Shells Quotes

“Perhaps middle age is or should be a period of shedding shells the shell of ambition the shell of material accumulations and possessions the shell of the ego.”

“And then, some morning in the second week, the mind wakes, comes to life again. Not in a city sense—no—but beach-wise. It begins to drift, to play, to turn over in gentle careless rolls like those lazy waves on the beach. One never knows what chance treasures these easy unconscious rollers may toss up, on the smooth white sand of the conscious mind; what perfectly rounded stone, what rare shell from the ocean floor. Perhaps a channeled whelk, a moon shell, or even an argonaut.”

“People decide they like one another, based upon the color of their shells that they wear on the outside of them. And then they decide to leave one another, based upon the color of their souls that is who they really are underneath the shell. I think it should be the other way around. I think people should decide they like one another, based upon the color of their souls and then decide to leave one another if they run into the shells. But then it's not even that. What if they loved the soul and then broke down each others' shells when they ran into them? Then nobody would leave anybody and everybody would know what love means.”

“Once she was standing by her locker and her puka shells broke and scattered and she made a joke about it but he could tell she was upset. He wanted to buy her some more. He wanted to give her a million strands of little nesting polished shells, and tropical flowers and ice creams and lemonades and a pale blue surfboard to teach her to surf on and anything else she wanted. Instead he let his checkered Vans step on one of the rolling shells and crush it.”

“Wolves in shells are crueler than stray ones.”

“Gender is a shell game. What is a man? Whatever a woman isn't. What is a woman? Whatever a man is not, Tap on it and it's hollow. Look under the shells: it's not there.”

“Our bodies are simply our shells, the package for the spirit and the soul.”

“But every stroke of the brush, every lyric, every word whispered between human beings resulted from the pain of being alone. In our haunted heads, our imperfect bodies. Islands carved from clay and bone, our skulls like shells full of mist.”

“I have no inner life. I have no ‘intimate’ life. I am just what I-what to do. I move from one habitation to another like one of those-is it herit crabs? Taking up residence in others shells.(…)Others’ shells are fine. You come, and then you go. They’re gone”