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V Quotes

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All V Quotes

“Venus Transiens" Tell me, Was Venus more beautiful Than you are, When she topped The crinkled waves, Drifting shoreward On her plaited shell? Was Botticelli’s vision Fairer than mine; And were the painted rosebuds He tossed his lady Of better worth Than the words I blow about you To cover your too great loveliness As with a gauze Of misted silver? For me, You stand poised In the blue and buoyant air, Cinctured by bright winds, Treading the sunlight. And the waves which precede you Ripple and stir The sands at my feet. Amy Lowell, Imagist Poetry: An Anthology. Ed. Bob Blaisdell (Dover Publications; Later Printing edition, March 17, 2011)”

“Venus was rising, holding her own in the sky that was beginning to brighten. As I left the docks and warehouses behind, I came to a marshy shoreline, thick with water reeds. Though the sky above was clear, the water's surface swirled with little mists. I began to sing a song to Isis, made up on the spot, which caught the rhythm of the oars. A breeze sprang up and the reeds sang with me. Then as the first rays of sun dimmed the stars, birds everywhere lifted their voices and rose in line after line into the sky. On the outskirts of the city, I came to what looked like it might have been an abandoned villa or farmstead. I decided to sit down and watch the lake changing colors with the light. That's when I heard it. Not the soft lapping of the water against the shore, but the sound of flowing water. I looked and in the glowing light, I saw a small stream, eally just a trickle washing down a pebbly incline towards the lake. Something prompted me to follow the stream inland. I made my way though brambly thickets of brambling roses. The way seemed to open for me, the thorns all but retracting so as not to catch my cloak or scratch my arms and legs. At the source, I knelt down and parted the thicket, and there it was. The spring at the base of the hill so steep, it was almost a cliff. The water bubbled up from the darkness of earth, giving back the brightness of sky. Like all springs, a way between worlds. I was no stranger to sacred springs and magic wells. I was raised to revere them. I had first glimpsed my beloved on the well of wisdom on Tir n mBan. But this spring. I closed my eyes to listen to its sound, and I knew I had heard it before. The wind picked up, washing over me, scented with fish and roses. When it quieted again, I opened my eyes and gazed at the clear surface of the pool, and for an instant, I saw a tower, and the dawn sky, and the two people standing there. Then the image vanished, but I had seen all I needed to see. Alright, I said to myself, my goddess, to Miriam's know it all angels, Magala is is. And by the way, I added, my name is Maeve.”

“Venäjän, Syyrian ja Yhdysvaltain johtajat kiistelevät siitä, kuka saa parhaiten kiinni rikollisia. YK:n pääsihteeri päättää panna johtajat testiin. Hän päästää kaniinin metsään ja kehottaa miehiä pyydystämään sen. Amerikkalaisten tiimi lähtee metsään. He sijoittavat eläinilmiantajia eri puolille metsää. He kuulustelevat kaikkia kasvi- ja kivikuntaan kuuluvia todistajia. Kolmen kuukauden tiiviin tutkinnan jälkeen he ilmoittavat, että kaniineja ei ole olemassa. On Syyrian tiimin vuoro mennä metsään. Kun kahdessa viikossa ei löydy yhtään johtolankaa, syyrialaiset polttavat metsän ja kaiken sen mukana, myös kaniinin. Se oli vaarallinen kapinallinen, he kirjoittavat raporttiinsa. Venäjän tiimi lähtee metsään viimeisenä. He ilmestyvät kahden tunnin kuluttua mukanaan pahoin piesty karhu. Karhu mylvii: "Hyvä on! Myönnetään! Olen kaniini! Olen kaniini!"”

“Veo en las telas la mirada del que ve la finitud en todas las cosas, la mirada del que miró para adentro, un hombre a quien el hecho de intuir que alguien frente a sus cuadros se conmovería en un futuro tan remoto como hoy, no consolaba. Sólo hizo lo que no pudo dejar de hacer: pintar. Dar el salto, inventar su propia forma, anticipar una respuesta. La tristeza no estaba en "La serie de la muerte" porque la muerte, como la vida, es algo que sucede: la tristeza estaba en lo de todos los días, en la futilidad de los hechos, en la lluvia que cae, en la indiferencia de los otros, en el amor que sentimos, en el viento que pasa.”

“Ver a tu amante dormida, risueña en su sueño apacible bajo tu protección, amándote hasta en sueños, en el momento en que la criatura parece dejar de ser, y ofreciéndote todavía una boca muda que en el sueño te habla del último beso; ver una mujer confiada, medio desnuda, aunque envuelta en su amor como en un manto, y casta en el seno del desorden; admirar sus vestidos esparcidos, una media de seda, quitada rápidamente la noche anterior para complacerte, un ceñidor desabrochado que te confiesa una fe infinita, ¿no es un gozo sin nombre? Ese ceñidor es un poema entero, la mujer a la que defendía ya no existe, es tuya, se ha hecho tú. Si le eres infiel en lo sucesivo, te hieres a ti mismo.”

“Ver la violencia desde la perspectiva de la tierra y los territorios revela otro rasgo distintivo de su historia: la guerra se ha librado mayoritariamente en el campo colombiano, en los caseríos, veredas y municipios, lejanos y apartados del país central o de las grandes ciudades. Es una guerra que muchos colombianos y colombianas no ven, no sienten, una guerra que no los amenaza. Una guerra de la que se tiene noticia a través del lente de los medios de comunicación, que sufren otros y que permite a miles de personas vivir en la ilusión de que el país goza de democracia plena y prosperidad, a la vez que les impide entender la suma importancia de cada decisión, afirmación o negociación política para quienes la sufren. Quienes viven lejos de los campos donde se realizan las acciones de los armados ignoran que, por ejemplo, un acuerdo que pacte un cese al fuego representa para esos campesinos y campesinas la diferencia entre quedarse o huir, entre vivir o morir.”

“Vera had not sensed my approach. She was peering into the instrument and turning knobs with child-like seriousness and ineptitude. It was obvious that she had never used a microscope before. I stole closer to her, and then I said, "Boo!" She jerked her head away from the eyepiece. "Hello," I said. "You scared me to death," she said. "Sorry," I said, and I laughed. These ancient games go on and on. It's nice they do.”

“Vera's monkey brain was "racing." She wanted someone to talk to her and to get some of her words out, but Daddy and the Seal had now switched to Russian and their conversation was growing more somber, because that's what Russian did to you. Her teacher, the other Vera, had never once smiled, even when reading the ostensibly funny book about a clumsy bear who failed to live by the complex rules of forest society and constantly needed to learn distsiplina (discipline) from his animal peers. "We can all use some more distsiplina," Teacher Vera would say. "It is what our vozhd"--or "leader"--"expects from us." Then she would show them the photograph of a man who looked like a sad but disciplined hamster in a suit in front of a tricolor flag.”

“Verb Over Noun (The Sonnet) I do the best of my writing, When I don't feel like a writer. I create the best of my philosophy, When I don't feel like a philosopher. I write the best of my poetry, When I don't deem myself a poet. I publish the best of my science, Walking just a pilgrim of knowledge. Labels we hold dear often hold us captive, So do not take the acronym for the act. Designations can't contain the designated, Move past the noun and let the verb enact.”

“Verbal imagery (such as a simile or a description of a place or an event) is more physical, more bodily, than thinking or feeling, but less physical, more internal, than the actual sounds of the words. Imagery takes place in "the imagination," which I take to be the meeting place of the thinking mind with the sensing body. What is imagined isn't physically real, but it feels as if it were: the reader sees or hears or feels what goes on in the story, is drawn into it, exists in it, among its images, in the imagination (the reader's? the writer's?) while reading.”