You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire. That day in Moscow, it will all come true, when, for the last time, I take my leave, And hasten to the heights that I have longed for, Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
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For a hundred years I breathe and live, the flower of beauty and the bread of kindness. I am your friendly shade in the noonday heat of summer, and I stand pencilled against the winter twilight, a silhouette for dreams. At dawning in the spring I am filled with song, the host to a thousand birds, and I decorate the autumn with pageantry and colour. Then comes the woodsman with his axe. And still I serve. I am the timber that builds your boat; the rafters of your cathedrals; the choirstalls of your church enriched by the magic of the carver's fingers. I am the beam that holds your house; the door of your homestead, and the lintel too. I am the handle of your hoe; the wood of your cradle; the bed on which you lie; the board of your table and the board for your bread. When I am living, harm me not. When I am dead, respect me and use me kindly.
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...music is the perfect type of art. Music can never reveal its ultimate secret. This, also, is the explanation of the value of limitations in art. The sculptor gladly surrenders imitative colour, and the painter the actual dimensions of form, because by such renunciations they are able to avoid too definite a presentation of the Real, which would be mere imitation, and too definite a realisation of the Ideal, which would be too purely intellectual. It is through its very incompleteness that art becomes complete in beauty, and so addresses itself, not to the faculty of recognition nor to the faculty of reason, but to the aesthetic sense alone, which, while accepting both reason and recognition as stages of apprehension, subordinates them both to a pure synthetic impression of the work of art as a whole, and, taking whatever alien emotional elements the work may possess, uses their very complexity as a means by which a richer unity may be added to the ultimate impression itself.
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This is our world now... the world of the electron and the switch, the beauty of the baud. We make use of a service already existing without paying for what could be dirt-cheap if it wasn't run by profiteering gluttons, and you call us criminals. We explore... and you call us criminals. We seek after knowledge... and you call us criminals. We exist without skin colour, without nationality, without religious bias... and you call us criminals. You build atomic bombs, you wage wars, you murder, cheat, and lie to us and try to make us believe it's for our own good, yet we're the criminals.
'Yes, I am a criminal. My crime is that of curiosity. My crime is that of judging people by what they say and think, not what they look like.
'My crime is that of outsmarting you, something that you will never forgive me for. I am a hacker, and this is my manifesto. You may stop this individual, but you can't stop us all... after all, we're all alike.
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Let's just say that if complete and utter chaos were lightning, he'd be the sort to stand on a mountain in a thunderstorm wearing wet copper armour and shouting 'All gods are bastards'.
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A word is not a crystal, transparent and unchanging, it is the skin of a living thought and may vary greatly in colour and content according to the circumstances and time in which it is used.
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Shut your eyes, wait, think of nothing. Now, open them ... one sees nothing but a great coloured undulation. What then? An irradiation and glory of colour. This is what a picture should give us ... an abyss in which the eye is lost, a secret germination, a coloured state of grace ... loose conciousness. Descend with the painter into the dim tangled roots of things, and rise again from them in colours, be steeped in the light of them.
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A million flies can't be wrong - Eat shit.
Seen under it written in a different colour:
A billion humans can't be wrong - Don't eat shit
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People can have the Model T in any colour--so long as it's black.
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There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better.
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Alfred Nobel stipulated that no distinction of race or colour will determine who received of his generosity.
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In our lives there is a simple colour, as on an artists palatte, which provides the meaning of life and art. it is the colour of love.
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Although I am basically self taught, I consider Debussy my teacher - the most important elements are colour, light and shadow.
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A colour is a physical object as soon as we consider its dependence, for instance, upon its luminous source, upon other colours, upon temperatures, upon spaces, and so forth.
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Who blows death's feather? What glory is colour? I blow the stammel feather in the vein....
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White... is not a mere absence of colour; it is a shining and affirmative thing, as fierce as red, as definite as black... God paints in many colours; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white.
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The purest and most thoughtful minds are those which love colour the most.
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Dear Bertie, You asked me before where I went. And I want to tell you. I went to a place where nothing's right, where every moment's backwards, every sky's without colour, without hope. I tried to come back, Bertie. But I got lost. And while I was gone, I met you. And I didn't even have the courage to realize I was home. A wise friend of mine told me 'we all have our homes', and now I know it's true. I hope you get this letter, Bertie. I figure I got 75 chances. Cause if you do you'll know that in the end, that's where I was. I found home, Bertie. I found you. I hope you can find your's soon. Get there - as fast as you can. And write me when you do. Love, Joe.
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Don't hate people because they are of a different colour, race or sexual orientation. Hate them because, despite outward appearances, they are all human and that in itself is a terrible crime.
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Every form is a base for colour, every colour is the attribute of a form.
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Sin is the only real colour element left in modern life.
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Something told Dorothy she wasn't in Kansas anymore. Maybe it was the colour of the sky; maybe it was the smell in the air; maybe it was the road sign that said, 'Welcome to Missouri.'
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Mere colour, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.
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The old chains on her bosom do not rise, do not glow when she breathes, nor change colour.
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Circumstances ... give in reality to every political principle its distinguishing colour and discriminating effect. The circumstances are what...
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One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.
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Any colour - so long as it's black.
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