Wind Quotes - Page 23

At midnight the wind in the tress can sound like the ocean. The moonlight can make a road appear as endless as the sea.

The sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is all in all.

To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

My name is immaterial,' she said. That's a pretty name,' said Rincewind.

I pray for my nation, South Africa. As Jesus stood in the boat and commanded the storms to be calm, I stand in the midst of the storm in my nation, South Africa and I command the storm, wind and waves to be calm, in the name of Jesus! I speak calmness to my nation, South Africa, in the name of Jesus!

To be a good storyteller one must be gloriously alive. It is not possible to kindle fresh fires from burned-out embers. I have noticed that the best of the traditional storytellers whom I have heard have been those who live close to the heart of things-to the earth, the sea, wind and weather. They have been those who knew solitude, silence. They have been given unbroken time in which to feel deeply, to reach constantly for understanding. They have come to know the power of the spoken word. These storytellers have been sailors and peasants, wanderers and fisherman.

Stop the words now. Open the window in the center of your chest, and let the spirits fly in and out.

One day [when I relapsed] I walked into a store and saw a little bottle of Jack Daniel's. And then that voice - I call it the 'lower power' - goes, 'Hey. Just a taste. Just one.' I drank it, and there was that brief moment of 'Oh, I'm okay!' But it escalated so quickly. Within a week I was buying so many bottles I sounded like a wind chime walking down the street.

The wind comes creeping, it calls to me to come go exploring. It sings of the things that are to be found under the leaves. It whispers the dreams of the tall fir trees. It does pipe the gentle song the forest sings on gray days. I hear all the voices calling me. I listen. But I cannot go.

I generally unwind by having dinner with close friends.

There is no rewind button for life.

Singing 'Blowin' in the Wind' all the places we've been, it takes on a different meaning everywhere. When you sing the line, 'How many years can a people exist, before they're allowed to be free?' in a prison yard for political prisoners in El Salvador; if you have sung it to a group of union organizers, who have all been in jail, in South Korea; if you've sung to Jews in the Soviet Union who have been refused exit visas; if you've sung it with Bishop Tutu protesting apartheid, the song breathes, it lives, it has a contemporary currency.

We must be steady enough in ourselves, to be open and to let the winds of life blow through us, to be our breath, our inspiration . . .

In our business, the windows of opportunity open and close with dazzling rapidity...I constantly have to remind people to seize the moment.

I've found out that money is the most important thing in the world and, as God is my witness, I don't ever intend to be without it again. I'll never be hungry again.

I had been feeling a little rum. I didn't think it was anything serious because years ago I felt a lump and it was benign. I assumed this would be too. It kind of takes the wind out of your sails, and I don't know what the future holds, if anything.

The raw materials of reality without the glue of time are materials adrift and reality is as meaningless as the balsa parts of a model airplane scattered to the wind.

Stop looking at the walls, look out the window.

I love this mansion, though it is too many windows ...to open halfway each morning ...to close halfway each night.

I don't intend to kind of like wind down and get decrepit. I have a challenge to keep myself going. To eat right. To exercise.

We rushed into renewable energy without any thought. The schemes are largely hopelessly inefficient and unpleasant. I personally can't stand windmills at any price.

We are resident inside with the machinery, a glimmering spread throughout the apparatus. We exist with a wind whispering inside and our moon flexing. Amid the ducts, inside the basilica of bones. The flesh is a neighborhood, but not the life.

...primal people see the objects of this world not (or not only) as solid but as open windows to their divine source.

Words empty as the wind are best left unsaid.

God in the whizzing of a pleasant wind Shall march upon the tops of mulberry trees.