Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Emanations. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Emanations Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Terence Mckenna,Philip Pullman,James Patterson,Cormac Mccarthy,Linda Lappin for you to enjoy and share.
These things which are made of light and grammar and sound that come chirping and squealing and tumbling toward you. 'Hooray! Welcome! You're here!', and in my case, 'You send so many and you come so rarely!'
Fine vapors escape from whatever is doing the living. The night is cold and delicate and full of angels Pounding down the living. The factories are all lit up, The chime goes unheard. We are together at last, though far apart. - from "The Ecclesiast" by John Ashbery
loud laughter, phones ringing and the smell
Glass flowers exploding. Slow trail of colors down the sky like stains dispersing in the sea, candescent polyps extinguished in the depths.
There was a blinding flash of magnesium and a smell of singed hair and dust. A green light flared in the boar's glass eye.
The electric light is pure information. It is a medium without a message
Whispers, that's what she calls them. They're signs, small sounds, or little reminders, letting you know that there's something bigger than us out there. That there's a force working hard to make things right in the universe.
Light
Light
The visible reminder of Invisible Light.
particles of silence floated about the room
The falling away of things we carry around with us, twilight and chimney smoke.
They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lungs, and pass out through the other side, the air a library and the record of every life lived, every sentence spoken, every word transmitted still reverberating within it.
Things were launching themselves from the ornate sunburst spires, glittering leech shapes made of shifting planes of light. There were hundreds of them, rising in a whirl, their movements random as windblown paper down dawn streets. "Glitch systems," the voice said.
Spooky action at a distance.
Love's merciless, the way it travels in and keeps emitting light.
One must not attempt to justify them, but rather to sense their nature simply and clearly.
Nothing. Just that sound, like the sound of starlight scratching its way through outer space: kkkkkkk.
L.O.V.E Luscious Omnipresent Vibrational Energy
From what black wells of Acherontic fear or feeling, from what unplumbed gulfs of extra-cosmic consciousness or obscure, long-latent heredity, were those half-articulate thunder-croakings drawn?
The speaker catches fire
looking at their faces.
His words
jump down to stand
in listener's places.
Excrement, meet air-moving device.
Nothing is more true, more real, than the primeval magnetic disturbances that two souls may communicate to one another, through the tiny sparks of a moment's glance.
No sound, once made, is ever truly lost. In electric clouds, all are safely trapped, and with a touch, if we find them, we can recapture those echoes of sad, forgotten wars, long summers, and sweet autumns.
Absence, the highest form of presence.
Insights and perceptions pass through the mind like fleet fireflies. Lit for an instant, then gone back into the dark.
It is easy to see the glow but hard to recognize the awakening of silence.
Countless acts of observation give substance and reality to what would otherwise be ghosts of existence. This solves the so-called "measurement problem" of
What folly takes light through ether to each eye from every horizon.
There are sneaking,
creeping, crumpling
noises coming from
inside the walls.
There was an electric buzzing sound that was constantly on, acting as background music like a million cicadas in the forest. A constant white noise.
Seeing in the air things that the others did not see.
Echoes are more noisy than the source.
The walls have ears, ears that hear each little sound you make every time you stamp, throw a lamp.
Like odorless, colorless smoke leaking into the room through a small crack in the door.
The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
A very advanced master can glow so strongly that you see divine in them. You look into them and you see infinity constantly changing, evolving and radiating in new forms.
Things of which there is sight, hearing, apprehension, these I prefer.
At lucky moments this emanation could overwhelm the spectator in such a way, that because of all sorts of associations in his thinking, he could finally be taken to those areas which also had moved me so deeply and made me think I should draw the attention of others to it.
These energies when directed towards the subtle physical body cause the subtle physical body to break down, to lose its lumonisity.
There's this rushing sound, like white noise.
The sound of nothing.
Well, you know ... experience is a muffled lantern that throws light only on the bearer ... it's incommunicable ...
The spaces between the perceiver and the thing perceived can [ ... ] be closed with a shout of recognition.
This dark brightness that falls from the stars.
I've always had this in a kind of worst-case dark imagination. I want to know what the dark form in the window is. I want to know what the noise under the staircase is.
Could have cried aloud in exultation when my scrutiny disclosed the almost invisible incrustation of particles of carbonized electrons which are thrown off by these Martian torches. It
One should not search for anything behind the phenomena. They themselves are the message.
We know that sensory phenomena are transcribed in the photographic emulsion in such a way that even if there is a causal link with the real phenomena, the graphic images can be considered as wholly arbitrary with respect to these phenomena.
When they come, they come from above.
A flash of lightning
walls, the upturned cars, the barking dogs, the
a flash of silver just below the surface.
Any 'transmitting' device or applied technical method, which gets in the way of the 'transmission'/message/story, etc., is a negative element, garbling that which ought to be clear and instantly understood, and ought to be simply-stated with economy!
...hot shouts of neon...
On a sudden open fly With impetuous recoil and jarring sound Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder.
Like rays of glory from heaven, piercing the dusty gloom of the church, making each airborne mote shine like a star.
Eve's voice emanates from the walls of the station in an otherworldly, haunting way, as if she speaks from everywhere and nowhere at once.
The house, and all the objects in it, crackled with static electricity; undertows washed through it, the air was heavy with things that were known but not spoken. Like a hollow log, a drum, a church, it was amplified, so that conversations whispered in it sixty years ago can be half-heard today.
Invoking removes darkness and brings forth radiant lights.
Anon out of the earth a fabric huge Rose, like an exhalation.
Like the warming of a room or the coming of daylight. When you first notice them they have already been going on for sometime.
For the Rays, to speak properly, have no Colour. In them there is nothing else than a certain power and disposition to stir up a sensation of this Colour or that.
Probing the corners of the room like a caged cat, fly caught in a jar, fart in an elevator.
Dark embers smolder inside me - one touch and they flare - who would have thought memory combustible, or near you bright sparks appear? ...
All perceptible matter comes from a primary substance, or tenuity beyond conception, filling all space, the akasha or luminiferous ether, which is acted upon by the life giving Prana or creative force, calling into existence, in never-ending cycles all things and phenomena.
They're auras, Davey. I see them, too. The longer you stare at them, the wider the energy field expands until more colors begin to show themselves.
I have not had a moment's peace or happiness in respect to electromagnetic theory since November 28, 1846. All this time I have been liable to fits of ether dipsomania, kept away at intervals only by rigorous abstention from thought on the subject.
The subtle physical body is made up of strands of luminous energy, and the energies are flowing through them constantly in the etheric plane. Above the subtle body is the causal body.
Currents of energy shimmer through our bodies. Like shooting stars, we rocket through spacious stillness. But this silent, unmoving background is nothing like the granite ideas we use trying to take root in groundless soil.
river, small green flames, red flames, white flames, pursuing,
Black smoke, the flickering sister of fire.
What are ye orbs? The words of God? the Scriptures of the skies?
At first there's nothing to see, but you feel a sort of weariness that tells you something is in the air.
The screaming of the beasts becomes louder. One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably.
A certain fire pretends to be alive; it awakens. Working its way along the hand as a conductor, it reaches the support and engulfs it; then a leaping spark closes the circle it was to trace, coming back to the eye and beyond.
A splendour of miscellaneous spirits.
It had been quiet in Estha's head until Rahel came. But with her she had brought the sound of passing trains, and the light and shade and light and shade that falls on you if you have a window seat
Inanimate objects sometimes appear endowed with a strange power of sight. A statue notices, a tower watches, the face of an edifice contemplates.
And yet, from time to time, beneath this thick layer of amnesia, you can certainly sense something, an echo, distant, muted, but of what, precisely, it is impossible to say. Like finding yourself on the edge of a magnetic field, with no pendulum to pick up the radiation.
Unquestioning automatons
blindly marching to the beat -
an eerie crunching sound
hoards of shuffling feet ...
(from silent moments)
The sizzle I felt being near him was so intense, but I couldn't figure out if they were fireworks or warning flares.
We know that communication must be hampered, and its form largely determined, by the unconscious but inevitable influence of a transmitting mechanism, whether that be of a merely mechanical or of a physiological character.
Amazement + Gratitude + Openness + Appreciation = an irresistible field of energy
It radiates out from him like a cloud of ghosts, countless hands clutching at the air, reaching out for ... something.
Strikes, eases, dies, leaves a temporary silence.
The creative element in the mind of man ... emerges in as mysterious a fashion as those elementary particles which leap into momentary existence in great cyclotrons, only to vanish again like infinitesimal ghosts.
Light makes invisible things manifest.
...buzzing with the kind of commanding energy that felled trees and whistled teakettles..
When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles
We know, from ordinary life, that we are not able to direct our attention perfectly steadily and uniformly to one and the same object ... At times the attention turns towards the object most intensely, and at times the energy flags.
...they're here for a moment and then gone. At best they have "liftoff" power, or, to use a different analogy, they are like periodic flashes of lightning on a dark road, with no guiding power.
The universe and the light of the stars come through me.
A kind of silence, if I may say, was walking through the house, and, like most silence, it was not silent at all: it rapped on the doors, echoed in the clocks, creaked on the stairs, leaned forward to peer into my face and explode.
A noise, and the past was chased away, dispersed into the shadows like smoke by the brighter, louder present.
They came like specters from the dark maw of the bayou, first ghostly light in the fog, then the rasp of a motor: an aluminum powerboat scudding across lacquer-black water.
The fires pool and strut; they flow up the sides of the ramparts like tides; they splash into alleys, over rooftops, through a carpark. Smoke chases dust; ash chases smoke. A newsstand floats, burning.
That evening she glowed. She gave off a vibration of energy that he suspected only he could detect. Do I do this to you?, he wondered, as he watched her eat. Or is this just the relief of being out from under the forbidden eye of that husband of yours?
The wood echoed to the hoarse ringing of other saws; somewhere, very far away, a nightingale was trying out its voice, and at longer intervals a blackbird whistled as if blowing dust out of a flute. Even the engine steam rose into the sky warbling like milk boiling up on a nursery alchohol stove.
The air was full of sound, a defenning and confusing conflict of noises (...)
Manifestation is like a flower, you must put so much intent into its energy before you can sight its beauty.
We emphasize that such a form of communication is not absent in man, however evanescent a naturally given object may be for him, split as it is in its submission to symbols.
I is sometimes hearing faraway music coming from the stars in the sky.' A