Symbolic Quotes

Quotes tagged as "symbolic" Showing 1-30 of 47
Jean Rhys
“I hated the mountains and the hills, the rivers and the rain. I hated the sunsets of whatever colour, I hated its beauty and its magic and the secret I would never know. I hated its indifference and the cruelty which was part of its loveliness. Above all I hated her. For she belonged to the magic and the loveliness. She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.”
Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea

Slavoj Žižek
“as soon as we renounce fiction and illusion, we lose reality itself; the moment we subtract fictions from reality, reality itself loses its discursive-logical consistency.”
Slavoj Žižek, Tarrying with the Negative: Kant, Hegel, and the Critique of Ideology

Neil Gaiman
“Don't confuse the teacher with the lesson, the ritual with the ecstasy, the transmitter of the symbol with the symbol itself.”
Neil Gaiman, Stardust

George Orwell
“What he realised, and more clearly as time went on, was that money-worship has been elevated into a religion. Perhaps it is the only real religion-the only felt religion-that is left to us. Money is what God used to be. Good and evil have no meaning any longer except failure and success. Hence the profoundly significant phrase, to make good. The decalogue has been reduced to two commandments. One for the employers-the elect, the money priesthood as it were- 'Thou shalt make money'; the other for the employed- the slaves and underlings'- 'Thou shalt not lose thy job.' It was about this time that he came across The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists and read about the starving carpenter who pawns everything but sticks to his aspidistra. The aspidistra became a sort of symbol for Gordon after that. The aspidistra, the flower of England! It ought to be on our coat of arms instead of the lion and the unicorn. There will be no revolution in England while there are aspidistras in the windows.”
George Orwell, Keep the Aspidistra Flying

Iain Reid
“We accept, reject, and discern through symbols. These are as important to our understanding of life, our understanding of existence and what has value, whats worthwhile, as math and science ... it's all part of how we work through things, how we make decisions.”
Iain Reid, I'm Thinking of Ending Things

“What's it like here?
There's a biscuit factory next door. We get the broken ones.”
Hiedi Thomas Jennifer Worth

Elizabeth Acevedo
“As to your last assignment, I did make up a recipe inspired by my name. Although Julio has told me before it means "faith," I don't think I understood why my mother might have wanted to name me that until this year. And so I decided to make a remix of flambé shrimp à la Emoni, because what better way to take a leap of faith than to set something on fire and trust it will not only come out right, but that it will be completely delicious?”
Elizabeth Acevedo, With the Fire on High

Lisa Kleypas
“Just before they boarded the yacht, Cassandra glanced at Tom and reached up to a delicate necklace she'd worn constantly since the day he'd given it to her. She touched the little charm, made in the shape of Euler's infinity symbol, that hung at the hollow of her throat.
And as always, the private signal made him smile.”
Lisa Kleypas, Chasing Cassandra

Susan Wiggs
“A nautilus shell. I've never found one before."
It was a nice big one, a rare find, not too damaged by the battering waves. Alex couldn't know it, but it was Mamma's favorite kind of shell. The nautilus is a symbol of harmony and peace, she used to say.
"You can have it if you want," he said, holding the shell out to her.
"No. You found it." Rosa kept her hands at her sides even though she wanted it desperately.
"I'm not good at keeping things." He wound up as if to throw it back into the surf.
"Don't! If you're not going to keep it, I will," Rosa said, grabbing it from him.
"I wasn't really going to throw it away," he said. "I just wanted you to have it.”
Susan Wiggs, Summer by the Sea

Matt Goulding
“If you blink, you might miss it. You might miss the wet floor at the threshold, symbolically cleansing you before the meal begins. You might overlook the flower arrangement in the corner, a spare expression of the passing season. You might miss the scroll on the wall drawn with a single unbroken line, signaling the infinite continuity of nature. You might not detect the gentle current of young ginger rippling through the dashi, the extra sheet of Hokkaido kelp in the soup, the mochi that is made to look like a cherry blossom at midnight.
You might miss the water.”
Matt Goulding, Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture

“Art is a lie that reveals deep truths. Metaphor is one way to translate experience; symbols help us stretch our minds to finger elusive and illustrative truths. Truths are not always logical and human truth finding does not fit snugly onto the silicon chip of a computer. The rational as well as the irrational unites us as specie. We share expressible knowledge and suspect within ourselves and other people the unspeakable. The unfathomable is as much a part of our celestial humanity as is the dirt clutching our shoes, which accumulated grime grounds us to physical reality.”
Kilroy J. Oldster, Dead Toad Scrolls

Elsie Chapman
“Special combo, you got it," I say into the phone. "Which one?"
"The winter melon soup."
Winter melon is symbolic of a wife- a special order of the soup means someone's is about to be abducted. A special order of egg fried rice? Someone's kid. Fried pot stickers? A husband. Shanghai chow mein with chopped-up noodles? Someone's doomed to have their life cut short, the promise of longevity broken.”
Elsie Chapman, Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love

Elsie Chapman
“At least there's nothing traditional about an engagement dinner, so we'll be spared having to prepare a twelve-course wedding banquet loaded with meaning. There will be no roasted pig to symbolize purity. No bright red lobster for luck. No shark fin soup for wealth.”
Elsie Chapman, Hungry Hearts: 13 Tales of Food & Love

Sonali Dev
“What do you remember most about what your pai put in his lamb chops?"
"I think it was basically salt, pepper, and garlic." He squeezed his eyes shut and focused so hard that not dropping a kiss on his earnestly pursed mouth was the hardest thing. His eyes opened, bright with memory. "Of course. Mint."
"That's perfect. Since we're only allowed only five tools, simple is good."
"My mãe always made rice and potatoes with it. How about we make lamb chops and a biryani-style pilaf?"
Ashna blinked. Since when was Rico such a foodie?
He shrugged but his lips tugged to one side in his crooked smile. "What? I live in London. Of course Indian is my favorite cuisine."
Tossing an onion at him, she asked him to start chopping, and put the rice to boil.
Then she turned to the lamb chops. The automatic reflex to follow Baba's recipe to within an inch of its life rolled through her. But when she ignored it, the need to hyperventilate didn't follow. Next to her Rico was fully tuned in to her body language, dividing his focus between following the instructions she threw out and the job at hand.
As he'd talked about his father's chops, she'd imagined exactly how she wanted them to taste. An overtone of garlic and lemon and an undertone of mint. The rice would be simple, in keeping with the Brazilian tradition, but she'd liven it up with fried onions, cashew nuts, whole black cardamom, cloves, bay leaves, and cinnamon stick. All she wanted was to create something that tasted like Rico's childhood, combined with their future together, and it felt like she was flying.
Just like with her teas, she knew exactly what she wanted to taste and she knew exactly how to layer ingredients to coax out those flavors, those feelings. It was her and that alchemy and Rico's hands flying to follow instructions and help her make it happen.
"There's another thing we have to make," she said. Rico raised a brow as he stirred rice into the spice-infused butter. "I want to make tea. A festive chai."
He smiled at her, heat intensifying his eyes.
Really? Talking about tea turned him on? Wasn't the universe just full of good news today.”
Sonali Dev, Recipe for Persuasion

Anna Campbell
“Oh, Matthew," she whispered, moved to tears.
"I called it Grace. I hope you don't mind." For the first time, his manner held a hint of shyness, disconcerting in a man who had just made love to her without hesitation or reticence.
Gently, she curled her hand around what was inside the box and lifted it to the light. "It's your rose."
"No, it's your rose."
A heady fragrance filled the air. With one shaking finger, Grace touched a flawless pink petal. The color was unforgettable. It was the most beautiful rose she'd ever seen. Impossible to credit that those unpromising stalks in his courtyard had produced this exquisite bloom.
"It's perfect," she whispered. "It's a miracle."
He was a miracle. How could she not love the man who conjured this beauty with hands and imagination?
The faint smile broadened. Had he worried that she'd reject his gift? Foolish, darling Matthew. The question was whether the rose was a promise of a future or a token of parting.
"I worked on it whenever I could. This last year has been busy."
An understatement, she knew. The Marquess of Sheene had been a ubiquitous presence in London since his release. Everywhere he went, society feted him as a hero. She'd read of the string of honors he'd received, the friendship with the king, the invitations to join scientific boards and societies.
Echoing her gesture, he reached out to touch the petals. The sensitivity of his fingers on the flower reminded her of his hands on her skin.
"I did most of the basic experiments when I was a prisoner, but I couldn't get it right." He glanced up with an expression that combined pride and diffidence in a breathtakingly attractive mixture. "This is the first bud, Grace. It appeared almost a year to the day after I promised to wait. It seemed a sign."
"And you brought it to me," she said softly, staring at the flower. The anniversary of his release didn't occur for two more days. That date was etched on her longing heart.
Then she noticed something else.
"My glove," she said blankly. With unsteady hands, she reached in and withdrew a light green kidskin glove from a recess carved away from the damp. The buttery leather was crushed and worn from incessant handling. "Have you kept it all this time?"
"Of course." He wasn't smiling anymore and his eyes deepened to a rich, rare gold. Beautiful, unwavering, somber.
"You make me want to cry." Her voice emerged so thickly, she didn't sound like herself.
She laid the box on the bench and tightened her grip on the soft leather until her knuckles whitened. What was he trying to tell her? What did the rose mean? The glove?
Had he carried her glove into his new life like a knight wore his lady's favor into battle? The thought sent choking emotion to her throat.”
Anna Campbell, Untouched

“After I steamed four giant clams over a skillet of sake, Stephen ripped out the meat and hacked it into chunks. With cupped hands, he scooped up the chewy bits and threw them in a bowl. Then he stirred in spicy red-and-white radish wedges and a warm dressing of wasabi, sugar, and sweet white miso that I had stirred in a small saucepan over a low flame until it became thick and shiny. Following his directions, I spooned the golden clams back into their shells. Stephen garnished them with a pink-and-white "congratulatory" flower of spongy wheat gluten. "Precious," he said, winking at me.
Next, we made sea urchin- egg balls, first blending creamy lobes of sea urchin with raw egg yolk and a little dashi. Stephen cooked the mixture until it formed a stiff paste and then pressed it through a sieve. I plopped a golden dollop in a clean damp cloth and flattened it into a disc. In the center I put three crescents of lily bulb tenderized in salt water.
"Try one," urged Stephen, handing me a wedge of lily bulb. It was mealy and sweet, kind of like a boiled cashew. Stephen brought together the four corners of the damp cloth and twisted it gently to create a bubble of eggy sea urchin paste stuffed with lily bulb. When unveiled, it looked like a Rainier cherry. I twisted out nineteen more balls, which we later arranged on fresh green leaves draped across black lacquer trays.
Next, we impaled several fat shrimp on two metal skewers, sending one rod through the head and the other through the tail. We grilled the grayish pink bodies until they became rosy on one side and then flipped them over until they turned opaque. Stephen painted golden egg yolk for prosperity over the juicy crustaceans and returned them to the grill until they smoldered and charred.”
Victoria Abbott Riccardi, Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto

“One day we strolled down the Philosopher's Path, which proved as enchanting as I had hoped in the fragrant pink bloom of spring. Since ancient times, the Japanese have heralded the arrival of the cherry blossoms because they symbolize the ephemeral beauty of life.
But it isn't just the three or four days of open flowers that stirs the senses. It is their arrival and departure. Looking at a bud about to burst open offers the pleasurable anticipation of rebirth, while the soft scattering of petals on the ground is often considered the most beautiful stage of all because it represents the death of the flowers.
Another day I took John to one of my tea kaiseki classes to watch the making of a traditional picnic to celebrate the arrival of the cherry blossoms. While he sat on a stool near my cooking station, Stephen and I cooked rice in water flavored with kelp, sake, and light soy, then packed it into a wooden mold shaped like a chrysanthemum. After tapping out the compact white flower, we decorated it with two salted cherry blossoms.
We wrapped chunks of salted Spanish mackerel in brined cherry leaves and steamed the packets until the fatty fish turned milky in parts. We also made cold seafood salad, pea custard, and chewy millet dumplings, which we grilled over a charcoal burner until brown and sticky enough to hold a coating of ivory Japanese poppy seeds.”
Victoria Abbott Riccardi, Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto

“We began with two buttery sweet edamame and one sugar syrup-soaked shrimp in a crunchy soft shell. A lightly simmered baby octopus practically melted in our mouths, while a tiny cup of clear, lemony soup provided cooling refreshment. The soup held three slices of okra and several slippery cool strands of junsai (water shield), a luxury food that grows in ponds and marshes throughout Asia, Australia, West Africa, and North America. In the late spring the tiny plant develops leafy shoots surrounded by a gelatinous sheath that floats on the water's surface, enabling the Japanese to scoop it up by hand from small boats. The edamame, okra, and water shield represented items from the mountains, while the shrimp and octopus exemplified the ocean. I could tell John was intrigued and amused by this artistic (perhaps puny?) array of exotica.
Two pearly pieces of sea bream, several fat triangles of tuna, and sweet shelled raw baby shrimp composed the sashimi course, which arrived on a pale turquoise dish about the size of a bread plate. It was the raw fish portion of the meal, similar to the mukozuke in a tea kaiseki. To counter the beefy richness of the tuna, we wrapped the triangles in pungent shiso leaves , then dunked them in soy.
After the sashimi, the waitress brought out the mushimono (steamed dish). In a coal-black ceramic bowl sat an ivory potato dumpling suspended in a clear wiggly broth of dashi thickened with kudzu starch, freckled with glistening orange salmon roe. The steamed dumplings, reminiscent of a white peach, was all at once velvety, sweet, starchy, and feathery and had a center "pit" of ground chicken. The whole dish, served warm and with a little wooden spoon, embodied the young, tender softness of spring.”
Victoria Abbott Riccardi, Untangling My Chopsticks: A Culinary Sojourn in Kyoto

Alenka Zupančič
“The other concept of truth in Lacan situates the truth, so to speak, in the midst of reality. Here, the discontinuities, ruptures, standstills, and crises of reality are places or points of its truth. The truth is not some impossible and lethal Beyond that can be reached only by transgressing the limits of the Symbolic and the Imaginary –Lacan comes to present it as something that speaks between the lines, detectable in changes of discursivity, in the disturbances, interruptions, and slips of the discourse...”
Alenka Zupančič, The Shortest Shadow: Nietzsche's Philosophy of the Two

Soroosh Shahrivar
“Listen Mr. Namaki, you're a king to me
You're a symbol of what we should strive to be
In this modern day and age, you're an alchemist
So let me join you, sing your song up the hills”
Soroosh Shahrivar, Letter 19

“Japanese people may find this surprising, but eel is a common ingredient in European cuisine.
Kurokiba's Eel Matelote from the Classic's Semifinal Round is one such European dish."
"Southern Italy in particular has a tradition of eating eel right around Natale, which is Christmas. It's often served during the feasts for La Vigilia on Christmas Eve night.
The eels are supposed to symbolize devils, and eating them is thought to be a charm warding off bad luck and evil spirits.”
Yuto Tsukuda, 食戟のソーマ 25 [Shokugeki no Souma 25]

Leo Tolstoy
“Prince Andrey could not look unmoved upon the flags of the passing battalions. Looking at the flag, he kept thinking: perhaps it is that very flag with which I shall have to lead the men.”
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Leo Tolstoy
“Lads, forward!" he shrieked in a voice of childish shrillness. "Here, it is come!" Prince Andrey thought, seizing the staff of the flag, and hearing with relief the whiz of bullets, unmistakably aimed at him. Several soldiers dropped.”
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Leo Tolstoy
“Hurrah!" shouted Prince Andrey, and hardly able to hold up the heavy flag in both his hands, he ran forward in the unhesitating conviction that the whole battalion would run after him. And in fact it was only for a few steps that he ran alone. One soldier started, then another, and then the whole battalion with a shout of "hurrah!" was running forward and overtaking him. An under officer of the battalion ran up and took the flag which tottered from its weight in Prince Andrey's hands, but he was at once killed. Prince Andrey snatched up the flag again, and waving it by the staff, ran on with the battalion.”
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

Leo Tolstoy
“the second lieutenant standing with the flag let it drop out of his hands. The flag tottered and was caught on the guns of the nearest soldiers. The soldiers had begun firing without orders.”
Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace

“Studied erosion of the boundary between figurative and literal is a common device in symbolic language. And, since it is usually the common word that has the long history and the great range of uses, this kind of symbolic language can use vocabulary that is apparently very simple and innocuous, but conceals a tracery of fly-overs from literal to metaphorical terrain.”
Nowottny, Winifred

Richard Bach
“Ο βράζος ήταν γι' αυτό σαν μια πελώρια σκληρή πόρτα που άνοιγε σ' έναν άλλο κόσμο. Μια έκρηξη φόβου, πόνου και σκοτεινιάς τη στιγμή της πρόσκρουσης κι ύστερα βρέθηκε να πλανιέται σκυβέρνητος σ' έναν άγνωστο, παράξενο ουρανό, να ξεχνάει, να θυμάται και πάλι να ξεχνάει. Φοβισμένος, θλιμμένος και μετανιωμένος, φοβερά μετανιωμένος.”
Richard Bach, Jonathan Livingston Seagull

Umberto Eco
“...not everything can be a symbol. A symbol has to be textually produced; it requires a specific semiotic strategy. [...] . A symbolic strategy can produce aesthetic enjoyment, but it is first of all semiotic machinery.”
Umberto Eco, Semiotics and the Philosophy of Language

Slavoj Žižek
“This brings us to the specific temporality of the symbolic event: the abrupt reversal of ‘not yet’ into ‘always-already.’ There is always a gap between formal and material change: things gradually change at the material level, and this change is subterranean, like a secret spreading of a deadly infection; when the struggle erupts into the open, the mole has already finished its work and the battle is de facto over – all one has to do is to remind those in power to look down and perceive how there is no longer any ground under their feet, and the whole edifice collapses like a house of cards.”
Slavoj Žižek, Event

“One effect of all this is that towers, especially when associated with religious buildings, carry a powerful symbolic charge which greatly adds to their informational weight.”
Peter F. Smith, The Dynamics of Delight: Architecture and Aesthetics

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