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O Quotes

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All O Quotes

“Outside the Church of Christ there is no salvation. Vatican II, for all its legion flaws, did not deny this. Nothing in the 1962-1965 Council condemns the Catholic who adheres to the teachings of Pope Leo III and the 1215 statement of the Fourth Lateran Council, "There is but one universal Church of the faithful, outside of which no one at all is saved." At the end of the twentieth century, the Church did not forbid belief in what she believed at the beginning of the fourteenth century, when she infallibly taught through Pope Boniface VII's Bull, Unam Sanctam, "We declare, say, define, and pronounce that none of those existing outside the Catholic Church, not only pagans, but also Jews and heretics and schismatics, can have a share in life eternal; but that they will go into the eternal fire which was prepared for the devil and his angels, unless before death they are joined with her; and that so important is the unity of this ecclesiastical body that only those remaining within this unity can profit by the Sacraments of the Church unto salvation, and they alone can receive an eternal recompense for their fasts, their almsgivings, their other works of Christian piety, and the duties of a Christian soldier. No one, let his almsgiving be as great as it may, no one, even if he pour out his blood for the Name of Christ, can be saved, unless he remains within the bosom and the unity of the Catholic Church." No more did Vatican II warn the faithful against those earlier Vicars of Christ in this dogmatic teaching than they themselves departed from the very first Vicar of Christ, Pope St. Peter, who insisted that Jesus Christ is "the stone which was rejected by you the builders, which is become the head of the corner; neither is there salvation in any other; for there is no other Name under Heaven given to men, whereby we must be saved." (page 408).”

“Outside the closed doors to the throne room, Sharif the high elder waited, holding a kaftan robe of red silk and velvet in one hand and a long spear nearly twice his height in the other. Jasmine's heart beat faster as she recognized the gold trim and signature jewels lining the robe, the ancient craftsmanship of the spear. These had belonged to Cyrus the Great, the first ruler of the empire. And in mere moments, she would be the first woman to feel them against her skin. Nadia untied Jasmine's peacock cape while the high elder held out the red robe. "Today you shed the persona of Jasmine, the princess," he said, "and step into the skin of a sultana." Jasmine took a deep breath, slipping her arms into the preserved silk. The material was more fragile than anything she'd worn before, and she was conscious that one wrong step, one tear of the fabric, would be rip through history. Yet she felt stronger in the cape too, as though Cyrus were transferring his power through it to her. When Sharif handed her Cyrus's spear, she could barely contain her awe.”

“Outside the closed windshield, birds hovered mid-air, held aloft by the relentless breeze. Lethbridge was a prairie city, dusty and slow-moving, but it had one constant that separated it from other places on the flatland: Wind. Bracing for it, Lou swung the door open and caught the handle before the gusts could tear it from her hand. Black hair whipped around her face. Scents rose and swirled past, carried by the breeze. Lou breathed in sunbaked soil and sparse golden grasses, motor oil and fast food.”

“Outside the Gutters of West (Sonnet 2679) If you grew up with western media, you get brainwashed into asking, why are most terrorists muslim! But grow up and study actual history of the human race, then you start asking, why is every terrorist white! To look at Islam through western lens is like looking at the sky through a woodworm's eyes, the same is with Sindh, the same is with China, the same is with Africa, and Latin America. Objectivity is an impediment to understanding - if you yourself are not right smack in the middle of the experience, you have zero grasp of the truth, even if your head is full with facts and figures. But then again, this is not something a stubborn eurocentric mule can fathom, even to entertain the possibility that the prized imperial commodity of objectivity could be a fallacy, you have to have a decolonized mind.”

“Outside the hospital, a young girl who was selling small bouquets of daffodils, their green stems tied with lavender ribbons. I watched as my mother bought out the girl's whole stock. Nurse Eliot, who remembered my mother from eight years ago volunteered to help her when she saw her comng down the hall, her arms full of flowers. She rounded up extra water pitchers from a supply closet and together, she and my mother filled them with water and placed the flowers around my father's room while he slept. Nurse Eliot thought that if loss could be used as a measure of beauty in a woman, my mother had grown even more beautiful. (The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold)”

“Outside, the leaves on the trees were bursting in hues of orange and red. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for Oregon in October. For weeks now, people had been watching these leaves prove just how beautiful they could become before they died, shriveling up into brown clumps of nothing. Despite the vibrant colors trying their best to stand out, the overcast sky and fog-veiled mountains turned everything gloomy. But, again, not too out of the ordinary for this part of Oregon.”

“Outside The Museum (The Sonnet) Enough with, patria o muerte*! Enough with, god save the queen! Enough with, heil hitler! Enough with, o say can you see! Bronze age beings yell about national glory, Stone age beings yell about religious glory. Electric beings got no time for such make-believe, On their shoulders walks the present of humanity. There is no earth till all roots combine, Till we crave for each other all roots are chains. Museums add perspective on the direction of life, But to spend a life in museum is life lost in vain. Enough with vande mataram**, it's time for vasudhaiva kutumbakam***. To hell with nation, culture and tradition, civilization awaits outside the museum. (*homeland or death, *hail the motherland, ***world is family)”

“Outside, the night was settling fast. I liked the peace and the silence of the countryside, with its fading alpenglow and darkling view of the river. Oliver country, I thought. The mottled lights from across the other bank beamed on the water, reminding me of Van Gogh’s 'Starlight Over the Rhone.' Very autumnal, very beginning of school year, very Indian summer, and as always at Indian summer twilight, that lingering mix of unfinished summer business and unfinished homework and always the illusion of summer months ahead, which wears itself out no sooner than the sun has set.”

“Outside, the night was soft and fresh. There was a half-moon shining brightly in a field of stars, a glowing ring of light surrounding it, and it had made a trail across the bay that showed in places through the darker screen of trees. They walked in silence, and she breathed the mingled scents of wildflowers sleeping in the shadows, and the salt air of the sea. He had not let go of her hand. She did not want him to. They did not leave the clearing but at length they reached its edge, where rustling branches stretched above them and the light and noise and music of the barn seemed far away. One heart-shaped leaf fell from a nearby tree and landed on his shoulder and unthinkingly she lifted her free hand to brush it off before it marked the white coat she had worked so hard and long to clean. She felt him looking down at her, and glancing up self-consciously she started to explain. And lost the words. And then he bent his head and kissed her. Everything around her seemed to stop, and still, and cease to matter. She could not have said how long it lasted. Not long, probably. It was a gentle kiss but at the same time fierce and sure and full of all the pent-up feelings she herself had fought these past months, and now she knew he had felt them just as she had, and had fought them, too. It was a great release to give up fighting. Give up everything, and float in the sensation.”

“Outside the rain began to pour in sheets, and the wind howled . Giant pieces of hail began to pelt the building— banging off the skylights so hard that Simpson worried the glass might shatter. Then, as it had earlier in the day, the wind briefly let up. It was then Simpson heard a sound she had dreaded —a sound she couldn’t believe she was actually hearing. It was 2: 40 P.M. and the tornado sirens in Moore started to wail.”

“Outside the seasons passed: sun, snow, spring green, October storms . . . was this a vision of my future? When would the shunning hero come, to set the clock if my life in motion again? Would he come some morning, or in the night? In April or December? This year? Next year? I shuddered. No, I wouldn't just sit and wait. I wanted to go out. Maybe there were new men out there, better men, men who'd just been waiting for me. Somewhere someone is always waiting for someone.”

“Outside the sky was iron grey, the monotony broken only by crows. Mile after mile and the scenery did not change. Stubble fields, skeletal trees. They are burying me, she realised. They are burying me along with Rupert. It wasn't meant to be like this. They should have been back in London by now; the house thrown open, spilling over with wine and candles. This season vivid dyes were in fashion. The salons would be awash with azuline, mauve, magenta and Paris green. She should be there at the centre of it: invited to every diamond-spangled party; hanging on the arm of the host in his striped waistcoat; the first lady escorted into the dining room. The new bride always went first. But not a widow. A widow shied from the light and entombed herself with grief. She became a mermaid drowning in black crêpe, like the Queen. Elsie sighed and stared into the hollow reflection of her eyes. She must be a terrible wife, for she did not long for seclusion. Sitting in silence musing on Rupert's virtues wouldn't help her grief. Only distraction could do that. She wanted to attend the theatre, to ride up and down on the rattling omnibuses. She would rather be anywhere than alone in these bleak fields.”

“Outside . . . the street . . . the city . . . the darkness! O how the night was with me, taunting the rolls of thought that cuddled my brain. My memory like an old piano roll . . . four hot hands at the keys . . . wobbly fingers in my mind . . . my whole life ragtime in broken shoes . . . tiny mallets striking the strings of my soul . . . Ah, Tim, I tell you there's a tune left in the old box yet.”

“Outside, the wind was growing louder—now the trees beyond the window, like mourners, bent beneath the fury of the storm, and against the window, tracks of rain spilled sideways like lead. Dr. Stein walked to the window and pushed it up, old wood creaking and water blowing in onto his skin, cold. The darkness held only shadows but still he stared into it. He leaned his head out further, gripping tightly to the sill and pulling in. When he closed the window, the sudden barrier was jarring; he ran his fingers through his wet hair once and watched the rainbow sides of droplets falling.”

“Outside the window, a bank of clouds appeared on the horizon, inching slowly across the sky, finally slipping across the Moon and blocking out its radiant light. As he clicked off his overhead light, he turned his eyes one last time to the heavens. Outside, in the newly fallen darkness, the world had been transformed. The sky had become a glistening tapestry of stars.”