A Quote by Barbara Kingsolver

I stir in bed and the memories rise out of me like a buzz of flies from a carcass. I crave to be rid of them. — © Barbara Kingsolver
I stir in bed and the memories rise out of me like a buzz of flies from a carcass. I crave to be rid of them.
I stalk certain words... I catch them in mid-flight, as they buzz past, I trap them, clean them, peel them, I set myself in front of the dish, they have a crystalline texture to me, vibrant, ivory, vegetable, oily, like fruit, like algae, like agates, like olives... I stir them, I shake them, I drink them, I gulp them down, I mash them, I garnish them... I leave them in my poem like stalactites, like slivers of polished wood, like coals, like pickings from a shipwreck, gifts from the waves... Everything exists in the word.
We who go a-fishing are a peculiar people. Like other men and women in many respects, we are like one another, and like no others, in other respects. We understand each other's thoughts by an intuition of which we know nothing. We cast our flies on many waters, where memories and fancies and facts rise, and we take them and show them to each other, and small or large, we are content with our catch.
Critics are like horse-flies which hinder the horses in their plowing of the soil. The horse works, all its muscles drawn tight like the strings on a double-bass, and a fly settles on his flanks and tickles and buzzes. And what does the fly buzz about? It scarcely knows itself; simply because it is restless and wants to proclaim: 'Look, I too am living on the earth. See, I can buzz, too, buzz about anything.'
Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is wiser not to stir them.
Memories are like mulligatawny soup in a cheap restaurant. It is best not to stir them.
You make me smile like the sun, fall out bed, sing like a bird, dizzy in my head. Spin like a record crazy on a sunday night. You make me dance like a fool, forget how to breath, shine like the sun buzz like a bee, just the thought of you can drive me wild. Oh you make me smile.
I started out with Buzz Sawyer in Sacramento. He had me shoot on guys and beat them up. They tossed me a few bones here and there. But, after Buzz passed away, I started seeking training elsewhere.
Things pass, and the best we can do is to let them really go away. Getting rid of certain memories also means making some room for other memories to take their place.
It's not like I think: 'By the age of 40 I've got to be an international household name.' When the opportunity to perform comes up, then I'll take it. It's really good fun. But because I don't crave the attention or the buzz, it's not like I'm desperate for it.
There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.
We always have the potential to rise. Rise out of our slump. Rise out of our negative thoughts. Rise out of our comfort zone. Rise out of our complaints. GET UP AND RISE. Rising is a choice that's one powerful thought away.
You…you got rid of that dress fast," I pointed out between heavy breaths. "I thought you liked it." "I do like it," he said. His breathing was as heavy as mine. "I love it." And then he took me to the bed.
In the West the past is like a dead animal. It is a carcass picked at by the flies that call themselves historians and biographers. But in my culture the past lives. My people feel this way in part because death does not separate us from our ancestors.
I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that." "Look what it got you," I say. "Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.
I don't know what's wrong with me. When I was a girl they had this aviary in one of my foster homes and I'd go in when no one was looking and put out watermelon rinds to feed the flies. There were all these flies that would have starved if I hadn't, and I'm not even wild about flies. They say it makes you a gentler person if you don't eat meat. But wasn't Hitler a vegetarian?
Sometimes, I seem to be only able to actually move and get going with things on the razor edge of possibly still managing whatever it is I'm supposed to do. I think, secretly, I might even get a buzz out of it. Maybe I crave the adrenalin like some sort of crazy gambler high on risking everything on the turn of a card.
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