The same stream of life that runs through my veins night and day runs through the world and dances in rhythmic measures. It is the same life that shoots in joy through the dust of the earth in numberless blades of grass and breaks into tumultuous waves of leaves and flowers. It is the same life that is rocked in the ocean-cradle of birth and of death, in ebb and in flow. I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life. And my pride is from the life-throb of ages dancing in my blood this moment.
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A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A DOE
Unbearably lovely music is heard as the curtain rises, and we see the woods on a summer afternoon. A fawn dances on and nibbles slowly at some leaves. He drifts lazily through the soft foliage. Soon he starts coughing and drops dead.
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You are just now, here, neither coming nor going. Everything passes by you; your consciousness reflects it but it does not get identified. When a lion roars in front of a mirror, do you think the mirror roars? Or when the lion is gone and a child comes dancing, the mirror completely forgets about the lion and starts dancing with the child--do you think the mirror dances with the child? The mirror does nothing, it simply reflects. Your consciousness is only a mirror. Neither do you come, nor do you go. Things come and go. You become young, you become old; you are alive, you are dead. All these states are simply reflections in an eternal pool of consciousness.
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The white youth of today have begun to react to the fact that the American Way of Life is a fossil of history. What do they care if their old baldheaded and crew-cut elders don't dig their caveman mops? They couldn't care less about the old, stiff-assed honkies who don't like their new dances: Frog, Monkey, Jerk, Swim, Watusi. All they know is that it feels good to swing to way-out body-rhythms instead of dragging across the dance floor like zombies to the dead beat of mind-smothered Mickey Mouse music.
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Do not ask which creature screams in the night, Do not question who waits for you in the shadow. It is my cry that wakes you in the night, And my body that crouches in the shadow. I am Tzeench and you are the puppet That dances to my tune.
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Whoever is admitted or sought for, in company, upon any other account than that of his merit and manners, is never respected there, but only made use of. We will have such-a-one, for he sings prettily; we will invite such-a-one to a ball, for he dances well; we will have such-a-one at supper, for he is always joking and laughing; we will ask another because he plays deep at all games, or because he can drink a great deal. These are all vilifying distinctions, mortifying preferences, and exclude all ideas of esteem and regard. Whoever is had (as it is called) in company for the sake of any one thing singly, is singly that thing, and will never be considered in any other light; consequently never respected, let his merits be what they will.
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You can be a king or a street sweeper, but everybody dances with the Grim Reaper.
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The publisher is a middleman, he calls the tune to which the whole rest of the trade dances; and he does so because he pays the piper.
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Better a consultant who tap dances, than a consultant who does the moonwalk.
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You can be a king or a street-sweeper, but everybody dances with the grim reaper.
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Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.
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Coach does a great job of keeping us loose, and we just rally around that. We're just having a lot of fun. We play baseball in practice, he sings, he dances ...
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The truest expression of a people is in its dances and its music... Bodies never lie.
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Learn at least two classic ballroom dances, at least one of them Latin.
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Almost every other Western in the last ten years has failed, since Dances with Wolves.
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A friend is someone who dances with you in the sunlight, And walks with you in the shadows.
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