Quotations About / On:
Those who want to row on the ocean of human knowledge do not get far, and the storm drives those out of their course who set sail.
(Franz Grillparzer (1791-1872), Austrian author. Notebooks and Diaries (1819).)
It isn't the oceans which cut us off from the worldit's the American way of looking at things.
(Henry Miller (1891-1980), U.S. author. "Letter to Lafayette," The Air-Conditioned Nightmare (1945).)
The unconscious is the ocean of the unsayable, of what has been expelled from the land of language, removed as a result of ancient prohibitions.
(Italo Calvino (1923-1985), Italian author, critic. lecture, delivered in Turin, Nov. 1969. "Cybernetics and Ghosts," published in The Literature Machine (1987).)
He winged away on a wildgoup's chase across the kathartic ocean and made synthetic ink and sensitive paper for his own end out of his wit's waste.
(James Joyce (1882-1941), Irish author. Finnegans Wake, Part I, section vi, Penguin (1976).
Of the artist in exile.)
On the whole, we were glad of the storm, which would show us the ocean in its angriest mood.
(Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. Cape Cod (1855-1865), in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 4, p. 40, Houghton Mifflin (1906).)
My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness!
(Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), U.S. philosopher, author, naturalist. "Walking" (1862), in The Writings of Henry David Thoreau, vol. 5, p. 228, Houghton Mifflin (1906).)
A hermitage in the forest is the refuge of the narrow-minded misanthrope; a hammock on the ocean is the asylum for the generous distressed.
(Herman Melville (1819-1891), U.S. author. Israel Potter (1855), ch. 2, The Writings of Herman Melville, vol. 8, eds. Harrison Hayford, Hershel Parker, and G. Thomas Tanselle (1982).)
What angels invented these splendid ornaments, these rich conveniences, this ocean of air above, this ocean of water beneath, this firmament of earth between? this zodiac of lights, this tent of dropping clouds, this striped coat of climates, this fourfold year?
(Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher. Nature, ch. 2 (1836, revised and repr. 1849).)
Poetry, as I opine, is a toddling of a lad, a walking of a man, and a wandering of a shark in the ocean of an unusual arrangement of one's thought on the back of his mind, tongue, and before then sometimes, his laid words like a sign of passion on a dimpled night.
(On poetry and its wide scopes.)
Mind is a moving ocean and a flying sky. This wanders with many vibrations coming in contact of material desires. But we need to learn the art of stabilizing this by practice of meditation.
(Mind and Waves)