Quotes with stitch

Inspirational quotes with stitch.

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Lotari turned back to the dance floor in time to see Stitch spin Carah before sweeping her into a low dip. Stitch grinned at Jerin and gave him a wink. Jerin's fist clenched. His face went from red to almost purple. Lotari thought he might need to intervene before this got out of hand and Jerin pulled out the sword. He glanced at Alyra. The bird was gone. The girl sat wide-eyed, her hands fumbling with something beneath the table. "Ooh, oh, my." The palomino stumbled. Lotari rushed over to help. "Oh, my leg. My leg!" he limped, draping his arm over Carah's shoulder. "Please, my dear, help me over to my friends where I can rest it a moment. Ohhh, this is tragic. I was having such fun. Oh my." Lotari stopped, realizing Stitch had suddenly switched the leg he limped on. "I am sorry. You are such a marvelous dancer. Jerin, you must take her out for me. She is much too good to be another wallflower." Jumping right into the game, Lotari gave the big man a hard push. "Yes, you must." Carah's gaze narrowed on Stitch with suspicious amusement. Perhaps realizing the opportunity given her, she smiled endearingly, turning the solid young man into a puddle of mush. "I'll be most grateful if you could finish the song with me, Jerin." She even flipped her strawberry curls from her face. Perfect.Lotari wasn't sure, but thought Jerin said something that sounded like, "Ilbebbedgladtoooo." As he led Carah to the dance floor, Stitch and Lotari clapped each other's back. "Well done, Son" Lotari looked toward Alyra. "Pure brilliance." She was gone.

From p. 40 of Signet Edition of Thomas Wolfe's _You Can't Go Home Again_ (1940):Some things will never change. Some things will always be the same. Lean down your ear upon the earth and listen.The voice of forest water in the night, a woman's laughter in the dark, the clean, hard rattle of raked gravel, the cricketing stitch of midday in hot meadows, the delicate web of children's voices in bright air--these things will never change.The glitter of sunlight on roughened water, the glory of the stars, the innocence of morning, the smell of the sea in harbors, the feathery blur and smoky buddings of young boughs, and something there that comes and goes and never can be captured, the thorn of spring, the sharp and tongueless cry--these things will always be the same.All things belonging to the earth will never change--the leaf, the blade, the flower, the wind that cries and sleeps and wakes again, the trees whose stiff arms clash and tremble in the dark, and the dust of lovers long since buried in the earth--all things proceeding from the earth to seasons, all things that lapse and change and come again upon the earth--these things will always be the same, for they come up from the earth that never changes, they go back into the earth that lasts forever. Only the earth endures, but it endures forever.The tarantula, the adder, and the asp will also never change. Pain and death will always be the same. But under the pavements trembling like a pulse, under the buildings trembling like a cry, under the waste of time, under the hoof of the beast above the broken bones of cities, there will be something growing like a flower, something bursting from the earth again, forever deathless, faithful, coming into life again like April.

And then she caught the song. She fell upon it and music poured from the fiddle’s hollow, bright and liquid like fire out of the heart of the earth. Pierre-Jean drew back and stood mesmerized. The room around Fin stirred as every ear bent to the ring of heartsong. It rushed through Fin and spread to the outermost and tiniest capillary reaches of her body. Her flesh sang. The hairs of her arms and neck roused and stood. She sped the bow across the strings. Her fingers danced on the fingerboard quick as fat raindrops. Every man in the room that night would later swear that there was a wind within it. They would tell their children and lovers that a hurricane had filled the room, toppled chairs, driven papers and sheets before it and blew not merely around them but through them, taking fears, grudges, malice, and contempt with it, sending them spiraling out into the night where they vanished among the stars like embers rising from a bonfire. And though the spirited cry of the fiddle’s song blew through others and around the room and everything in it, Fin sat at the heart of it. It poured into her. It found room in the closets and hollow places of her soul to settle and root. It planted seeds: courage, resolve, steadfastness. Fin gulped it in, seized it, held it fast. She needed it, had thirsted for it all her days. She saw the road ahead of her, and though she didn’t understand it or comprehend her part in it, she knew that she needed the ancient and reckless power of a holy song to endure it. She didn’t let the music loose. It buckled and swept and still she clung to it, defined it in notes and rhythm, channeled it like a river bound between mountain steeps. And a thing happened then so precious and strange that Fin would ever after remember it only in the formless manner of dreams. The song turned and spoke her name—her true name, intoned in a language of mysteries. Not her earthly name, but a secret word, defining her alone among all created things. The writhing song spoke it, and for the first time, she knew herself. She knew what it was to be separated out, held apart from every other breathing creature, and known. Though she’d never heard it before and wouldn’t recall it after, every stitch of her soul shook in the passage of the word, shuddered in the wake of it, and mourned as the sound sped away. In an instant, it was over. The song ended with the dissonant pluck of a broken string.



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