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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“Between the unenlightened human being and the Enlightened one, the Buddha, there are a number of intermediate degrees, embodied in different people at different stages of spiritual development. Most people are still short of Enlightenment, to a greater or lesser extent, but at the same time they are not wholly unenlightened. They stand somewhere between the unenlightened state and the state of full Enlightenment, and thus make up the spiritual hierarchy, the higher reaches of which can be referred to as the Bodhisattva hierarchy. By now we know enough about Bodhisattvas to have an appreciation of the intensity of their aspiration and commitment to the spiritual life. But even among Bodhisattvas there are degrees of spiritual attainment. The principle of spiritual hierarchy is very important.”

“Between the villages of Aubiere and Romagnat in the ancient Province of Auvergne there is an old road that comes suddenly over the top of a high hill. To stand south of this ridge looking up at the highway flowing over the skyline is to receive one of those irrefutable impressions from landscape which requires more than a philosopher to explain. In this case it is undoubtedly, for some reason, one of exalted expectation.”

“Between the years of ninety-two and a hundred and two, however, we shall be the ribald, useless, drunken, outcast person we have always wished to be. We shall have a long white beard and long white hair; we shall not walk at all, but recline in a wheel chair and bellow for alcoholic beverages; in the winter we shall sit before the fire with our feet in a bucket of hot water, a decanter of corn whiskey near at hand, and write ribald songs against organized society... We look forward to a disreputable, vigorous, unhonoured, and disorderly old age.”

“Between them, she undid the buttons holding the placket of his breeches closed; her small hand slid beneath the fabric, and found him. He sucked in breath at that first innocent touch; his control quaked as her grip firmed, then her fingers eased and she stroked, and he felt like growling. Releasing her waist, with a quick tug he raised her skirts and reached beneath. Found the soft flesh between her thighs and caressed, then lightly probed. She shuddered, caught her breath, then her fingers trailed tantalizingly down his length. Closing her hand about his turgid flesh, she gently tugged. Her meaning couldn't have been clearer. And this time he had no ability, no thought in his head, to deny her. Just a small adjustment of her body over his and he could draw her down and sheath his erection in her slick softness; despite the potent attraction, he knew that this time it couldn't be that way. Not for her. Not the first time. He was too large, too engorged, for her to take him easily that way; she might balk, and find it too difficult to go on... Deftly he turned her and tumbled her down to the cushions. She went readily, reassured when he moved with her, willingly surrendering to the pull of one small hand gripping his shoulder. He settled between her thighs, spread wide on either side of his hips, the fingers of one hand still buried within her sheath, his other hand cradling her head, keeping her immersed in their kiss.”

“Between two beings there is always the barrier of words. Man has so many ears and speaks so many languages. Should it nevertheless be possible to understand one another? Is real communication possible if word and language betray us every time? Shall, in the end, only the language of tanks and guns prevail and not human reason and understanding?”

“Between two fantasy alternatives, that Holbein the Younger had lived long enough to have painted Shakespeare or that a prototype of the camera had been invented early enough to have photographed him, most Bardolators would choose the photograph. This is not just because it would presumably show what Shakespeare really looked like, for even if the photograph were faded, barely legible, a brownish shadow, we would probably still prefer it to another glorious Holbein. Having a photograph of Shakespeare would be like having a nail from the True Cross.”