Sentences with phrase «kind of a light voice»

It was kind of funny at the time, because for a big, strong, tough guy, Smith had kind of a light voice.

Not exact matches

Among converts to Orthodoxy, for instance, as well as among many cradle Orthodox of a particularly rigorist kind, Dostoevsky is especially honored for having held firmly to Chalcedonian orthodoxy and having introduced the greater world to the figure of Father Zosima, from whom all the light of Eastern Christian contemplative spirituality shines out; and, more generally, among Christians of many confessions, Dostoevsky is revered as a prophet, the great Christian anti-Nietzsche, the voice of ancient Christian truth crying out in the spiritual desert of the modern West.

It was a lady with an kind, understanding voice who answered the phone at the number in the back of the book, «Recovering from Churches that Abuse» that put me onto Ezekiel 34, which I read through tears which made it nearly impossible to see that gave my soul the smallest ray of light and an even smaller feeling of hope.

And in the light of that some very important voices being expressed about a contrived kind of fogiveness that enebles abuse, and a form of jealousy that is insecurity that misrepresents God.

I was kind of stunned,» Sasha told mbg just days after her climb, her voice light and happy.

With Willem Dafoe's demonic voice and his constant maniacal laughing, he's a legit intimidating presence that's mostly kept in the shadows, the Devil on Light's shoulder; the kind of character you'd like to see more of.

It's that kind of purposeful B - movie «it's so bad it's good» voice recording that really shines and brings the nostalgia to light.

The natural light, and «natural setting,» give Still's work a place to shine and his artistic voice to ring through, while also creating the kind of meditative, contemplative space where the works can be visited, known, again and again.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

Some devices are really convenient to control via voice, but most of the time it's just easier and quicker to use a light switch or button of some kind.