Sentences with phrase «wrote near the end of his life»

Writing near the end of his life, he wrote that «the old argument from design in....

circle of friends, nor even to my own family,» he wrote near the end of his life.

«I'm not afraid to say I've made paintings that can be hard to live with,» Dobbs wrote near the end of his life, responding to often - heard comments that his work is both beautiful and disturbing.

Not exact matches

Near the end of the sixteenth century, the English Puritan Richard Rogers wrote that studying his diary was necessary «that I may so observe my heart that I may see my life in frame from time to time.»

Near the end of her life, she writes a complaint against the gods.

As he nears the end of his life, the Reverend John Ames is writing an account of his life and family for his seven - year - old son.

As Ebert neared the end of his life, following a long battle with cancer that robbed him of his voice and part of his jaw, his fervor came through more than ever in his written words.

Especially in light of the specific wording of the home inspection agreement (which obliged the inspector to make a visual inspection only, but to report any «' significant»» items as well as «seriously deficient systems and components or those nearing the end of their useful life»), it was the inspector's duty to include the observation in his written report.

Near the end of his life, Turing wrote his first and last paper on biology and chemistry, detailing how a type of chemical reaction ought to produce many patterns seen in nature.

, 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,

Especially in light of the specific wording of the home inspection agreement (which obliged the inspector to make a visual inspection only, but to report any «' significant»» items as well as «seriously deficient systems and components or those nearing the end of their useful life»), it was the inspector's duty to include the observation in his written report.