A Quote by Erica Jong

Spring, / you are a pinking shears: you cut / fresh edges on the world. — © Erica Jong
Spring, / you are a pinking shears: you cut / fresh edges on the world.
My mother, Robin Bell, is the master of balancing the finite line between classic and creative when it comes to fashion. Mom has no qualms about unleashing the pinking shears on a vintage Givenchy dress if it means she'll wear it more once it's sleeveless.
The spring is fresh and fearless And every leaf is new, The world is brimmed with moonlight, The lilac brimmed with dew. Here in the moving shadows I catch my breath and sing - My heart is fresh and fearless And over-brimmed with spring.
I am not kind, I cut people off as with shears and I drop them like nettles.
Talent is a spring from which fresh water always flows.- But this spring is worthless if no good use is made of it.
I had hopes for my rough edges. I wanted to use them as a can opener, to cut myself a hole in the world's surface and exit through it.
Fresh spring! / The world is only Nine days old - / These fields and mountains!
I never wanted to be well-rounded. I do not admire well-rounded people nor their work. So far as I can see, nothing good in the world has ever been done by well-rounded people. The good work is done by people with jagged, broken edges, because those edges cut things and leave an imprint, a design.
The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.
There are an awful lot of things in the cut of street drugs that eventually make you sick. I reached a point where the skin around the edges of my fingernails used to hurt all the time. And it would peel away easily. Now, that must have been from some poison in the cut.
I’ve always liked edges, places where one thing becomes another…… transition zones, boundaries and borderlands. I like the mixing that happens, the juxtapositions, the collisions and connections. I like the way they help me see the world from a fresh angle.
The world, nature, human beings, do not move like machines. The edges are never clear-cut, but always frayed. Nature never draws a line without smudging it.
Meantime, the world in which we exist has other aims. But it will pass away, burnt up in the fire of its own hot passions; and from its ashes will spring a new and younger world, full of fresh hope, woth the light of morning in its eyes.
Spring seems far off, impossible, but it is coming. Already there is dusk instead of darkness at five in the afternoon; already hope is stirring at the edges of the day.
My life is not packaged, Not tidy. There are leftover strands and jagged Edges that cut even my friends.
Poets and songwriters speak highly of spring as one of the great joys of life in the temperate zone, but in the real world most of spring is disappointing. We looked forward to it too long, and the spring we had in mind in February was warmer and dryer than the actual spring when it finally arrives. We'd expected it to be a whole season, like winter, instead of a handful of separate moments and single afternoons.
Everything was so fresh and unique to us - it was a whole new world of music. Michael Jackson was so fresh, you know? We could approach it with such fresh ears, which wouldn't be possible if we had been listening to it when we were younger.
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