Quotes in the category wood.
To say she is only a woman is to say a violin is a piece of wood with strings, and Dante is mere ink printed on paper.
I love the smell of old books,” Mandy sighed, inhaling deeply with the book pressed against her face. The yellow pages smelled of wood and paper mills and mothballs.
The man stood alone by the hive. On impulse he put his palm against the wood, as if feeling for a pulse.
It is Obscene to keep Printing Newspapers in the Digital Era
- Daddy won’t buy me a new pony, so I’m gonna burn my old one so he will have to buy me a new one. - Will a horse do? I'm a horse. I'm a horse. Yes, of course. Yes, of course. (That's a little children's poem.).-Jarod Kintz and Stefan D
Maybe that is the one real division between men: wood men and desert men.
Why am I anti-social?? Hey GreenWind can you answer me, little black biatch that I don't go out makes me anti social? How about the people which can't cross the street, everyday talking about football and playing box. You are one of them, so you are without minded guy, you are dumb, stupid and black biatch. Let's see how now you will win??? Why you are so quite??? Oh,oh I know you don't have what to say!
Every tree in the forest has a story to tell. Some of them were burnt but they endured the fire and got revived; some of them were cut, their barks injured, some people pick up their leaves to make medicines for their sicknesses, birds used their leaves to make their nests, etc. Upon all these, the tree is still tree!
I have little patience with scientists who take a board of wood, look for its thinnest part, and drill a great number of holes where drilling is easy.
Old is the tree and the fruit good,Very old and thick the wood.Woodman, is your courage stout?Beware! the root is wrapped aboutYour mother's heart, your father's bones;And like the mandrake comes with groans.
It all I can do not to cry. I make myself wood I say to myself, Celie, you a tree. That's how I come to know trees fear man.
Tread not into the fearsome nightBut pull the covers high,Step not into the wild dark woodFor the Hobbers are dancing nigh
We think the fire eats the wood. We are wrong. The wood reaches out to the flame. The fire licks at what the wood harbors, and the wood gives itself away to that intimacy, the manner in which we and the world meet each new day.
Fire’s the sun, unwindin’ itself out o’ the wood.
Listen to me, Jez. There's no reason for you to die-"Wood...poison."No it isn't! Not to humans. And you're half human. You're vampire enough to survie something that would kill a human, but you're human enough not to be poisoned by wood.
Block of wood, gives you a big bunch of paper, but it doesn't make it worthy as a piece of mind on single paper.
Life is one wall which stay in front of you as much you push as more stronger it gets. Sometimes you can pass it others not and in most cases from so many pushes you get injured badly and you die!
Life is one wood as much older you get as more smaller it becomes. Down under this wood there are one hole which is for dead and... the place on which you walk it's called Life. When you lose steady you fall..., when you fall you die.
To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature.
The sawdust flew. A slightly sweet fragrance floated in the immediate area. It was a sweet but subtle aroma, neither the scent of pine nor willow, but one from the past that had been forgotten, only to reappear now after all these years, fresher than ever. The workmen occasionally scooped up a handful of sawdust, which they put into their mouths and swallowed. Before that they had chewed on pieces of green bark that they had stripped from the cut wood. It had the same fragrance and it freshened their mouths, so at first that was what they had used. Now even though they were no longer chewing the bark with which they felt such a bond, the stack of corded wood was a very appealing sight. From time to time they gave the logs a friendly slap or kick. Each time they sawed off a section, which rolled to the ground from the sawhorse, they would say:'Off with you - go over there and lie down where you belong.'What they were thinking was that big pieces of lumber like this should be used to make tables or chairs or to repair a house or make window frames; wood like this was hard to find.But now they were cutting it into kindling to be burned in stoves, a sad ending for good wood like this. They could see a comparison with their own lives, and this was a saddening thought. ("North China")
Age, that brings a dwindling to most forms of life, is at its most majestic in the trees. I have seen living olives that were planted when Caesar was in Gaul. I remember, in Illinois woods, a burr oak which was bent over as a sapling a hundred years ago, to mark an Indian portage trail, and the thews in that flexed bough were still in the prime of life. Compared to that, the strongest human sinew is feeble and quick to decay. Yet structure in both cases is cellular; life in both is protoplasmic. A tree drinks water as I do, and breathes oxygen. There is the difference that it exhales more oxygen than it consumes, so that it sweetens the air where it grows. It lays the dust and tempers the wind. Even when it is felled, it but enters on a new kind of life. Sawn and seasoned and finished, it lays bare the hidden beauty of its heart, in figures and grains more lovely than the most premeditated design. It is stronger, now, than it was in the living tree, and may bear great strains and take many shapes.
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