Cloth Quotes

“A photograph of a disposable diaper floating in the arctic miles away from human habitat fueled my daily determination to save at least one disposable diaper from being used and created. One cloth diaper after another, days accumulated into years and now our next child is using the cloth diapers we bought for our firstborn.”
― Gloria Ng, Cloth Diapering Made Easy

“Your clothes should be as important as your skin.”
― Amit Kalantri

“Beside the plain blue homespun and white linen which modestly clothed Aunt Rachel and Judith, Kit’s flowered silk gave her the look of some vivid tropical bird lighted by mistake on a strange shore.”
― Elizabeth George Speare, The Witch of Blackbird Pond

“Sewing is a way to mark our existence on cloth: patterning our place in the world, voicing our identity, sharing something of ourselves with others and leaving the indelible evidence of our presence in stitches held fast by our touch.”
― Clare Hunter, Threads of Life: A History of the World Through the Eye of a Needle

“Keep your handkerchief neat, and then you can be trusted with a bigger clothe. If you can’t manage few minutes, you are likely to waste 24 hours no matter how many times it’s given to you!”
― Israelmore Ayivor, The Great Hand Book of Quotes

“I cannot hope to make you understand how the world is truly made,' he told her. 'Metaphor, then: the world is a weave, like threads woven into cloth.' His hand came out of his sleeve with a strip of his red ribbon.

'If you say so.'

'Everything, stone, trees, beasts, the sky, the waters, all are a weave of fabric,' he said patiently. 'But when you think, it is different. Your thinking snarls the fabric, knots it. If you were a magician, you could use the knot of your mind to pull on other threads. That is magic, and now you see how every simple it is. I wonder everyone does not become an enchanter.”
― Adrian Tchaikovsky, Salute the Dark

“Once upon a time an Athenian princesss named Prokne was wed to Tereus, king of the barbarous Thracians of the north. When Prokne's unfortunate sister, Philomela, came for a visit, Tereus fell madly in love with the girl locked her away and raped her, then cut out her tongue to prevent her from telling anyone of the crime. Philomela, however, wove into a cloth the story of her misfortune. When Prokne, receiving the cloth, understood what had befallen, she freed her sister, killed her own son, Itys, whom she had borne to Tereus, and served the child up to his father at a feast--the vilest revenge she could think of. When Tereus discovered the truth, in wrath he pursued the two sisters, thinking to kill them, but the gods transformed all three into birds: Tereus into the hoopoe (a large, crested bird with a daggerlike beak), Philomela into the swallow, which can only twitter unintelligibly, and Prokne into the nightingale, which spends the night singing 'Itys Itys!' in mourning for her dead son. All these birds have reddish spots, it is said, from getting spattered with the blood of the child.
...
It is interesting in our purposes because it shows in yet another way the great importance that clothmaking had in women's lives, becoming central to their mythology as well.”
― Elizabeth Wayland Barber, Women's Work: The First 20,000 Years: Women, Cloth, and Society in Early Times

“He shrugged. 'If we keep pulling threads, trying to see which ones make the pattern, we unravel the cloth and left with nothing but tangles. Let's have no more talk of debts.' He cocked his head and studied my ash-smeared hair and face. 'On second thought, you do owe me the tale of how you contrived my rescue. May Lugh give me the art to do it justice!”
― Esther M. Friesner, Deception's Princess

“Art comes with a splash of colors ...as you get torn between depression and elation...agony and ecstasy ...and with the surging and slowing of tides.. there arises the gentle and fierce brush strokes....ultimately creating a mix of emotions on the cloth and there comes the colors on a blank ...an art....so virgin, raw and pure....”
― Jayita Bhattacharjee

“The quilt was spread out, held by the women. They looked down at the cloth and then up at each other. The room grew quiet, breathlessly silent, so the boy could hear Kristina breathing as she slept upstairs, and he looked at the women's hands holding the edges of the quilt and none of them gripped hard but seemed instead to almost caress the cloth and he knew that he was seeing a sweet thing, a dear thing, like when his mother's face was there looking down on him as he awakened from a nap, or when his grandmother looked at him when she held him. Love. He did not know for sure exactly what love was but his mother had said she loved him, and loved his father. And his grandmother had said she loved him when she had that soft look, and he thought of it now. Love, they loved the cloth, no, loved the quilt, no, loved each other. They loved each other and the quilt and the cloth and it meant something he didn't understand.”
― Gary Paulsen, The Quilt