of divine justice would strike Fermina Daza as she was about to give her vow of love and obedience to a man who wanted her for his wife only as a social adornment, and he went into rapture at the vision of the bride, his bride or no one’s, lying face up on the flagstones of the Cathedral, her orange blossoms laden with the dew of death, and the foaming torrent of her veil covering the funerary marbles of the fourteen bishops who were buried in front of the main altar. Once his revenge was consummated, however, he repented of his own wickedness, and then he saw Fermina Daza rising from the ground, her spirit intact, distant but alive, because it was not possible for him to imagine the world without her. ~ Gabriel Garc a M rquez,
473:When I got home at night, and delivered this message for Joe, my sister “went on the Rampage,” in a more alarming degree than at any previous period. She asked me and Joe whether we supposed she was door-mats under our feet, and how we dared to use her so, and what company we graciously thought she was fit for? When she had exhausted a torrent of such inquiries, she threw a candlestick at Joe, burst into a loud sobbing, got out the dustpan—which was always a very bad sign—put on her coarse apron, and began cleaning up to a terrible extent. Not satisfied with a dry cleaning, she took to a pail and scrubbing-brush, and cleaned us out of house and home, so that we stood shivering in the back-yard. It was ten o’clock at night before we ventured to creep in again, and then she asked Joe why he hadn’t married a Negress Slave at once? Joe offered no answer, poor fellow, but stood feeling his whisker and looking dejectedly at me, as if he thought it really might have been a better speculation. ~ Charles Dickens,
474:- Guarda quel torrente, lo vedi? - disse -. Facciamo finta che l’acqua sia il tempo che scorre. Se qui dove siamo noi è il presente, da quale parte pensi che sia il futuro?[...]
Diedi la risposta piú ovvia: - Il futuro è dove va l’aqua, goú per di là.
- Sbagliato, - decretò mio padre.[...]
Pensai al torrente: alla pozza, alla cascatella, alle trote che muovevano la coda per restare immobili, alle foglie e ai rametti che correvano oltre. E poi alle trote che scattavano incontro alle loro prede. Cominciai a capire un fatto, e cioè che tutte le cose, per un pesce di fiume, vengono da monte: insetti, rami, foglie, qualsiasi cosa. Per questo guarda verso l’alto, in attesa di ciò che deve arrivare. Se il punto in cui ti immergi in un fiume è il presente, pensai, allora il passato è l’acqua che ti ha superato, quella che va verso il basso e dove non c’è piú niente per te, mentre il futuro è l’acqua che scende dall’alto, portando pericoli e sorprese. Il passato è a valle, il futuro a monte. ~ Paolo Cognetti,
475:The weather has been strange in Japan this summer. The Rainey season, which usually winds down in the beginning of July, continued until the end of the month. It rained so much I got sick of it. There were torrential rains in parts of the country and a lot of people died. They say it’s all because of Global Warming. Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. Some experts claim it is, some claim it isn’t. There’s some proof that it is, some that it isn’t. But still people say that most of the problems the earth is facing are more or less due to Global Warming. When sales of apparel go down, when tons of drift wood wash up on the shore, when there are floods and droughts, when consumer prices go up—Most of the fault is ascribed to Global Warming. What the world needs is a set villain that people can point at and say, “It’s all your fault.” At any rate, due to this villain that can’t be dealt with, it went on raining and I could hardly practice biking at all during July. It’s not my fault, it’s that villain’s. ~ Haruki Murakami,
476:Basil Liddell Hart, the British author, called it the expanding torrent system tactic. He drew an analogy between an attacking army and a torrent of water: If we watch a torrent bearing down on each successive bank of earth and dam in its path, we see that it first beats against the obstacle feeling it and testing it at all points. Eventually, it finds a small crack at some point. Through this crack pour the first driplets of water and rush straight on. The pent up water on each side is drawn towards the breach. It swirls through and around the flanks of the breach, wearing away the earth on each side and so widening the gap. Simultaneously the water behind pours straight through the breach between the side eddies which are wearing away the flanks. Directly it is passed through it expands to widen once more the onreach of the torrent. Thus as the water pours through in ever-increasing volume the onreach of the torrent swells to its original proportions, leaving in turn each crumbling obstacle behind it. ~ William S Lind,
477: A Coloured Print By Shokei
It winds along the face of a cliff
This path which I long to explore,
And over it dashes a waterfall,
And the air is full of the roar
And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
In a silver torrent over some steep.
It clears the path with a mighty bound
And tumbles below and away,
And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
Are wet with its jewelled spray;
The air is misty and heavy with sound,
And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.
Oh! The dampness is very good to smell,
And the path is soft to tread,
And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
While little streamlets thread
Their own meandering way down the hill
Each singing its own little song, until
I forget that 't is only a pictured path,
And I hear the water and wind,
And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
To see what there is behind;
For it must lead to a happy land,
This little path by a waterfall spanned.
~ Amy Lowell,
478:I liked the way the boats looked, but I didn’t do anything about it. After a blowup with the feculent Times bloater—lying there on his waterbed playing the paper comb and drinking black rum—I flew up to Houston, Texas— don’t ask me why—and bought a touring bike. A bicycle, not a motorcycle. And I pedaled it to Los Angeles. The most terrible trip in the world. I mean Apsley Cherry-Garrard with Scott at the pole didn’t have a clue. I endured sandstorms, terrifying and lethal heat, thirst, freezing winds, trucks that tried to kill me, mechanical breakdowns, a Blue Norther, torrential downpours and floods, wolves, ranchers in single-engine planes dropping flour bombs. And Quoyle, the only thing that kept me going through all this was the thought of a little boat, a silent, sweet sailboat slipping through the cool water. It grew on me. I swore if I ever got off that fucking bicycle seat which was, by that time, welded into the crack of me arse, if ever I got pried off the thing I’d take to the sea and never leave her. ~ Annie Proulx,
479: Song
Oh! To be a flower
Nodding in the sun,
Bending, then upspringing
As the breezes run;
Holding up
A scent-brimmed cup,
Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.
Oh! To be a butterfly
Still, upon a flower,
Winking with its painted wings,
Happy in the hour.
Blossoms hold
Mines of gold
Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.
Oh! To be a cloud
Blowing through the blue,
Shadowing the mountains,
Rushing loudly through
Valleys deep
Where torrents keep
Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.
Oh! To be a wave
Splintering on the sand,
Drawing back, but leaving
Lingeringly the land.
Rainbow light
Flashes bright
Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.
Soon they die, the flowers;
Insects live a day;
Clouds dissolve in showers;
Only waves at play
Last forever.
Shall endeavor
Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?
210
~ Amy Lowell,
480:the NetMind 'knocked' ... ageless and childish. Today she caught the tumble of roses it threw into her mind in its version of hello, and laughed ... its roses were followed by torrent of images Faith could barely process ... She showed the NetMind a hand, palm-out, their by-now familiar signal for 'slow-down' ... Worried, she sent it an image of a woman colored in darkness ... The image she'd sent was returned to her, but with the DarkMind scrubbed out ... An image of a thousand tears overlaid the snapshot of the PsyNet.
The PsyNet was dying ... She sent the NetMind an image of arms outstretched, an offer of help.
The response was of a globe, but a globe colored in the shades of the Net - white stars against a background of black velvet. Around that globe was a shimmering shield that repelled her hands.
The Net wasn't ready for help.
But there were cracks in the shield. She touched a finger to one crack, and knew that was Judd. The one next to it, Walker. And not far from them, Sascha. So many fine, fine cracks. ~ Nalini Singh,
481: Hand
Clouds darken the plain.
From all sides, the mountains of the horizon move forward; the plain shrinks,
crumpled into valleys that grow deeper. The three rivers become torrents that
flow swiftly in their cavernous beds towards those dark spots where they meet:
the cities.
Then the sun again.
The mountains move back to the distant circular
horizon; the valleys disappear, and the three rivers flow placidly in their scarcely
perceptible beds of luminous sands. The cities glisten with their crystal walls and
the hard light is reflected from house to house along the glass streets. Men no
longer drag their dark-blue shadows like long chains that rattled on the opaque
cobble stones. Silence of light: frozen wines of sound. No wind stirs, sleepily
coiled around the towers that are transparent stems bearing the white flowers of
clouds which float, vehicles for our pure thoughts, like water-lilies on the surface
of a stream until they fade into the blue depth of space.
~ Edouard Roditi,
482:Meanwhile the colonel followed the mad woman, and by a strange effect of the superexcitation of his senses, saw her in the darkness, through the mist, as plainly as in broad daylight; he heard her sighs, her confused words, in spite of the continual moan of the autumn winds rushing through the deserted streets.

A few late townspeople, the collars of their coats raised to the level of their ears, their hands in their pockets, and their hats pressed down over their eyes, passed, at infrequent intervals, along the pavements; doors were heard to shut with a crash. An ill-fastened shutter banged against a wall, a tile torn from a housetop by the wind fell into the street; then, again, the immense torrent of air whirled on its course, drowning with its lugubrious voice all other sounds of the night.

It was one of those cold nights at the end of October, when the weathercocks, shaken by the north wind, turn giddily on the high roofs, and cry with shrilly voices, 'Winter! - Winter! - Winter is come!' ("The Child Stealer") ~ Erckmann Chatrian,
483:I, too, overflow; my desires have invented new desires, my body knows unheard-of songs. Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst-burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn't open my mouth, I didn't repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What's the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts? Where is the ebullient infinite woman who...hasn't been ashamed of her strength? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a ...divine composure), hasn't accused herself of being a monster? Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her (to sing, to write, to dare to speak, in short, to bring out something new), hasn't thought that she was sick? Well, her shameful sickness is that she resists death, that she makes trouble. ~ H l ne Cixous,
484:A Sonoran Desert village may receive five inches of rain one year and fifteen the next. A single storm may dump an inch and a half in the matter of an hour on one field and entirely skip another a few hours away. Dry spells lasting for months may be broken by a single torrential cloudburst, then resume again for several more months. Unseasonable storms, and droughts during the customary rainy seasons, are frequent enough to reduce patterns to chaos.

The Papago have become so finely tuned to this unpredictability that it shapes the way they speak of rain. It has also ingrained itself deeply in the structure of their language.

Linguist William Pilcher has observed that the Papago discuss events in terms of their probability of occurrence, avoiding any assumption that an event will happen for sure...

Since few Papago are willing to confirm that something will happen until it does, an element of surprise becomes part of almost everything. Nothing is ever really cut and dried. When rains do come, they're a gift, a windfall, a lucky break. ~ Gary Paul Nabhan,
485: The Ballad Of That P.N.
The shades of night had fallen at last,
When through the house a shadow passed,
That once had been the Genial Dan,
But now become a desperate man,
At question time he waited near,
And on the Premier's startled ear
A voice fell like half a brick -"Did ye, or did ye not, pay Crick
Did ye?"
By land and sea the Premier sped,
But found his foe where'er he fled,
The sailors swore -- with whitened lip -That Neptune swam behind the ship:
When to the stern the Premier ran,
Behold, 'twas no one else but Dan,
And through the roaring of the gale
That clarion voice took up the tale,
"Ahot there! Answer, straight and slick!
Did not the Ministry pay Crick
Did they?"
In railway trains he sought retreat,
But soon, from underneath the seat,
With blazing eye and bristling beard,
His ancient enemy appeared,
And like a boiling torrent ran
The accents of the angry Dan -"Tell me, John See, and tell me quick
Did not ye pay your shares to Crick
Did ye?"
~ Banjo Paterson,
486:Sometimes a kind of glory lights up the mind of a man. It happens to nearly everyone. You can feel it growing or preparing like a fuse burning toward dynamite. It is a feeling in the stomach, a delight of the nerves, of the forearms. The skin tastes the air, and every deep-drawn breath is sweet. Its beginning has the pleasure of a great stretching yawn; it flashes in the brain and the whole world glows outside your eyes. A man may have lived all of his life in the gray, and the land and trees of him dark and somber. The events, even the important ones, may have trooped by faceless and pale. And then -the glory- so that a cricket song sweetens his ears, the smell of the earth rises chanting to his nose, and dappling light under a tree blesses his eyes. Then a man pours outward, a torrent of him, and yet he is not diminished. And I guess a man's importance in the world can be measured by the quality and number of his glories. It is a lonely thing but it relates us to the world. It is the mother of all creativeness, and it sets each man separate from all other men. ~ John Steinbeck,
487:. . . In all parts of our globe, fanatics have cut each other's throats, publicly burnt each other, committed without a scruple and even as a duty, the greatest crimes, and shed torrents of blood . . .

Savage and furious nations, perpetually at war, adore, under divers names, some God, conformable to their ideas, that is to say, cruel, carnivorous, selfish, blood-thirsty. We find, in all the religions, 'a God of armies,' a 'jealous God,' an 'avenging God,' a 'destroying God,' a 'God,' who is pleased with carnage, and whom his worshippers consider it a duty to serve. Lambs, bulls, children, men, and women, are sacrificed to him. Zealous servants of this barbarous God think themselves obliged even to offer up themselves as a sacrifice to him. Madmen may everywhere be seen, who, after meditating upon their terrible God, imagine that to please him they must inflict on themselves, the most exquisite torments. The gloomy ideas formed of the deity, far from consoling them, have every where disquieted their minds, and prejudiced follies destructive to happiness. ~ Paul Henri Thiry,
488:True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.
'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
The line too labours, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!
While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove
Now burns with glory, and then melts with love;
Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow,
Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow:
Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found,
And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound!
The pow'r of music all our hearts allow,
And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now. ~ Alexander Pope,
489:18But on that day, the day that Gog shall come against the land of Israel, declares the Lord GOD,  a my wrath will be roused in my anger. 19For  b in my jealousy and in my blazing wrath I declare, On that day  c there shall be a great earthquake in the land of Israel. 20 d The fish of the sea and the birds of the heavens and the beasts of the field and all creeping things that creep on the ground, and all the people who are on the face of the earth,  e shall quake at my presence. And  f the mountains shall be thrown down, and the cliffs shall fall, and every wall shall tumble to the ground. 21 g I will summon a sword against Gog [4] on all my mountains, declares the Lord GOD.  h Every man’s sword will be against his brother. 22With pestilence and bloodshed  i I will enter into judgment with him, and  j I will rain upon him and  k his hordes and the many peoples who are with him  l torrential rains and hailstones,  m fire and sulfur. 23So I will show my greatness and my  n holiness and  o make myself known in the eyes of many nations. Then  p they will know that I am the LORD. ~ Anonymous,
490:Forse è vero, come sosteneva mia madre, che ognuno di noi ha una quota prediletta in montagna, un paesaggio che gli somiglia e dove si sente bene. La sua era senz'altro il bosco dei 1500 metri, quello di abeti e larici, alla cui ombra crescono il mirtillo, il ginepro e il rododendro, e si nascondono i caprioli. Io ero più attratto dalla montagna che viene dopo: prateria alpina, torrenti, torbiere, erbe d'alta quota, bestie al pascolo. Ancora più in alto la vegetazione scompare, la neve copre ogni cosa fino all'inizio dell'estate e il colore prevalente è il grigio della roccia, venato dal quarzo e intarsiato dal giallo dei licheni. Lì cominciava il mondo di mio padre. Dopo tre ore di cammino i prati e i boschi lasciavano il posto alle pietraie, ai laghetti nascosti nelle conche glaciali, ai canaloni solcati dalle slavine, alle sorgenti di acqua gelida. La montagna si trasformava in un luogo più aspro, inospitale e puro: lassù lui diventava felice. Ringiovaniva, forse, tornando ad altre montagne e altri tempi. Anche il suo passo sembrava perdere peso e ritrovare un'agilità perduta. ~ Paolo Cognetti,
491: England
Shoulders of upland brown laid dark to the sunset's bosom,
Living amber of wheat, and copper of new-ploughed loam,
Downs where the white sheep wander, little gardens in blossom,
Roads that wind through the twilight up to the lights of home.
Lanes that are white with hawthorn, dykes where the sedges shiver,
Hollows where caged winds slumber, moorlands where winds wake free,
Sowing and reaping and gleaning, spring and torrent and river,
Are they not more, by worlds, than the whole of the world can be?
Is there a corner of land, a furze-fringed rag of a by-way,
Coign of your foam-white cliffs or swirl of your grass-green waves,
Leaf of your peaceful copse, or dust of your strenuous highway,
But in our hearts is sacred, dear as our cradles, our graves?
Is not each bough in your orchards, each cloud in the skies above you,
Is not each byre or homestead, furrow or farm or fold,
Dear as the last dear drops of the blood in the hearts that love you,
Filling those hearts till the love is more than the heart can hold?
~ Edith Nesbit,
492: The Trail To Lillooet
Sob of fall, and song of forest, come you here on haunting quest,
Calling through the seas and silence, from God's country of the west.
Where the mountain pass is narrow, and the torrent white and strong,
Down its rocky-throated canyon, sings its golden-throated song.
You are singing there together through the God-begotten nights,
And the leaning stars are listening above the distant heights
That lift like points of opal in the crescent coronet
About whose golden setting sweeps the trail to Lillooet.
Trail that winds and trail that wanders, like a cobweb hanging high,
Just a hazy thread outlining mid-way of the stream and sky,
Where the Fraser River canyon yawns its pathway to the sea,
But half the world has shouldered up between its song and me.
Here, the placid English August, and the sea-encircled miles,
There--God's copper-coloured sunshine beating through the lonely aisles
Where the waterfalls and forest voice for ever their duet,
And call across the canyon on the trail to Lillooet.
~ Emily Pauline Johnson,
493:Beneath the bed of the river, below silts almost a storey thick, rested the remains of almost sixteen thousand citizens of Letheras. Their bones filled ancient wells that had been drilled before the river’s arrival – before the drainage course from the far eastern mountains changed cataclysmically, making the serpent lash its tail, the torrent carving a new channel, one that inundated a nascent city countless millennia ago. Letherii engineers centuries past had stumbled upon these submerged constructs, wondering at the humped corridors and the domed chambers, wondering at the huge, deep wells with their clear, cold water. And baffled to explain how such tunnels remained more or less dry, the cut channels seeming to absorb water like runners of sponge. No records existed any more recounting these discoveries – the tunnels and chambers and wells were lost knowledge to all but a chosen few. And of the existence of parallel passages, the hidden doors in the walls of corridors, and the hundreds of lesser tombs, not even those few were aware. Certain secrets belonged exclusively to the gods. ~ Steven Erikson,
494:16 Over the footbridge.— In our relations with people who are bashful about their feelings, we must be capable of dissimulation; they feel a sudden hatred against anyone who catches them in a tender, enthusiastic, or elevated feeling, as if he had seen their secrets. If you want to make them feel good at such moments, you have to make them laugh or voice some cold but witty sarcasm; then their feeling freezes and they regain power over themselves. But I am giving you the moral before telling the story. There was a time in our lives when we were so close that nothing seemed to obstruct our friendship and brotherhood, and only a small footbridge separated us. Just as you were about to step on it, I asked you: “Do you want to cross the footbridge to me?” —Immediately, you did not want to any more; and when I asked you again, you remained silent. Since then mountains and torrential rivers and whatever separates and alienates have been cast between us, and even if we wanted to get together, we couldn’t. But when you now think of that little footbridge, words fail you and you sob and marvel. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche,
495: Consistency
Should painter attach to a fair human head
The thick, turgid neck of a stallion,
Or depict a spruce lass with the tail of a bass,
I am sure you would guy the rapscallion.
Believe me, dear Pisos, that just such a freak
Is the crude and preposterous poem
Which merely abounds in a torrent of sounds,
With no depth of reason below 'em.
'T is all very well to give license to art,-The wisdom of license defend I;
But the line should be drawn at the fripperish spawn
Of a mere _cacoethes scribendi_.
It is too much the fashion to strain at effects,-Yes, that's what's the matter with Hannah!
Our popular taste, by the tyros debased,
Paints each barnyard a grove of Diana!
Should a patron require you to paint a marine,
Would you work in some trees with their barks on?
When his strict orders are for a Japanese jar,
Would you give him a pitcher like Clarkson?
Now, this is my moral: Compose what you may,
And Fame will be ever far distant
Unless you combine with a simple design
A treatment in toto consistent.
~ Eugene Field,
496: If This Be All
O God! if this indeed be all
That Life can show to me;
If on my aching brow may fall
No freshening dew from Thee, -If with no brighter light than this
The lamp of hope may glow,
And I may only dream of bliss,
And wake to weary woe;
If friendship's solace must decay,
When other joys are gone,
And love must keep so far away,
While I go wandering on, -Wandering and toiling without gain,
The slave of others' will,
With constant care, and frequent pain,
Despised, forgotten still;
Grieving to look on vice and sin,
Yet powerless to quell
The silent current from within,
The outward torrent's swell:
While all the good I would impart,
The feelings I would share,
Are driven backward to my heart,
And turned to wormwood, there;
If clouds must ever keep from sight
The glories of the Sun,
And I must suffer Winter's blight,
Ere Summer is begun;
If life must be so full of care,
Then call me soon to Thee;
Or give me strength enough to bear
My load of misery.
53
Acton
~ Anne Brontë,
497:I can't really remember the days. The light of the sun blurred and annihilated all color. But the nights, I remember them. The blue was more distant than the sky, beyond all depths, covering the bounds of the world. The sky, for me, was the stretch of pure brilliance crossing the blue, that cold coalescence beyond all color. Sometimes, it was in Vinh Long, when my mother was sad she'd order the gig and we'd drive out into the country to see the nighta s it was in the dry season. I had that good fortune- those nights, that mother. The light fell from the sky in cataracts of pure transparency, in torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue, you could hold it in your hand. Blue. The sky was the continual throbbing of the brilliance of the light. The night lit up everything, all the country on either bank of the river as far as the eye could reach. Every night was different, each one had a name as long as it lasted. Their sound was that of the dogs, the country dogs baying at mystery. They answered on another from village to village, until the time and space of the night were utterly consumed. ~ Marguerite Duras,
498:Time and again I, too, have felt so full of luminous torrents that I could burst - burst with forms much more beautiful than those which are put up in frames and sold for a stinking fortune. And I, too, said nothing, showed nothing; I didn't open my mouth, I didn't repaint my half of the world. I was ashamed. I was afraid, and I swallowed my shame and my fear. I said to myself: You are mad! What's the meaning of these waves, these floods, these outbursts? Where is the ebullient, infinite woman who, immersed as she was in her naiveté, kept in the dark about herself, led into self-disdain by the great arm of parental-conjugal phallocentrism, hasn't been ashamed of her strength? Who, surprised and horrified by the fantastic tumult of her drives (for she was made to believe that a well-adjusted normal woman has a ... divine composure), hasn't accused herself of being a monster? Who, feeling a funny desire stirring inside her (to sing, to write, to dare to speak, in short, to bring out something new), hasn't thought she was sick? Well, her shameful sickness is that she resists death, that she makes trouble. ~ H l ne Cixous,
499:As the city developed, the democratic habits of the village would be often carried into its heretofore specialized activities, with a constant rotation of human functions and civic duties, and with a full participation by each citizen in every aspect of the common life. This sparse material culture, in many places little better than a subsistence regimen, gave rise to a new kind of economy of abundance, for it opened up virgin territories of mind and spirit that had hardly been explored, let alone cultivated. The result was not merely a torrential outpouring of ideas and images in drama, poetry, sculpture, painting, logic, mathematics, and philosophy; but a collective life more highly energized, more heightened in its capacity for esthetic expression and rational evaluation, than had ever been achieved before. Within a couple of centuries the Greeks discovered more about the nature and potentialities of man than the Egyptians or the Sumerians seem to have discovered in as many millenia. All these achievements were concentrated in the Greek polis, and in particular, in the greatest of these cities, Athens. ~ Lewis Mumford,
500:Two monks were once travelling together down a wet and muddy road. The rain was torrential, making it almost impossible to walk along the path. As the two men were trudging along, a beautiful girl dressed in silk appeared. She was unable to cross the path and looked distressed.

“Let me help you”, said the older monk. He picked her up and carried her over the mud. His younger male companion did not utter a word that night until they reached their lodging temple. Then after hours of restrained conversation, the younger monk exclaimed: “We monks do not touch females; it is too tempting for us and can create a bad outcome”. The older monk looked into the younger monks eyes and said, “I left the girl on the road. Are you still carrying her?”

This ancient Zen story illustrates beautifully how so many of us are trapped in the habit of constantly “re-living” the past in our minds, thus dishonouring the present moment. The young monk wasted hours distressing himself with judgment, speculation, anxiety, resentment and ultimately self-perpetuated unhappiness as a direct result of not being mindful. ~ Christopher Dines,

--- IN CHAPTERS (in Dictionaries, in Quotes, in Chapters)



50

   5 Integral Yoga
   2 Philosophy
   2 Occultism
   2 Christianity


   7 The Mother
   5 Sri Ramakrishna
   5 Satprem
   3 Jorge Luis Borges
   2 Saint Augustine of Hippo
   2 Jorge Luis Borges
   2 Aleister Crowley


   7 The Mothers Agenda
   7 The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna
   5 Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness
   3 The Confessions of Saint Augustine
   2 Selected Fictions
   2 Savitri
   2 Magick Without Tears
   2 Collected Poems


05.03_-_Satyavan_and_Savitri, #Savitri, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  The frail sweet passing taste of earthly food
  Delays thee and the torrent's leaping wine,
  Descend. Let thy journey cease, come down to us.

07.03_-_The_Entry_into_the_Inner_Countries, #Savitri, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Into the whiteness of its muse of Space
  A spate, a torrent of the speed of Life
  Broke like a wind-lashed driven mob of waves
  --
  It brought a grandiose gust of the Breath of Life;
  Its torrent carried the world's hopes and fears,
  All life's, all Nature's dissatisfied hungry cry,

1.02_-_The_Three_European_Worlds, #The Ever-Present Origin, #Jean Gebser, #Integral
  
  Let us return to Petrarch's letter. Having mentioned the passage in Livy, he describes his wearisome trek as well as an encounter: "In the ravines we [Petrarch and his brother Gerardol] met an old shepherd who, in a torrent of words, tried to dissuade us from the ascent, saying he had never heard of anyone risking such a venture." Undaunted by the old man's lamentations, they pressed forward: "While still climbing, I urged myself forward by the thought that what I experienced today will surely benefit myself as well as many others who desire the blessed life . . . . "
  

1.03_-_Tara,_Liberator_from_the_Eight_Dangers, #How to Free Your Mind - Tara the Liberator, #Thubten Chodron, #unset
  The Flood of Attachment
  Sweeping us in the torrent of cyclic existence so hard to cross
  Where, conditioned by the propelling winds of karma,
  --
  more rebirths as we ounder in confusion and unhappiness.
  Crossing the torrents of cyclic existence is not easy. We need a guiding
  star to nd our way across the dark seas of the disturbing emotions. The Sanskrit noun tara means star, and the verb trri indicates to guide across, to

1.04_-_The_Silent_Mind, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  
  Active Meditation When we sit with our eyes closed to silence the mind, we are at first submerged by a torrent of thoughts; they crop up from every side, like frightened or even aggressive rats. There is only one way to stop this racket: to try and try again, patiently and persistently; above all, we must shift our concentration elsewhere, and not make the mistake of struggling mentally with the mind. All of us have, above the mind or deep inside ourselves, an aspiration, the very thing that has put us on the path in the first place, a yearning of our being, a password that has a special meaning for us; if we cling to that, the work becomes easier,
  positively rather than negatively oriented, and the more we repeat our password, the more powerful it becomes. We can also use an image,

1.05_-_Consciousness, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  through concentration and exercises, we can eventually feel a Force awakening at the bottom of the spine and ascending from level to level up to the top of the head, with an undulating movement, just like a snake. At each level this Force pierces (rather violently) through the corresponding center, which opens up, thereby putting us in contact with all the universal vibrations or energies associated with the frequency of that particular center. With Sri Aurobindo's yoga, the descending Force opens the same centers, slowly and gently, from top to bottom. Often, the lower centers do not even fully open until much later. This process has a distinct advantage if we appreciate that each center corresponds to a universal mode of consciousness or energy.
  To open the lower vital or subconscious centers at the beginning is to run the risk of being flooded not only by our own small personal problems, but by torrents of universal mud; we are automatically in contact with the confusion and mud of the world. This is why traditional yogas require the protective presence of a Master. With the descending Force this danger is avoided; we confront the lower centers only after our being is firmly established in the higher,
  superconscious light. Once the seeker controls his centers, he begins to know things and beings, the world and himself, as they really are,

1.05_-_Solitude, #Walden, and On The Duty Of Civil Disobedience, #Henry David Thoreau, #Philosophy
  
  With thinking we may be beside ourselves in a sane sense. By a conscious effort of the mind we can stand aloof from actions and their consequences; and all things, good and bad, go by us like a torrent. We are not wholly involved in Nature. I may be either the drift-wood in the stream, or Indra in the sky looking down on it. I _may_ be affected by a theatrical exhibition; on the other hand, I _may not_ be affected by an actual event which appears to concern me much more. I only know myself as a human entity; the scene, so to speak, of thoughts and affections; and am sensible of a certain doubleness by which I can stand as remote from myself as from another. However intense my experience, I am conscious of the presence and criticism of a part of me, which, as it were, is not a part of me, but spectator, sharing no experience, but taking note of it; and that is no more I than it is you. When the play, it may be the tragedy, of life is over, the spectator goes his way. It was a kind of fiction, a work of the imagination only, so far as he was concerned. This doubleness may easily make us poor neighbors and friends sometimes.
  

1.06_-_Quieting_the_Vital, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  
  spontaneously perceive all vibrations; and distinguishing what they are enables us to manipulate them, quiet them, avert or even alter them. Tranquillity, says Mother, is a very positive state; there is a positive peace which is not the opposite of strife an active and contagious and powerful peace, which subdues and calms, straightens and puts things in their place. We will give an example of this "contagious peace," although it belongs to a somewhat later stage in Sri Aurobindo's life. It was in Pondicherry, many years ago, in the season when tropical rains and sometimes cyclones sweep down suddenly and bring devastation. Doors and windows have to be barricaded with thick bamboo laths. That night, a cyclone erupted with torrents of rain, and Mother hurried to Sri Aurobindo's room to help him shut his windows. He was seated at his table, writing (for years Sri Aurobindo spent twelve hours a day writing, from six in the evening till six in the morning, then eight hours walking up and down "for the yoga"). The windows were wide open, but not a drop of rain had come inside his room. The peace that reigned there, recalls Mother, was so solid, so compact, that the cyclone could not enter.
  

1.06_-_Yun_Men's_Every_Day_is_a_Good_Day, #The Blue Cliff Records, #Yuanwu Keqin, #Zen
  flowing stream." As he goes along placidly, he can tread down
  and cut off even the roar of a vast swelling torrent. "His relaxed
  gaze descries the tracks of flying birds." Even if it's the tracks

1.07_-_TRUTH, #The Perennial Philosophy, #Aldous Huxley, #Philosophy
  
  Between the horns of Chuang Tzus dilemma there is no way but that of love, peace and joy. Only those who manifest their possession, in however small a measure, of the fruits of the Spirit can persuade others that the life of the spirit is worth living. Argument and controversy are almost useless; in many cases, indeed, they are positively harmful. But this, of course, is a thing that clever men with a gift for syllogisms and sarcasm, find it peculiarly hard to admit. Milton, no doubt, genuinely believed that he was working for truth, righteousness and the glory of God by exploding in torrents of learned scurrility against the enemies of his favourite dictator and his favourite brand of nonconformity. In actual fact, of course, he and the other controversialists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries did nothing but harm to the cause of true religion, for which, on one side or the other, they fought with an equal learning and ingenuity and with the same foulmouthed intemperance of language. The successive controversies went on, with occasional lucid intervals, for about two hundred yearsPapists arguing with anti-Papists, Protestants with other Protestants, Jesuits with Quietists and Jansenists. When the noise finally died down, Christianity (which, like any other religion, can survive only if it manifests the fruits of the Spirit) was all but dead; the real religion of most educated Europeans was now nationalistic idolatry. During the eighteenth century this change to idolatry seemed (after the atrocities committed in the name of Christianity by Wallenstein and Tilly) to be a change for the better. This was because the ruling classes were determined that the horrors of the wars of religion should not be repeated and therefore deliberately tempered power politics with gentlemanliness. Symptoms of gentlemanliness can still be observed in the Napoleonic and Crimean wars. But the national Molochs were steadily devouring the eighteenth-century ideal. During the first and second World Wars we have witnessed the total elimination of the old checks and self-restraints. The consequences of political idolatry now display themselves without the smallest mitigation either of humanistic honour and etiquette or of transcendental religion. By its internecine quarrels over words, forms of organization, money and power, historic Christianity consummated the work of self-destruction, to which its excessive preoccupation with things in time had from the first so tragically committed it.
  

1.1.04_-_Philosophy, #Essays Divine And Human, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   conclusion, contradiction, modification, ideal, practice, possibility, impossibility (which must be yet attempted,) and keeping the soul calm and the eye clear in this mighty flux and gurge of the world, seek everywhere for some word of harmony, not forgetting immediate in ultimate truth, nor ultimate in immediate, but giving each its due place and portion in the Infinite
  Purpose. Some minds, like Plato, like Vivekananda, feel more than others this mighty complexity and give voice to it. They pour out thought in torrents or in rich and majestic streams.
  

1.12_-_The_Superconscient, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  
  If instead of rushing to his pen or brush or into a torrent of words to relieve himself of the excess of light received, the seeker strives to preserve his silence and transparency, if he remains patient, he will see the flashes gradually multiply, draw nearer, as it were, and observe another consciousness slowly dawn within him at once the fulfillment and the source of both the illumined mind and the intuitive mind, and of all human mental forms. This is the overmind.
  

1.17_-_The_Transformation, #Sri Aurobindo or the Adventure of Consciousness, #Satprem, #Integral Yoga
  The second phase of the work of transformation thus drew to a close. After working for fourteen years, from 1926 to 1940, in an individual, concentrated manner, with a handful of carefully chosen disciples, Sri Aurobindo and the Mother had come up against a wall.
  The moment the supramental light approached the earth to join with the same light involved in Matter, torrents of mud would rise up from the collective subconscient and drown everything. To help humanity out, Sri Aurobindo remarked, it was not enough for an individual,
  however great, to achieve an ultimate solution individually, [because]

1.23_-_Improvising_a_Temple, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  
  You raise so vast and razor-edged a question when you write of the supposed antinomy of "soul" and "sense" that it seemed better to withhold comment until this later letter; much meditation was most needful to compress the answer within reasonable limits; even to give it form at all is no easy matter. For this is probably the symptom of the earliest stirring of the mind of the cave-man to reflection, thereunto moved by other symptoms those of the morning after following upon the night before. It is have we not already dealt with that matter after a fashion? evidence of disease when an organ become aware of its own modes of motion. Certainly the mere fact of questioning Life bears witness to some interruption of its flow, just as a ripple on an even stream tells of a rock submerged. The fiercer the torrent and the bigger the obstacle, the greater the disturbance to the surface have I not seen them in the Bralduh eight feet high? Lethargic folk with no wild impulse of Will may get through Life in bovine apathy; we may well note that (in a sense) the rage of the water seems to our perturbed imagining actually to increase and multiply the obstructions; there is a critical point beyond which the ripples fight each other!
  

1.51_-_How_to_Recognise_Masters,_Angels,_etc.,_and_how_they_Work, #Magick Without Tears, #Aleister Crowley, #Philosophy
  
  ... Lassati sed non Satiati[105] by midnight, I expected to sleep; but was aroused by Virakam being apparently seized with a violent attack of hysteria, in which she poured forth a frantic torrent of senseless hallucination. I was irritated and tried to calm her. But she insisted that her experience was real; that she bore an important message to me from some invisible individual. Such nonsense increased my irritation. But after about an hour of it my jaw fell with astonishment. I became suddenly aware of a coherence in her ravings, and further that they were couched in my own language of symbols. My attention being thus awakened, I listened to what she was saying. A few minutes convinced me that she was actually in communication with some Intelligence who had a message for me.
  

2.01_-_The_Path, #Words Of The Mother II, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  *
  All was gold and gold and gold, a torrent of golden light pouring down in an uninterrupted flow and bringing with it the consciousness that the path of the gods is a sunlit path in which difficulties lose all reality.
  

2.11_-_WITH_THE_DEVOTEES_AT_DAKSHINEWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  "Spiritual discipline is necessary in order to see God. I had to pass through very severe discipline. How many austerities I practised under the bel-tree! I would lie down under it, crying to the Divine Mother, 'O Mother, reveal Thyself to me.' The tears would flow in torrents and soak my body."
  

2.12_-_THE_FESTIVAL_AT_PNIHTI, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  Sri Ramakrishna then went to Adhar's house. After dusk he sang and danced in Adhar's drawing-room. M., Rkhl , and other devotees were present. After the music he sat down, still in an ecstatic mood. He said to Rkhl: "This religious fervour is not like rain in the rainy season, which comes in torrents and goes in torrents. It is like an image of iva that has not been set up by human hands but is a natural one that has sprung up, as it were, from the bowels of the earth. The other day you left Dakshineswar in a temper. I prayed to the Divine Mother to forgive you."
  

2.13_-_THE_MASTER_AND_M., #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  MASTER: "God can be realized by true faith alone. And the realization is hastened if you believe everything about God. The cow that picks and chooses its food gives milk only in dribblets, but if she eats all kinds of plants, then her milk flows in torrents.
  

2.17_-_M._AT_DAKSHINEWAR, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  "The farmer brings water to his field through a canal from the river. He stands aside when only a little digging remains to be done to connect the field with the water. Then the earth becomes soaked and falls of itself, and the water of the river pours into the canal in torrents.
  

2.20_-_2.29_-_RULES_FOR_HOUSEHOLDERS_AND_MONKS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  MASTER: "Be on your guard even now. It is difficult, no doubt, to check the torrent in the rainy season. But a great deal of water has gone out. If you build the embankment now it will stand.
  

2.30_-_2.39_-_THE_MASTER_IN_VARIOUS_MOODS, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  MASTER: 'The jnanis regard everything as illusory, like a dream; but the bhaktas accept all the states. The milk flows only in dribblets from the Jnni. (All laugh.) There are some cows that pick and choose their fodder; hence their milk flows only in dribblets. But cows that don't discriminate so much, and eat whatever they get, give milk in torrents. A superior devotee of God accepts both the Absolute and the Relative; therefore he is able to enjoy the Divine even when his mind comes down from the Absolute. Such a devotee is like the cows that give milk in torrents." (All laugh.) MAHIMA: "But the milk of a cow that eats without discrimination smells a little."
  
  --
  
  MASTER (to Ram): "There were no instruments to accompany the songs. The singing creates an atmosphere when there is proper accompaniment. (Smiling) Do you know how Balarm manages a festival? He is like a miserly brahmin raising a cow. The cow must eat very little but give milk in torrents. (All laugh.) Sing your own songs and beat your own drums: that's Balarm's idea!" (All laugh.) Discussion with Trailokya
  

2.40_-_2.49_-_THE_MASTER_AT_THE_HOUSES_OF_BALARM_AND_GIRISH, #The Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  
  The cow that discriminates too much about food gives milk in dribblets. But the cow that gulps down everything-herbs, leaves, grass, husks, straw-gives milk in torrents. (All laugh.)
  
  --
  
  "One cannot attain divine knowledge till one gets rid of pride. Water does not stay on the top of a mound; but into low land it flows in torrents from all sides."
  

5.1.01_-_Ilion, #Collected Poems, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Such he seemed to their eyes who remembered Greece and her waters,
  Heard in their souls the torrent's leap and the wind on the hill-tops.
  

5.1.02_-_Ahana, #Collected Poems, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Something of child-heart beauty, something of greatness and power,
  Dwell with it still in its early torrent laughter and brightness,
  Call in the youth of its floods and the voice of the wideness and whiteness.

7.11_-_Building_and_Destroying, #Words Of Long Ago, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  
  Let him harness the power of the flood by bridging the raging torrents and building dykes along the swelling rivers.
  

Aeneid, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  as when, with furious south winds, a fire
  has fallen on a wheat field, or a torrent
  that hurtles from a mountain stream lays low
  --
  and Venus' Dardan grandson in alarm
  seek different shelters through the fields; the torrents
  roar down the mountains. Dido and the Trojan
  --
  has hemmed it in; along the middle runs,
  tumultuous, a torrent echoing
  across the rocks in twisting eddies. Here
  --
  foot presses against foot; man crowds on man.
  But elsewhere in the battle, where a torrent
  had hurtled rolling boulders far and wide
  --
  Such were the deaths dealt by the Dardan chieftain
  across the plains while he raged like a torrent
  or black whirlwind. The boy Ascanius
  --
  Then Metabus, as many troops draw near,
  plunges into the torrent; and in triumph,
  now safe upon the other shore, he plucks

Agenda_Vol_10, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  
  It seems I've raised torrents with A.R.?
  Poor man, he wept.... But in the end, I think it did him good.

Agenda_Vol_12, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  (silence,
  torrential rain)
  

Agenda_Vol_2, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  What experiences!
  Well, mon petit, I have to go now. I've been talking in torrents!
  I wanted to carry on with my morning's program, but I couldn't. There's a mound of letters, all in a

Agenda_Vol_3, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  sight of it, one must be able to relate directly to the Supreme. So when people say, "I want to see you,"
  or "I see you," they mean the aspect of mine they know. But these torrents of forms are ALL true, and
  most of them truer than this body has ever been. To my consciousness it was always, oh, so pitiably

Agenda_Vol_4, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  (After a silence) We'll see on Monday.
  It's rather odd, at times it comes in torrents (more than streams): forms, images, expressions,
  revelations, it comes flowing, flowing, flowing - if I started writing I could write endlessly. At other
  --
  has changed, it's no longer a baby, it no longer has a child's fancies. But when that kind of Rhythm
  comes, when something says, "Oh, this is fine!"... mon petit, it comes in torrentS from all sides
  without my saying a word. Just like that. There was a time when the body enjoyed it, it was delighted
  --
  didn't even occur to him!
  There was another case of a man who had been brought to the cremation ground, but a torrential
  rain started - no question of burning him. They left him there and said, "We'll burn him tomorrow."
  --
  swallowed up. Like in '60, when I saw the supramental forces descend (mon petit, what a sight it was!
  They were descending, it was stupendous, marvelous; they were like torrents, you felt as though they
  were going to inundate everything), and then, from below, there rose up great, dark blue masses like

Agenda_Vol_8, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  Yes, but each thing has its purpose and usefulness.
  I also have deities (Mother lifts three statuettes, deluged with a few others in a torrent of paper):
  this is a standing Ganesh; this is Garuda, Vishnu's attendant; and this is Shiva's bull. And here (a little

Agenda_Vol_9, #The Mothers Agenda, #The Mother, #Integral Yoga
  
  The extraordinary thing is that with such a... fantastic torrent of force as the one near you, or on
  you, or in you, it doesn't find a more physical expression than that!
  But more and more (through news people bring or things that happen), I have more and more the sense
  of such an awesome torrent that... Yes, I think it's like this: I think everything is changing, and
  changing with fantastic speed, but we don't notice it and we'll only become aware of it... afterwards.

Appendix_4_-_Priest_Spells, #Advanced Dungeons and Dragons 2E, #unset, #Buddhism
  
        By this spell, the caster calls forth weather appropriate to the climate and season of the area he is in. Thus, in spring a tornado, thunderstorm, sleet storm, or hot weather could be summoned. In summer a torrential rain, heat wave, hail storm, etc., can be called for. In autumn, hot or cold weather, fog, sleet, etc., could be summoned. Winter enables great cold, blizzard, or thaw conditions to be summoned. Hurricane-force winds can be summoned near coastal regions in the later winter or early spring. The summoned weather is not under the control of the caster. It might last but a single turn, in the case of a tornado, or for hours or even days in other cases. The area of effect likewise varies from about 1 square mile to 100 square miles. Note that several casters can act in concert to greatly affect weather, controlling winds, and working jointly to summon very extreme weather conditions.
  

Book_of_Imaginary_Beings_(text), #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  Vuela sin orden, pende sin aseo;
  Un torrente es su barba impetuoso
  Que, adusto hijo de este Pirineo,
  --
  the Lethe, in the wind which stormily combs it, blowing in
  a tangle and dangling in disorder; a plunging torrent is his
  beard, which - stern son of this Pyrenee - overflows his

COSA_-_BOOK_I, #The Confessions of Saint Augustine, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
  
  But woe is thee, thou torrent of human custom! Who shall stand against thee? how long shalt thou not be dried up? how long roll the sons of Eve into that huge and hideous ocean, which even they scarcely overpass who climb the cross? Did not I read in thee of Jove the thunderer and the adulterer? both, doubtless, he could not be; but so the feigned thunder might countenance and pander to real adultery. And now which of our gowned masters lends a sober ear to one who from their own school cries out, "These were Homer's fictions, transferring things human to the gods; would he had brought down things divine to us!" Yet more truly had he said, "These are indeed his fictions; but attributing a divine nature to wicked men, that crimes might be no longer crimes, and whoso commits them might seem to imitate not abandoned men, but the celestial gods."
  
  And yet, thou hellish torrent, into thee are cast the sons of men with rich rewards, for compassing such learning; and a great solemnity is made of it, when this is going on in the forum, within sight of laws appointing a salary beside the scholar's payments; and thou lashest thy rocks and roarest, "Hence words are learnt; hence eloquence; most necessary to gain your ends, or maintain opinions." As if we should have never known such words as "golden shower," "lap," "beguile," "temples of the heavens," or others in that passage, unless Terence had brought a lewd youth upon the stage, setting up Jupiter as his example of seduction.
  

COSA_-_BOOK_III, #The Confessions of Saint Augustine, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
  This also springs from that vein of friendship. But whither goes that
  vein? whither flows it? wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch
  bubbling forth those monstrous tides of foul lustfulness, into which it

COSA_-_BOOK_VIII, #The Confessions of Saint Augustine, #Saint Augustine of Hippo, #Christianity
  whether children were wont in any kind of play to sing such words: nor
  could I remember ever to have heard the like. So checking the torrent
  of my tears, I arose; interpreting it to be no other than a command from

Liber_71_-_The_Voice_of_the_Silence_-_The_Two_Paths_-_The_Seven_Portals, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
   43. Eternal life's pure waters, clear and crystal, with the monsoon
   tempest's muddy torrents cannot mingle.
   We are now again on the subject of suppressing thought. The pure water
   is the stilled mind, the torrent the mind invaded by thoughts.
   44. Heaven's dew-drop glittering in the morn's first sun beam within

Sayings_of_Sri_Ramakrishna_(text), #Sayings of Sri Ramakrishna, #Sri Ramakrishna, #Hinduism
  up with great appetite, gives an abundant supply. Her milk comes down from the udder into the pail in
  torrents.
  501. He who has faith has all, and he who lacks it lacks all.
  --
  becomes possible. Do you comprehend the nature of the Nara Lila? One may well say that it is like the
  gushing out of the water of a vast terrace in a big torrent through a wide channel. It is the power of that
  Absolute, the Sachchidananda, which flows outbecomes manifestthrough a channel, as it were. All

The_Act_of_Creation_text, #The Act of Creation, #Arthur Koestler, #Psychology
  century ago, on tracks beaten smooth by popular psychology, the
  mass-media, and torrents of print. The novelist no longer needs to
  crank up the reader's imagination as if it were a model-T car; he

The_Aleph, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  On the burning February morning Beatriz Viterbo died, after braving an agony that never for a single moment gave way to self-pity or fear, I noticed that the sidewalk billboards around Constitution Plaza were advertising some new brand or other of American cigarettes. The fact pained me, for I realised that the wide and ceaseless universe was already slipping away from her and that this slight change was the first of an endless series. The universe may change but not me, I thought with a certain sad vanity. I knew that at times my fruitless devotion had annoyed her; now that she was dead, I could devote myself to her memory, without hope but also without humiliation. I recalled that the thirtieth of April was her birthday; on that day to visit her house on Garay Street and pay my respects to her father and to Carlos Argentino Daneri, her first cousin, would be an irreproachable and perhaps unavoidable act of politeness. Once again I would wait in the twilight of the small, cluttered drawing room, once again I would study the details of her many photographs: Beatriz Viterbo in profile and in full colour; Beatriz wearing a mask, during the Carnival of 1921; Beatriz at her First Communion; Beatriz on the day of her wedding to Roberto Alessandri; Beatriz soon after her divorce, at a luncheon at the Turf Club; Beatriz at a seaside resort in Quilmes with Delia San Marco Porcel and Carlos Argentino; Beatriz with the Pekingese lapdog given her by Villegas Haedo; Beatriz, front and three-quarter views, smiling, hand on her chin... I would not be forced, as in the past, to justify my presence with modest offerings of books -- books whose pages I finally learned to cut beforehand, so as not to find out, months later, that they lay around unopened.
  Beatriz Viterbo died in 1929. From that time on, I never let a thirtieth of April go by without a visit to her house. I used to make my appearance at seven-fifteen sharp and stay on for some twenty-five minutes. Each year, I arrived a little later and stay a little longer. In 1933, a torrential downpour coming to my aid, they were obliged to ask me for dinner. Naturally, I took advantage of that lucky precedent. In 1934, I arrived, just after eight, with one of those large Santa Fe sugared cakes, and quite matter-of-factly I stayed to dinner. It was in this way, on these melancholy and vainly erotic anniversaries, that I came into the gradual confidences of Carlos Argentino Daneri.
  Beatriz had been tall, frail, slightly stooped; in her walk there was (if the oxymoron may be allowed) a kind of uncertain grace, a hint of expectancy. Carlos Argentino was pink-faced, overweight, gray-haired, fine-featured. He held a minor position in an unreadable library out on the edge of the Southside of Buenos Aires. He was authoritarian but also unimpressive. Until only recently, he took advantage of his nights and holidays to stay at home. At a remove of two generations, the Italian "S" and demonstrative Italian gestures still survived in him. His mental activity was continuous, deeply felt, far-ranging, and -- all in all -- meaningless. He dealt in pointless analogies and in trivial scruples. He had (as did Beatriz) large, beautiful, finely shaped hands. For several months he seemed to be obsessed with Paul Fort -- less with his ballads than with the idea of a towering reputation. "He is the Prince of poets," Daneri would repeat fatuously. "You will belittle him in vain -- but no, not even the most venomous of your shafts will graze him."

the_Eternal_Wisdom, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  
  23) Cultivate the intelligence so that you may drink of the torrent of certitude. ~ Baha-ullah, "Tablets"
  
  --
  
  2) What is human life? A bubble on a torrent produced by the rain, which dances and balances itself gaily on the waves, full of new life. And suddenly it bursts and disappears leaving no trace to mark hereafter the place that for a few moments it had occupied. ~ Zeisho Aisuho
  
  --
  
  3) That man whose mind is solely attached to the objects of sense, him death drags with it as an impetuous torrent sweeps away a slumbering village. ~ Dhammapada
  
  --
  
  3) The world is carried away in the torrent of desire, in its eddies there is no soil of safety. Wisdom alone is a solid raft and meditation a firm foothold. ~ Fo-shu-hing-tsan king
  
  --
  
  20) Battle with all thy force to cross the great torrent of desire. ~ Buddhist Texts
  
  --
  
  16) A torrent of clarity streams from the mind which is purified in full of all its impurities. ~ Buddhist Texts
  
  --
  
  13) That man whose mind attaches itself only to sensible objects, death carries away like a torrent dragging with it a sleeping village. ~ Dhammapada
  
  --
  
  42) Cross force-fully the torrent flood of the world. ~ Dhammapada
  
  --
  
  44) Few among men come to that other shore of deliverance; the common run of mortals only wander parallel to its bank. But those who are consecrated to Truth and live according to its Law and strive for one only end, they shall come by that other shore and they shall swim across death's impetuous torrent. ~ Dhammapada
  
  45) Those who are consecrated to Truth shall surely gain the other shore and they shall cross the torrent waves of death. ~ Buddhist Texts
  Recent English Poetry - II View Similar Karma
  --
  
  12) Time is a flood, an impetuous torrent which drags with it all that is born. A thing has scarcely appeared when it is carried away; another has already passed; and this other will soon fall into the gulf. ~ Marcus Aurelius
  

The_Garden_of_Forking_Paths_1, #Selected Fictions, #Jorge Luis Borges , #unset
  To Victoria Ocampo
  In his A History of the World War (page 212), Captain Liddell Hart reports that a planned offensive by thirteen British divisions, supported by fourteen hundred artillery pieces, against the German line at Serre-Montauban, scheduled for July 24, 1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th. He comments that torrential rain caused this delay - which lacked any special significance. The following deposition, dictated by, read over, and then signed by Dr. Yu Tsun, former teacher of English at the Tsingtao Hochschule, casts unsuspected light upon this event. The first two pages are missing.
  

The_Garden_of_Forking_Paths_2, #Selected Fictions, #Jorge Luis Borges , #unset
  
  On page 22 of Liddell Hart's History of World War I you will read that an attack against the Serre-Montauban line by thirteen British divisions (supported by 1,400 artillery pieces), planned for the 24th of July, 1916, had to be postponed until the morning of the 29th. The torrential rains, Captain Liddell Hart comments, caused this delay, an insignificant one, to be sure.
  

The_Golden_Bough, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  rain has not fallen for a long time, a party of villagers goes in
  procession to the bed of a mountain torrent, headed by a priest, who
  leads a black dog. At the chosen spot they tether the beast to a
  --
  convinced that by so doing she will soon bring rain down in
  torrents.
  
  --
  desolation of death appear to brood, is suddenly, after a few days
  of torrential rain, transformed into a landscape smiling with
  verdure and peopled with teeming multitudes of insects and lizards,
  --
  leaf, was then driven on to the grating and there stabbed to death
  with a consecrated spear. Its hot reeking blood poured in torrents
  through the apertures, and was received with devout eagerness by the

The_Immortal, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  The Troglodyte's lowly birth and condition recalled to my memory the image of Argos, the moribund old dog of the Odyssey, so I gave him the name Argos, and tried to teach it to him. Time and time again, I failed. No means I employed, no severity, no obstinacy of mine availed. Motionless, his eyes dead, he seemed not even to perceive the sounds which I was attempting to imprint upon him. Though but a few paces from me, he seemed immensely distant. Lying in the sand like a small, battered sphinx carved from lava, he allowed the heavens to circle in the sky above him from the first dusky light of morning to the last dusky light of night. It seemed simply impossible that he had not grasped my intention. I recalled that it is generally believed among the Ethiopians that monkeys deliberately do not speak, so that they will not be forced to work; I attributed Argos' silence to distrust or fear. From that vivid picture I passed on to others, even more extravagant. I reflected that Argos and I lived our lives in separate universes; I reflected that our perceptions were identical but that Argos combined them differently than I, constructed from them different objects; I reflected that perhaps for him there were no objects, but rather a constant, dizzying play of swift impressions. I imagined a world without memory, without time; I toyed with the possibility of a language that had no nouns, a language of impersonal verbs or indeclinable adjectives. In these reflections many days went by, and with the days, years. Until one morning, something very much like joy occurred - the sky rained slow, strong rain.
  Nights in the desert can be frigid, but that night had been like a cauldron. I dreamed that a river in Thessaly (into whose waters I had thrown back a golden fish) was coming to save me; I could hear it approaching over the red sand and the black rock; a coolness in the air and the scurrying sound of rain awakened me. I ran out naked to welcome it. The night was waning; under the yellow clouds, the tribe, as joyously as I, was offering itself up to the vivid torrents in a kind of ecstasy - they reminded me of Corybantes possessed by the god. Argos, his eyes fixed on the empyrean, was moaning; streams of water rolled down his face - not just rain, but also (I later learned) tears. Argos, I cried, Argos!
  Then, with gentle wonder, as though discovering something lost and forgotten for many years, Argos stammered out these words: Argos, Ulysses' dog. And then, without looking at me, This dog lying on the dungheap.

The_Shadow_Out_Of_Time, #unset, #Sri Aurobindo, #Integral Yoga
  frigidly from that abominable gulf whence the obscene whistling came.
  There are memories of leaping and lurching over obstacles of every sort, with that torrent
  of wind and shrieking sound growing moment by moment, and seeming to curl and twist

Thus_Spoke_Zarathustra_text, #Thus Spoke Zarathustra, #Friedrich Nietzsche, #Philosophy
  to live long and in wretched contentment.
  I am a railing by the torrent: let those who can,
  grasp mel Your crutch, however, I am not.
  --
  not learned to smile and to be without jealousy; as yet
  his torrential passion has not become still in beauty.
  Verily, it is not in satiety that his desire shall grow

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