Irises Quotes

Iris from sea brings wind or mighty rain.

Tiny gold sparks flared in his irises. “You’re in my rooms in my bathtub naked and you’re still mouthing off.” Did he expect anything different? “Hey, I didn’t kick or punch you in the throat. I consider this progress. And you haven’t choked me again, which is some sort of record for you.

In the ’80s, I loved the movies of the ’70s. Also I remember loving Klute [1971]. I loved Jane Fonda. Actually, I auditioned for the last movie she made before she retired for a while, Stanley and Iris [1990], which Martha Plimpton got.

Iris Murdoch did influence my early novels very much, and influence is never entirely good.

You have the older generation like Iris Murdoch and Angus Wilson who are not as old as Graham Greene, but still are coming on. I dare say anyone who knew the scene better than I know it could fill it in with a very satisfactory supply of novels.

You could slap his wrist for saying it, but then he said it with his face, and you could spank him for making faces, but then he said it with his eyes, and there were limits to correction-no way, in the end, to penetrate behind the blue irises and eradicate a boy’s disgust.

This is a portrait of Iris Clert if I say so.

I played Iris Murdoch, who had not long died, and I felt the responsibility very heavy on my shoulders.

The world, like a great iris of an even more gigantic eye, which has also just opened and stretched out to encompass everything, stared back at him.

To consider what other people might say is hardly a good reason to take action or to defer it. You have your own life to live, Iris, and at its end, the only opinion that amounts to anything is that which God bestows

She couldn’t tell where his pupils ended and the irises began; looking into those eyes was like looking into a well where children had drowned.

Whatever is silenced will clamor to be heard, though silently.

Iris, if you were a melody…piano melody. I used only the good notes.

This unlikely story begins on a sea that was a blue dream, as colorful as blue-silk stockings, and beneath a sky as blue as the irises of children’s eyes.

Must you know that yours will be the “better” picture before you pick up the brush and paint? Can it not simply be another picture? Another expression of beauty? Must a rose be “better” than an iris in order to justify it’s existence? I tell you this: you are all flowers in the Garden of the Gods.

That swimming, sloping, elusive something about the dark-bluish tint of the iris which seemed still to retain the shadows it had absorbed of ancient, fabulous forests where there were more birds than tigers and more fruit than thorns, and where, in some dappled depth, man’s mind had been born.

Imagine someone pointing to a place in the iris of a Rembrandt eye and saying, ‘The walls of my room should be painted this color.

Ana Iris once asked me if I loved him and I told her about the lights in my old home in the capital, how they flickered and you never knew if they would go out or not. You put down your things and you waited and couldn’t do anything really until the lights decided. This, I told her, is how I feel.

Constancy will always be the genius of love, the indication of that strength which constitutes the poet. A man should possess all women in his wife, like those squalid poetasters of the seventeenth century who made fair Irises and dazzling Chloes of their lowly Manons.

The grass he walked through was new and a sweet smell clung to his clothes. There was blue dye on his hands from the wild irises… that the color of the sky was a shade that could never be replicated in any photograph, just as Heaven could never be seen from the confines of Earth.

In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish’d dove;
In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

[Iris] squeezed his hand. “Don’t lose hope, Frank. Rainbows always stand for hope.

There’s smoke in my iris, but I painted a sunny day on the insides of my eyelids

You can see the weakness of a man right through his iris.

People in my hometown seldom called me piao liang, [beautiful] because my smaller eyes were a far cry from the wide irises of the most beloved television actresses.

Wouldn’t you be mad if I told you to give up on someone you cared about? Just… hand her over to someone who doesn’t even deserve her?” Tod gave me a strange, sad look I couldn’t interpret, and the blues in his irises shifted subtly for a moment before he got control of them. “Yeah. I guess I would.

What in your life is calling you, When all the noise is silenced, The meetings adjourned… The lists laid aside, And the Wild Iris blooms By itself In the dark forest… What still pulls on your soul?

[While shooting close-ups] you study real eyes, you study how the light reflects in them, you study the back of the eye, you study the way irises reflect emotion. You go into great scientific detail.

Praying It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate, this isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak.

I have had more than half a century of such happiness. A great deal of worry and sorrow, too, but never a worry or a sorrow that was not offset by a purple iris, a lark, a bluebird, or a dewy morning glory.

Who would deduce the dragonfly from the larva, the iris from the bud, the lawyer from the infant? …We are all shape-shifters and magical reinventors. Life is really a plural noun, a caravan of selves.

The world has different owners at sunrise… Even your own garden does not belong to you. Rabbits and blackbirds have the lawns; a tortoise-shell cat who never appears in daytime patrols the brick walls, and a golden-tailed pheasant glints his way through the iris spears.

He took both of my hands, twisting to face me more fully on the flattened box beneath us, and again the colors in his irises seemed to pulse with my heartbeat.