The real American type can never be a ballet dancer. The legs are too long, the body too supple and the spirit too free for this school of affected grace and toe walking.
Who among us has not dreamt, in moments of ambition, of the miracle of a poetic prose, musical without rhythm and rhyme, supple and staccato enough to adapt to the lyrical stirrings of the soul, the undulations of dreams, and sudden leaps of consciousness.
Love is the most important thing in our lives, a passion for which we would fight or die, and yet we're reluctant to linger over its names. Without a supple vocabulary, we can't even talk or think about it directly.
Resistance to team play seemed to pour like wet cement through my bones, displacing supple marrow, until I was ballasted with my own contempt.
Attending fully and becoming supple, Can you be as a newborn babe?
All things such as grass and trees are soft and supple in life. At their death they are withered and dry.
That's what being a front man is all about - the idea of having something supple underneath you, that machine that roars and can turn on a dime.
I work out as little as I can for as much gain as I can. Yoga and a little bit of ballet -- only 30 or 40 minutes every other day. I keep supple for myself more than for roles.
A woman's body is a dark and monstrous mystery; between her supple thighs a heavy whirlpool swirls, two rivers crash, and woe to him who slips and falls!
Bread may not always nourish us; but it always does us good, it even takes stiffness out of our joints, and makes us supple and buoyant, when we knew not what ailed us, to recognize any generosity in man or Nature, to share any unmixed and heroic joy.
It may do good; pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
Whoever would have his body supple, easy and healthful should learn to dance.
The second volume of Reiner Stach's epic biography of Franz Kafka. . . [is] a tangle of counter-grained and often under-sourced life stories, but reading Stach's magnificent narrative (wonderfully translated by Shelley Frisch) straight through brings death, not life, to the forefront. Stach is a compulsively readable writer. . . . [A]s in the previous volume, the prose in The Years of Insight is supple and very appealingly complex--all of which, once again, is perfectly rendered by Frisch.
It's such an extraordinary supple medium that you never do quite know what paint will do.
The hard and stiff will be broken. The soft and supple will prevail.
The cello is like a beautiful woman who has not grown older, but younger with time, more slender, more supple, more graceful.
