Edwin Hubbell Chapin Quotes
In the isolation of his clear, cold intellect, the sceptic abides in a glacial and spectral universe. No glow from the affections lights up the frost and shadow of the grave. He feels no prophecy in the thrill of the human heart-in the incompleteness of nature. He believes merely in things tangible, and sees only in the daytime. He will not confess the authenticity of that paler light of faith which was meant to shine when the sunshine of reason falls short, and the firmament of mystery is over our heads.
Quotes to Explore
-
Politics and power is a realm of relative influence.
-
Sometimes we question things that we have done in our lives but how many times do we question what we haven't done in someone else's.
-
I really like to kid around, and it's my own way of concentrating. In order for me to be able to feel better and concentrate, I need everybody else around me to be relaxed.
-
Without a doubt, priority No. 1 is always my family. Whether it's my children or my husband or even my girlfriends who are also my family, I put them first no matter what. And it makes it easy to then juggle everything else because it's never a question.
-
I never had little brothers, so I was totally not used to hearing a lot of cussing at a young age! I learned what 'pull my finger' meant the hard way.
-
Film and TV and stuff like that was something that I wanted to do when I was really, really little; like, I remember I used to do these plays with my cousins. We used to do Michael Jackson performances, and I would be Michael.
-
My grandma did opera singing for the better part of her life; she used to sing all over the place. My grandpa was a sax player, and he used to travel all over the place, too.
-
I have a very balanced posture about the political situation in my country.
-
I don't go into any album with pressing issues. I just try to write songs.
-
I am not mean at all; I am not tough at all.
-
Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure.
-
Way Down South in Dixie (Break the heart of me) They hung my black young lover To a cross roads tree.
-
The best life is the one in which the creative impulses play the largest part and the possessive impulses the smallest.
-
Oysters open completely when the moon is full; and when the crab sees one it throws a piece of stone or seaweed into it and the oyster cannot close again so that it serves the crab for meat. Such is the fate of him who opens his mouth too much and thereby puts himself at the mercy of the listener.
-
When I was younger, I'd go to the Museum of Television and Radio in New York and watch this beautiful clip of Billie Holiday playing with a bassist, a pianist and Gerry Mulligan, who was a friend of mine, on baritone sax. At one point, she looks over at Gerry, and they just smile. When those moments happen, it's just lovely.
-
We have been using foreign affairs ministries to address security issues, but this practice is outdated. It's time to assign the handling of regional security to national organizations and expert institutions.
-
'Brown Girl Dreaming' was a book I had a lot of doubts about - mainly, would this story be meaningful to anyone besides me? My editor, Nancy Paulsen, kept assuring me, but there were moments when I was in a really sad place with the story for so many reasons. It wasn't an easy book to write - emotionally, physically, or creatively.
-
I'm into sounds, man.
-
It may well be that by trickery of priests men have sometimes taken a mortal's voice for a god's. But it will not work the other way. No one who hears a god's voice takes it for a man's.
-
God is dead. Marx is dead. And I don't feel so well myself.
-
Our writing equipment takes part in forming our thoughts.
-
There are as many ways of loving as there are people, and that wildflower variety is the great beauty of this dimension of existence.
-
The human heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatred.
-
In the isolation of his clear, cold intellect, the sceptic abides in a glacial and spectral universe. No glow from the affections lights up the frost and shadow of the grave. He feels no prophecy in the thrill of the human heart-in the incompleteness of nature. He believes merely in things tangible, and sees only in the daytime. He will not confess the authenticity of that paler light of faith which was meant to shine when the sunshine of reason falls short, and the firmament of mystery is over our heads.
