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Wanderer Quotes

Browse 128 quotes about Wanderer.

Wanderer Quotes

“I didn't come looking for you the day you uninvitedly appeared on my doorstep How did we go from nonchalant conversation me waiting for you to turn me off with corny jokes and mind dumbing conversation to love To love and mind blowing chemistry that I've yet to make sense of What are you here to teach me?”

“The depths of her thoughts will have you never wanting to surface for air...”

“...unforgivingly, and forcefully magnificent...”

“Fantasy like thought that no man could rain Just let her reign Run wild with her unafraid Of any rain storms They only wash the mud away and make way For double rainbows and sunny days”

“...I fell asleep and had a dream that a king was liquidated by a group of kind faces...”

“Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.”

“Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent. When she came to my bed and begged me with sighs not to tempt her towards passion nor actions unwise, I told her I’d spare her and kissed her closed eyes, then unbraided her body of its clothing disguise. While our bodies were nude bathed in candlelight fine I devoured her mouth, tender lips divine; and I drank through her thighs her feminine wine. Ô, the wine of a woman from heaven is sent, more perfect than all that a man can invent.”

“The Native Americans, whose wisdom Thoreau admired, regarded the Earth itself as a sacred source of energy. To stretch out on it brought repose, to sit on the ground ensured greater wisdom in councils, to walk in contact with its gravity gave strength and endurance. The Earth was an inexhaustible well of strength: because it was the original Mother, the feeder, but also because it enclosed in its bosom all the dead ancestors. It was the element in which transmission took place. Thus, instead of stretching their hands skyward to implore the mercy of celestial divinities, American Indians preferred to walk barefoot on the Earth: The Lakota was a true Naturist – a lover of Nature. He loved the earth and all things of the earth, the attachment growing with age. The old people came literally to love the soil and they sat or reclined on the ground with a feeling of being close to a mothering power. It was good for the skin to touch the earth and the old people liked to remove their moccasins and walk with bare feet on the sacred earth. Their tipis were built upon the earth and their altars were made of earth. The birds that flew in the air came to rest on the earth and it was the final abiding place of all things that lived and grew. The soil was soothing, strengthening, cleansing and healing. That is why the old Indian still sits upon the earth instead of propping himself up and away from its life-giving forces. For him, to sit or lie upon the ground is to be able to think more deeply and to feel more keenly; he can see more clearly into the mysteries of life and come closer in kinship to other lives about him. Walking, by virtue of having the earth’s support, feeling its gravity, resting on it with every step, is very like a continuous breathing in of energy. But the earth’s force is not transmitted only in the manner of a radiation climbing through the legs. It is also through the coincidence of circulations: walking is movement, the heart beats more strongly, with a more ample beat, the blood circulates faster and more powerfully than when the body is at rest. And the earth’s rhythms draw that along, they echo and respond to each other. A last source of energy, after the heart and the Earth, is landscapes. They summon the walker and make him at home: the hills, the colours, the trees all confirm it. The charm of a twisting path among hills, the beauty of vine fields in autumn, like purple and gold scarves, the silvery glitter of olive leaves against a defining summer sky, the immensity of perfectly sliced glaciers … all these things support, transport and nourish us.”

“None of your knowledge, your reading, your connections will be of any use here: two legs suffice, and big eyes to see with. Walk alone, across mountains or through forests. You are nobody to the hills or the thick boughs heavy with greenery. You are no longer a role, or a status, not even an individual, but a body, a body that feels sharp stones on the paths, the caress of long grass and the freshness of the wind. When you walk, the world has neither present nor future: nothing but the cycle of mornings and evenings. Always the same thing to do all day: walk. But the walker who marvels while walking (the blue of the rocks in a July evening light, the silvery green of olive leaves at noon, the violet morning hills) has no past, no plans, no experience. He has within him the eternal child. While walking I am but a simple gaze.”

“Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We knew nothing of travel and we knew nothing of loss. Ours was a world of eternal spring, until the summer came.”

“Ô, Muse of the Heart’s Passion, let me relive my Love’s memory, to remember her body, so brave and so free, and the sound of my Dreameress singing to me, and the scent of my Dreameress sleeping by me, Ô, sing, sweet Muse, my soliloquy!”

“Walking causes a repetitive, spontaneous poetry to rise naturally to the lips, words as simple as the sound of footsteps on the road. There also seems to be an echo of walking in the practice of two choruses singing a psalm in alternate verses, each on a single note, a practice that makes it possible to chant and listen by turns. Its main effect is one of repetition and alternation that St Ambrose compared to the sound of the sea: when a gentle surf is breaking quietly on the shore the regularity of the sound doesn’t break the silence, but structures it and renders it audible. Psalmody in the same way, in the to-and-fro of alternating responses, produces (Ambrose said) a happy tranquillity in the soul. The echoing chants, the ebb and flow of waves recall the alternating movement of walking legs: not to shatter but to make the world’s presence palpable and keep time with it. And just as Claudel said that sound renders silence accessible and useful, it ought to be said that walking renders presence accessible and useful.”

“But walking causes absorption. Walking interminably, taking in through your pores the height of the mountains when you are confronting them at length, breathing in the shape of the hills for hours at a time during a slow descent. The body becomes steeped in the earth it treads. And thus, gradually, it stops being in the landscape: it becomes the landscape. That doesn’t have to mean dissolution, as if the walker were fading away to become a mere inflection, a footnote. It’s more a flashing moment: sudden flame, time catching fire. And here, the feeling of eternity is all at once that vibration between presences. Eternity, here, in a spark.”

“The Promethean = the Faustian = the eternal seeker = the eternal wanderer = the eternal quester. The Promethean is a romantic, a striving figure, an outsider, a non-conformist. He’s often alone. Conventional society has rejected him and, more importantly, he has rejected conventional society. The HyperHuman plays the Great Game – the God Game. His objective it to transform himself into God ... to undergo the ultimate metamorphosis. The HyperHuman is a new kind of knight, a knight of the mind. He seeks to merit the title of “knight” and lives courageously by a noble code. His life has total focus and purpose. His mind is always focused on the Holy Grail. The search for the Grail is the symbol of the HyperHuman’s search for heaven, for God, to become God.”

“Ô, Wanderess, Wanderess When did you feel your most euphoric kiss? Was I the source of your greatest bliss?”

“I don’t like talking much. And honestly, that’s okay. Not everyone is built for constant conversation. Some of us observe more than we speak. We listen, we think, we process. Silence is not emptiness ; it’s clarity. I don’t like talking much. I don’t trust much either. It’s not attitude — it’s experience. I choose my words carefully and my people even more carefully. Silence protects my peace. Distance protects my heart. Those who understand this… stay close. Those who don’t, drift away I speak when it matters. I share when it feels right. And the people who understand this… are my kind of people”

“Well, at least this is what I told myself every day as I fell asleep with the fire still burning and the moon shining high up in the sky and my head spinning comforting from two bottles of wine, and I smiled with tears in my eyes because it was beautiful and so god damn sad and I did not know how to be one of those without the other.”

“ქარბუქს შეეყარა შორიგზად, ვრცელ შარას მიჯნაზე ახლოს ჰიუდსპეტის ქაუნტთან, სადაც ძველად რკინიგზის საზოგადოებას უნდა ეყარა თავი. გრძელი საღამო ბუნიობდა სულნაკლულ მხარეში და არა უჩანდა დასასრული ლამპადთა ყოველ მომდევნოს, მაღლა იღერძებოდნენ რეზოლუტად როგორც მუდრი ნიშანნი უსასრულო სიხეტიალისა. ძველმანი პალტოს ქამარი შემოიჭირა ბალთაზედ, რომ ღამინდს არ ჩამოერთმია მისთვის ერთადერთი კუთვნილი ამაგი მოკვდილობის წინ, და როგორც მოხერხდებოდა ისე, ქანცი სიარულით სვლა განაგრძო სადმე უსახელოურის მიმართულებით, სანამ რა ჟამს მაგისტრალი არ ახვეტდა მის განაბულ სხეულს და არ შეისრუტავდა მას, როგორც გვარად უცნობი დაკარგულისა.”

“There was a phase of my life when I would wake up and not know where I would be at the end of the day. I was alone and I kept on moving from place to place. Living alone in a different country, I felt uprooted and without any support. But somehow I managed to keep going, and I kept on going amidst strangers. Each day was a struggle. I felt like giving up and going back to my family. But Man is not made to accept defeat.”

“The Storm Stranger by Stewart Stafford Were I to shed forty coats, Or forty layers of this skin, I'd stay an intruder in myself, At a crossroads in a storm. Stranger in my own country, Pariah to everything beloved, Organ rejection by my own body, A lantern wanderer in limbo. All foul, cast out by my lamp, Saving those mistreating me, Traversing sanity's outer rings, I turn my collar up and trudge on. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

“You are a wanderer. You have spent days and nights in loneliness. And somehow you have got addicted to your loneliness. And one day you meet someone and you feel as if you have known them all your life. It's like you both are just continuing from where you had left a long time ago. And the silences between you, too have meaning!”

“I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right away and that’s a metaphor for everything.”

“People keep asking what I do for a living and I keep saying that I don’t believe in making a living. That it’s a concept that has been twisted. I tell them I believe in making a life and money is a distracting object if there’s anything left at the end of the day and I just want to go on well. Make it through the day. So I smile and raise my glass and they laugh and take my hand, saying ”here’s to the youth”, pointing at me. And I might just be young and naive for I still believe in the freedom of choice of how to spend your life. So they toast to the youth, who still think she’s free, and that’s all fine by me.”

“I am a free soul, singing my heart out by myself no matter where I go and I call strangers my friends because I learn things and find ways to fit them into my own world. I hear what people say, rearrange it, take away and tear apart until it finds value in my reality and there I make it work. I find spaces in between the cracks and cuts where it feels empty and there I make it work.”