A Quote by Edmond Jabes

Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood. — © Edmond Jabes
Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.
He made a small sigh, as he swallowed the first blood, then his mouth closed over my earlobe, mouth working at the wound, tongue coaxing blood from the wound. He pressed his body the length of mine, one hand cupping my turned head, the other playing down the line of my body. Maybe it was just blood, but I never stroked my steak while eating it.
To humiliate and be humiliated, I think, is a crucial element in our whole social structure. It's not only the artist I'm sorry for. It's just that I know exactly where he feels most humiliated.
The only way to stop a rebellion is to crush it with blood and fire, and to wound them so they'll never dare to raise a hand again.
When my friend Melot set the trap, I think I knew it. I turned to death full face, as I had turned to love with my whole body. I would let death enter me as you had entered me. You had crept along my blood vessels through the wound, and the blood that circulates returns to the heart. You circulated me, you made me blush like a girl in the hoop of your hands. You were in my arteries and my lymph, you were the colour just under my skin, and if I cut myself, it was you I bled. Red Isolde, alive on my fingers, and always the force of blood pushing you back to my heart.
Sometimes a savage beauty lured me into the sun and I would start to love the danger a little. On these occasions I felt the reluctant love drained painfully from me as blood drains from a deep wound. The tigers lapped my love's blood and remained enemies. The inhabitants of the day laughed at the gift I wanted to bring them, and I shut myself in my inner room to escape the betrayal of their arrogant mouths.
One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.
A wound in the soul, coming from the rending of the spiritual body, strange as it may seem, gradually closes like a physical wound. And once a deep wound heals over and the edges seem to have knit, a wound in the soul, like a physical wound, can be healed only by the force of life pushing up from inside. This was the way Natasha's wound healed. She thought her life was over. But suddenly her love for her mother showed her that the essence of life - love - was still alive in her. Love awoke, and life awoke.
William James once made an acute point about the relationship between happiness and expectation. He argued that satisfaction with ourselves does not require us to succeed in every endeavour. We are not always humiliated by failing; we are humiliated only if we first invest our pride and sense of worth in a given achievement and then do not reach it.
Autobiography is a wound where the blood of history does not dry.
Whether we wound or are wounded, the blood that flows is red.
One of you guys is going to have to feed the vampiric lawyer some blood and it can’t be me. (Caleb) Why? You afraid of a little bite? I’m anemic. (Nick) And I’m Catholic. Doesn’t that knock me out of the running? (Nick)
Time pulses from the afternoon like blood from a serious wound.
If you feed a man a meal, you only feed him for a day-but if you teach a man to grow food, you feed him for a lifetime.
Someone asks me what's my practice? I don't want the fear of being humiliated to have authority over me. I don't want it to come near me. I don't want it to have a voice in my decisions. I don't want it to be anywhere near me. What's my practice? That one. I don't ever want to humiliate a human being, and I don't want the fear of being humiliated to participate in my thoughts.
Blood of the world, time staunchless flows; The wound is mortal and is mine.
Of all writings I love only that which is written with blood. Write with blood: and you will discover that blood is spirit.
This site uses cookies to ensure you get the best experience. More info...
Got it!