Diane Samuels Quotes

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An Abyss is a deep and terrible chasm. What’s a chasm? A deep gash in the rocks.

Diane Samuels
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An Abyss is a deep and terrible chasm. What’s a chasm? A deep gash in the rocks.

Diane Samuels
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We have to live like people in a web of knives, we mustn't reach out our hands or we get them gashed.

Robinson Jeffers, The Selected Poetry
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Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies.And be it gash or gold it will not comeAgain in this identical disguise.

Gwendolyn Brooks, Annie Allen
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We do not disappear without a trace. We leave a wake that never quite disappears, a gash in time that we so laboriously leave behind us.

Lars Saabye Christensen, The Half Brother
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No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillionShine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins
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Where is the pain when your pride is wounded? And why do we say that: wounded? There is no gash, no blood, not even a scratch. Which part of us hurts? The brain cells? The neurons? What, for goodness' sake, what?

A.P., Sabine
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...Having felt the piercing gash of grief and lived through it, having loved to the brink of brokenness, and having learned the difference between friendship and frivolity, one eventually takes a conscious step through the invisible membrane that separates hubris from humility...

Eldonna Edwards, Lost in Transplantation: Memoir of an Unconventional Organ Donor
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The water never stops, never gives up, and denies no faults in the path it takes,” he explained, my eyes still focused down the ravine, “It moves silently, only a mere trickle to entertain itself as it causes a massive gash in the world. This, Zack, is true power.

Daniel "Z" Hastings, Soulfire
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The grey of a bitter, starved-looking morning. The town like a mortally wounded creature, torn by shells, gashed open by bombs. Dead streets - streets of death - death in streets and their houses; yet people still able to sleep and still sleeping.

Radclyffe Hall
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His mind, grooved through the uncounted ages to ultimate despair, soared up insanely. His legs and arms glistened like tongues of living fire as they writhed and twisted in the light that blazed from the portholes. His mouth, a gash in his caricature of a human head, slavered a white frost that floated away in little frozen globules.

A.E. van Vogt
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