Best 2874 quotes in «sea quotes» category

He loved the sea for deep-seated reasons: the hardworking artist's need for repose, the desire to take shelter from the demanding diversity of phenomena in the bosom of boundless simplicity, a propensity—proscribed and diametrically opposed to his mission in life and for that very reason seductive—a propensity for the unarticulated, the immoderate, the eternal, for nothingness. To repose in perfection is the desire of all those who strive for excellence, and is not nothingness a form of perfection?

High altitude astronomy is a biologically abusive environment for the sea level adapted human.

Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea

His lightest touch brought joy, brought comfort and a sense of belonging.

How beautiful it is to swim in the tank!” He said after a while. “The water is so serene. And yet, when one thinks of it, the sea is no less impressive, when a thousand billows beat against the earth and still do it no injury.

…how it would be nice if, for every sea waiting for us, there would be a river, for us. And someone -a father, a lover, someone- able to take us by the hand and find that river -imagine it, invent it- and put us on its stream, with the lightness of one only word, goodbye. This, really, would be wonderful. It would be sweet, life, every life. And things wouldn’t hurt, but they would get near taken by stream, one could first shave and then touch them and only finally be touched. Be wounded, also. Die because of them. Doesn’t matter. But everything would be, finally, human. It would be enough someone’s fancy -a father, a lover, someone- could invent a way, here in the middle of the silence, in this land which don’t wanna talk. Clement way, and beautiful. A way from here to the sea.

Her flyter en Aare, her Tilger og Vrag, Her Tofter saa mange som Steene paa Tag, Her Kropper og Legemer døde.

I always suspected that improvements in health would come from researching the biological toxicity of high altitude to the sea level adapted human.

I advise sea level adapted people not to take jobs atop high altitude mountains.

I can smell the ocean in the distance. The salt wraps around my body, making my skin feel tight, and already I want to shower. I can do big cities, and small cities, and the even the occasional mountaintop is cool. But oceans are ridiculous. They take up way too much space in this overcrowded world and are filled with creatures that have several sets of teeth, like one row of man-eating teeth isn’t enough. And just to add insult to injury, all that water isn’t even drinkable. If you ask me, the ocean is kind of a prick.

How the excitement comes upon me to tell it all! In the quest of writing, the heart can speed up with anticipation--as it does, indeed, during the chase itself of whales. I can swear it, having done both, and I will tell YOU though other writers may not. My heart is beating fast; I am in pursuit; I want my victory--that you should see and hear and above all feel the reality behind these words. For they are but a mask. Not the mask that conceals, not a mask that I would have you strike through as mere appearance, or, worse, deceitful appearance. Words need not be that kind of mask, but a mask such as the ancient Greek actors wore, a mask that expresses rather than conceals the inner drama. (But do you know me? Una? You have shipped long with me in the boat that is this book. Let me assure you and tell you that I know you, even something of your pain and joy, for you are much like me. The contract of writing and reading requires that we know each other. Did you know that I try on your mask from time to time? I become a reader, too, reading over what I have just written. If I am your shipbuilder and captain, from time to time I am also your comrade. Feel me now, standing beside you, just behind your shoulder?)

I am drawn to the ocean; I find solace in its mystery.

I am drowning in an infinite sea.

I am helpless as the sea at the end of her string. I am restless. Restless and useless. I, too, create corpses.

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the other side of the party, hearing laughter and the emptying of bottles while I peacefully make my way to the river, a lonely road, following the smell of the ocean. I’m the one waking up at 4am to witness the sunrise, where the sky touches the sea, and I hold my elbows, grasping tight to whatever I’ve made of myself.

I broke my heart in two One half I slipped into your pocket The other half I brought with me Across the sea

I celebrate myself, I paint and dance and sing myself, and what I assume you will assume, for every atom as of me as good belongs to dreamy You. I am a song. I am a poem. I am the soil and a gem. I am a stargate and a voyage. I am the ocean and your soul.

I can still hear the undemanding calmness of the Mediterranean Sea as the waves brushed up against the dimly lit sand, greeting the shoreline like an old friend. The sea and the sun seemed so sure of themselves, and I loved that thought.

I do not know what inspires the image of a fish but it comes to me, wide eyed, open mouthed and gaping, glimmering, swimming towards me as though a creature of the darkness come to claim me. I imagine it in a twinkling blue pool. It swims through the dark currents of the sea, gliding above sea weed, beneath sunlight, augmenting and shying away from the surface. It belongs to this element between land and sky, sifts through it, a creature of the deep. My mind drifts, fades, but then comes back to the fish: its glimmering scales, its strange beady eyes. Its body is contained within the water. It opens its mouth, moving it open and closed as though it’s trying to speak a language I never learned. I think about the fish’s lungs, full of water. Is not the sea contained within the fish, too?

I couldn't help smiling as he grasped my arms and held me in place because his warmth infected me. I hadn't known I was freezing until he held me. I hadn't known until then, after the long hours of separation, that with Cain I could pretend to be human.

I cannot tarry longer. The sea that calls all things unto her calls me

I dreamt of turrets and craggy ledges where the windswept rain blew in from the ocean with the odor of violets. A pale woman in Elizabethan dress stood beside my bed and whispered in my ear that the bells would ring. An old salt in an oilcloth jacket sat atop a piling, mending nets with an awl, while far out at sea a tiny aeroplane winged its way towards the setting sun.

If I stay close to the sea, I will go on well.

If lighthouse becomes a burning candle, flickered upon ocean's insanity. Your sailing heart there anchors to handle the obsessed breeze towards sand dune's vanity.

If I were reincarnated, I wouldn’t mind coming back as an undiscovered seahorse.

I don't need the sea to drown in, your eyes are enough for me!

If the private life of the sea could ever be transposed onto paper, it would talk not about rivers or rain or glaciers or of molecules of oxygen and hydrogen, but of the millions of encounters its waters have shared with creatures of another nature.

If my life were a fragrance, it would smell like the sea.

If the sky has turned a darkened grey and the sea threatens to spill the occupants in the boat, know that the Lord God made the storm still, and though you shall face storms in your life the Lord God will still them with his hand. When you are alone, Jesus will have his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly, the angels shall call out your name when you feel that you have been deaf, and you shall see the light of Heaven when you think you are blind. When you feel your dreams are broken it does not do well to cast yourself into misery but look at the brighter side of life, and see all the Lord has blessed you with!

If the sea could speak, he thought blindly, it would be screaming at him

I found the sea air invigorating, and the unfamiliar smells and sounds I encountered every day fascinated me. There was, first of all, the pervading sea-salt odor, and the smell of the wind, bringing with it the faintest tang of the land it had blown over. There was the rich smell of the fresh-caught fish—so different from those sold in markets—and the musty dampness of the soaked ropes. The tar and resin found everywhere on board gave off a warm, raisinlike aroma that grew stronger as the sun rose. As for the sounds, I loved the slap-slap-slap of the water against the hull of the ship; it lulled me to sleep. The creaking of the rigging and the whoosh of the sail as it filled and deflated was like nothing else. How ordinary the sounds of street and market were by comparison. Water had lost its terror for me, for which I was deeply grateful. First I had ventured the harbor, then the Nile, now the open sea—I was cured of my fear, thanks be to all the gods!

If you want the most beautiful fish in the sea, make sure you have the most appealing bait.

If they will only hold their hands until the season is over, he promises them a royal carnival, when all grudges can he settled and the survivors may toss the non-survivors overboard and arrange a story as to how the missing men were lost at sea.

If you are a sea level adapted human, then your health is at risk by working at the biologically toxic Mauna Kea Observatories.

I had fought on behalf of man against the sea, but I realised that it had become more urgent to fight on behalf of the sea against men.

If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the endless immensity of the sea.

I have been feeling very clearheaded lately and what I want to write about today is the sea. It contains so many colors. Silver at dawn, green at noon, dark blue in the evening. Sometimes it looks almost red. Or it will turn the color of old coins. Right now the shadows of clouds are dragging across it, and patches of sunlight are touching down everywhere. White strings of gulls drag over it like beads. It is my favorite thing, I think, that I have ever seen. Sometimes I catch myself staring at it and forget my duties. It seems big enough to contain everything anyone could ever feel.

I keep staring at the bag in Mrs. Parks's hand: yellows, greens, blues, whites, pastel colors so soft they look as if they have faded in the sea. The washed colors of the sea and sleep. Pajama colors. The colors of baby clothes. In my nose is the smell of my brothers' heads after they are born. Maybe this is why people making journeys buy saltwater taffy. It gives you the lovely dreamy sense that you can start all over again from the beginning.

I have to find a place to hide An island in the sea Surrounded by a racing tide Where I can live with me

I had never been fired out of a job until I worked at the very high altitude summit of Mauna Kea. Afterwards, I was either fired or harassed out of every job until I became so sick that I filed for disability. I later discovered that Mauna Kea is biologically toxic to the sea level adapted human.

I know about me. I am the moons sister, a tidal child stranded on land. The sea always in my ear, a surf of eternal discontent in my blood.

I’m engaged in the dance of the ages and the search for a song to go with it. Though Templeton’s A Veritable Smorgasbord is a well-deserving classic, it’s a stanza too short for my morphing existence. So I write my own.

In all the flames of fire fume’s left the trace Into the bluest sea the sky is drowned The miracles of life can you embrace From the poem 'Can You Embrace?

In a sea of strangers, you've longed to know me. Your life spent sailing to my shores.

In a sea of human beings, it is difficult, at times even impossible, to see the human as being.

In a sea of trouble your thoughts are your lifeboat.

Indigo, the deep blue contains an abundance of sapphires shining their light through the density, awakening and stirring our consciousness. In the daylight the sea will change, but for now it remains mysterious, obtainable through our imagination.

I love letting my soul soar on a summer breeze, or getting entranced by the rhythm of the sea. It carries you off on its currents until you’re completely lost and then drops you back on the shores of reality with salt on your cheeks and grains of dreams running through your fingers like sand. It’s almost an occasional necessity – I guess because when you get completely, fantastically, dizzyingly lost you’re temporarily suspended between what has been and what could be. In those first moments when you come back up for air, or when you float back down to the ground, you’re living in the land of possibility, where you understand that reality can stretch just as far as you’re willing to dream.

In my mind, I could sense their roots under the soil, creeping in helical tangles of ever-increasing complexity outward and in all directions—out beyond the perimeter of the Helsingør Wood, out below Yami’s Under City, out along the banks of the river, out to the nearest coast and thereupon out into the sea; the roots crept down further along the continental shelf, downward into the abysses, downward into the ocean floor, burrowing under the corals and under trenches, and then back up again to sprout in the darkened forest on a foreign continent: all the trees of the world now had conjoined roots, for they were now of one conjoined consciousness!

In my heaven sweet melodies of the skies ripple pool of the sea playing sweet song to me, sharing tales of the past, blending with mine as mirage, painting new...I breathe in, am in love and alive...