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The great miraculous bell of translucent ice is suspended in mid-air. It rings to announce endings and beginnings. And it rings because there is fresh promise and wonder in the skies.

Vera Nazarian

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Vera Nazarian
Age: 58
Born: 1966
Born: May 25
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Moscow
Russian SFSR
Fresh
Endings
Rings
Beginnings
Sky
Suspended
Air
Skies
Promise
Bell
Wonder
Miraculous
Inspirational
Bells
Translucent
Great
Ice
Announce

More quotes by Vera Nazarian

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The master of the garden is the one who waters it, trims the branches, plants the seeds, and pulls the weeds. If you merely stroll through the garden, you are but an acolyte.
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Whenever you read a good book, somewhere in the world a door opens to allow in more light.
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Consolation has been wrongly reviled. Consolation is not apathy or inaction. It is not closing one's eyes to the evils of the world. Rather, consolation is the first step in regaining personal equilibrium and strength, which necessarily precedes the ability to act.
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The ocean is a place of skin, rich outer membranes hiding thick juicy insides, laden with the soup of being.
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Not every puzzle is intended to be solved. Some are in place to test your limits. Others are, in fact, not puzzles at all.
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I started to write. And I wrote and wrote all through high school.
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We often engage the defense mechanism of tunnel vision, just to keep ourselves focused on our daily lives. This makes us terribly jaded in our perception of what is really around us.
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If you are faced with a mountain, you have several options. You can climb it and cross to the other side. You can go around it. You can dig under it. You can fly over it. You can blow it up. You can ignore it and pretend it’s not there. You can turn around and go back the way you came. Or you can stay on the mountain and make it your home.
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If you have never changed your mind about some fundamental tenet of your belief, if you have never questioned the basics, and if you have no wish to do so, then you are likely ignorant.
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Karma has been a pop culture term for ages. But really, what the heck is it?
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Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.
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If Music is a Place -- then Jazz is the City, Folk is the Wilderness, Rock is the Road, Classical is a Temple.
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Don't be afraid of the dark. Shine!
Vera Nazarian
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Short stories are like individual jewel stones on a necklace, wonderful in themselves like standalone gleaming entities of semantic intensity.
Vera Nazarian
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Frost grows on the window glass, forming whorl patterns of lovely translucent geometry. Breathe on the glass, and you give frost more ammunition. Now it can build castles and cities and whole ice continents with your breath’s vapor. In a few blinks you can almost see the winter fairies moving in . . . But first, you hear the crackle of their wings.
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Q: Why do I love thee, O Night? A: Because you know I will never answer.
Vera Nazarian
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I think I became [writer] despite myself - tricking myself into it, really.
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The act of sharing with readers was at first too much of an intimate thing. But it evolved into an intense necessity to share.
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Imagine a delicious glass of summer iced tea. Take a long cool sip. Listen to the ice crackle and clink. Is the glass part full or part empty? Take another sip. And now?
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Sunrise paints the sky with pinks and the sunset with peaches. Cool to warm. So is the progression from childhood to old age.
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