Best 24 of The sea quotes - MyQuotes
Curtis Tyrone Jones
If you want to hear the distant voice of the ocean put your ear to the lips of a seashell. If you want to hear the voice of God place your ear upon the chest of any living being. If you want to be awakened from slumbering through life, place your ear up to the core of a corpse because the voice of honesty can clearly be heard there and the fingers of such a ribcage love to pinch dreamers into action. But if you want to hear the voice that directs your personal pilgrimage, you must find a way to keep your ear glued to your body’s fragile shell.
Ask the wave as it withdraws what freedom is.
Sunny held Kit, and Violet held Klaus, and for a minute the four castaways did nothing but weep, letting their tears run down their faces and into the sea, which some have said is nothing but a library of all tears in history.
The Sea is everything. It covers seven tenths of the globe . . . The sea is only a receptacle for all the prodigious, super-natural things that exist inside it. It is only movement and love; it is the living infinite.
So there you have it: hearing voices at sea is not a pathological condition. It’s quite normal. Welcome to the world of illusions at sea. Of mirages, looming, towering, stooping and sinking. Of moons that change size, suns that change shape, horizons that bend, lights that change colour, and sounds that play hide and seek. Of waves that speak, ships that effervesce and whales that turn into baby elephants. For the sea has a lobsterpot full of tricks and illusions to confuse and beguile even the most rational 21st century sailor.
The sea is captive in a drop of water.
In the years that I could not see him, I came to know my father through the medium of photography. My perceptions of him were forged on black-and-white squares that stole an instant out of history and immortalized it between the pages of a family album. When I summoned up the image of the man, it came to me frozen, black-bordered, flat. He stood pale above the creases of his uniform, framed in the foamy wake of some ship, drops of sunlight caught in the buttons on his jacket. He winked at me from the liberty ports of countless exotic places. In an atrocious hand he scrawled stilted, affectionate words to the stranger that bore his name and his features, telling of adventures far away, misbehavings under suns hotter than that which shone over the Greater German Reich.
The sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul. Not drowned entirely, though. Rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, Wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, Pip saw the multitudinous, God-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs. He saw God’s foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad. So man’s insanity is heaven’s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his God.
David Foster Wallace
In school I ended up writing three different papers on "The Castaway" section of Moby-Dick, the chapter where the cabin boy Pip falls overboard and is driven mad by the empty immensity of what he finds himself floating in. And when I teach school now I always teach Crane's horrific "The Open Boat," and get all bent out of shape when the kids find the story dull or jaunty-adventurish: I want them to feel the same marrow-level dread of the oceanic I've always felt, the intuition of the sea as primordial nada, bottomless, depths inhabited by cackling tooth-studded things rising toward you at the rate a feather falls.
So this was the reverse of dazzling Nauset. The flip of the coin - the flip of an ocean fallen Dream-face down. And here, at my feet, in the suds, The other face, the real, staring upwards.
I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me
More sailors have drowned in words than in the sea.
Every woman who enters the sea carries a coffin on her back,” she warned the gathering. “In this world, in the undersea world, we tow the burdens of a hard life. We are crossing between life and death every day.” These traditional words were often repeated on Jeju, but we all nodded somberly as though hearing them for the first time. “When we go to the sea, we share the work and the danger,” Mother added. “We harvest together, sort together, and sell together, because the sea itself is communal.
You could start now, and spend another forty years learning about the sea without running out of new things to know.
The sea is as desolate and barren as it is fertile and life-giving. It is cold and dismal, yet bold and spirited. Sometimes imperious and conquering, other times gentle and meek. But it is always mysterious. Those mysteries hold many secrets. One has but to listen and watch to discover them
Once she started awake to a sound like the low roll of drums, and to the south she saw an endless congregation of antelope that moved across the nighted plain, raising a cloud of dust behind them that swallowed the stars and turned the moon rusty brown as a scrape of ruined iron. Near dawn, in that darkest hour, she raised her head again and saw to the north the passage of sails. They hovered across the deep like a parade of phantom cavaliers tilted upon hellish steeds. They passed in waves, ranks upon ranks of ghostly warlords bent toward the coming dawn as if to impale the sun itself and set it atop a spike in the blackened sky.
The sea, the sea, yes,' James went on. 'Did you know that Plato was descended from Poseidon on his father's side? Do you have porpoises, seals?' 'There are seals, I'm told. I haven't seen any.
At thee seaside all is narrow horizontals, the world reduced to a few long straight lines pressed between earth and sky.
He wanted me to go with him, and had cast his line, hoping to snag his most elusive catch - me.
Lovely country, isn't it. Do you know this part of the world?" "No." He said, suddenly stretching out his hands, "Oh, the sea, the sea—it's so wonderful.
A wood that smells of the sea.
The vast open sea at night is a song being written; a rhyme, a mysterious and gentle arpeggiated work of Beethoven. It's sung by the waves as they travel on the face of the ocean, and their lyrics are the rhythm of the pounding surf.
We sat talking on a rock. The air was filled with the tang of sea-weed and of something else that could only have been the ocean smell. I felt so happy that I wasn't even afraid it wouldn't last.
At the seaside all is narrow horizontals, the world reduced to a few long straight lines pressed between earth and sky.