Hibernate Quotes

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TOMORROW’S WILLSilent world, I find myself,Glad no one hears my thoughts.In dark cocoon, I hibernate,Yet spirit spills every thought.A second chance to try again.The risks I know too well.Two sunsets turning into six-Awaits tomorrow's will.

Giorge Leedy
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Since the basic cause of man’s anxiety is the possibility of being either a saint or a sinner, it follows that there are only two alternatives for him. Man can either mount upward to the peak of eternity or else slip backwards to the chasms of despair and frustration. Yet there are many who think there is yet another alternative, namely, that of indifference. They think that, just as bears hibernate for a season in a state of suspended animation, so they, too, can sleep through life without choosing to live for God or against Him. But hibernation is no escape; winter ends, and one is then forced to make a decision—indeed, the very choice of indifference is itself a decision. White fences do not remain white fences by having nothing done to them; they soon become black fences. Since there is a tendency in us that pulls us back to the animal, the mere fact that we do not resist it operates to our own destruction. Just as life is the sum of forces that resist death, so, too, man’s will must be the sum of the forces that resist frustration. A man who has taken poison into his system can ignore the antidote, or he can throw it out the window; it makes no difference which he does, for death is already on the march. St. Paul warns us, “How shall we escape it we neglect so great a salvation” (Heb 2:3). By the mere fact that we do not go forward, we go backward. There are no plains in the spiritual life, we are either going uphill or coming down. Furthermore the pose of indifference is only intellectual. The will must choose. And even though an “indifferent” soul does not positively reject the infinite, the infinite rejects it. The talents that are unused are taken away, and the Scriptures tell us that, “But because though art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will begin to vomit thee out of my mouth” (Rev. 3:16).

Fulton J. Sheen, Peace of Soul: Timeless Wisdom on Finding Serenity and Joy by the Century's Most Acclaimed Catholic Bishop
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The swallow that hibernates underwater is a creature called yearning.

David Quammen, Wild Thoughts from Wild Places
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We think to dance, and dance in thought. But to hibernate in the mind, is to bring upon us an apocalypse of the Soul.

Ilyas Kassam
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Come thaw my frozen heart, my little arctic kitten.”Unable to resist, Aria jumped in and picked up the next line. “No chance, my yeti man, I’d rather be frostbitten.”“Let me be your snowman. Come live in my igloo.”“I’d rather freeze to death than hibernate with you.

Veronica Rossi, Through the Ever Night
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Jack Frost hibernates from March to November,dreaming snowflake designs to share in December.With glittering breath, snowstorms, and blue blizzards,lakes made of crystal, he’s an icy wizard!People assume winter will be harsh, cold, and crueland that Jack must be a wicked, cold-weather ghoul.But he’s truly an artist, known as Bringer of Ice,and although his heart is cold, he’s really quite nice.

Claudine Carmel, Lucy Lick-Me-Not and the Greedy Gubbins: A Christmas Story
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Look at her good, Lily," she said, "'cause you're seeing the end of something.""I am?""Yes, you are, because as long as people have been on this earth, the moon has been a mystery to us. Think about it. She is strong enough to pull the oceans, and when she dies away, she always comes back again. My mama used to tell me Our Lady lived on the moon and that I should dance when her face was bright and hibernate when it was dark." August stared at the sky a long moment and then, turning toward the house, said, "Now it won't ever be the same, not after they've landed up there and walked around on her. She'll be just one more science project.

Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees
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We open our mouths and out flow words whose ancestries we do not even know. We are walking lexicons. In a single sentence of idle chatter we preserve Latin, Anglo-Saxon, Norse; we carry a museum inside our heads, each day we commemorate people of whom we have never heard. More than that, we speak volumes – our language is the language of everything we have read. Shakespeare and the Authorised Version surface in supermarkets, on buses, chatter on radio and television. I find this miraculous. I never cease to wonder at it. That words are more durable than anything, that they blow with the wind, hibernate and reawaken, shelter parasitic on the most unlikely hosts, survive and survive and survive.

Penelope Lively, Moon Tiger
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