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“James gave the huffle of a snail in danger. And nobody heard him at all.”
A.A. Milne“I had a dream. In the dream someone was critical of my newest novel The Snail's Castle. I said, "don't worry about it. If you don't like it, just throw it out the window." I awoke, grinning, with a wonderful feeling of freedom.”
Mark Gordon, The Snail's Castle“The intriguing placidity from the slothful pace of a snail is truly very peaceful. Our world is in need of this calmness to pacify itself”
Munia Khan“Even a snail will eventually reach its destination.”
Gail Tsukiyama, The Street of a Thousand Blossoms“Snails do not despair for having short legs, but rejoice for being able to travel long distances in spite of them.”
Matshona Dhliwayo“Appleblossom can't believe the taste of the dark square. Is tehre a way to describe this morsel of goodness? It is so sweet adn smooth. It makes a green snail seem like an old pinecone seed, and every possum knows that a green snail is fantastic eating.”
Holly Goldberg Sloan, Appleblossom the Possum“Geography is the key, the crucial accident of birth. A piece of protein could be a snail, a sea lion, or a systems analyst, but it had to start somewhere. This is not science; it is merely metaphor. And the landscape in which the protein "starts" shapes its end as surely as bowls shape water.”
Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters“Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.”
James Joyce, Ulysses“Lovers are not snails”
they don't have to protrude from their shells and meet each other halfway. Meet me within your own self.