All in all, for someone who was immersed in, fascinated by, and dedicated to flight, I was disappointed by the wrinkle in history that had brought me along one generation late. I had missed all the great times and adventures in flight.
Birds born in a cage think flying is an illness.
If souls survive death for all eternity, how can the heavens hold them all? Or for that matter, how can the earth hold all the bodies that have been buried in it? The answers are the same. Just as on earth, with the passage of time, decaying and transmogrified corpses make way for the newly dead, so souls released into the heavens, after a season of flight, begin to break up, burn, and be absorbed back into the womb of reason, leaving room for souls just beginning to fly. This is the answer for those who believe that souls survive death.
Only in silence the word, only in dark the light, only in dying life: bright the hawk's flight on the empty sky.
And by a prudent flight and cunning save A life which valour could not, from the grave. A better buckler I can soon regain, But who can get another life again?
I cannot imagine anyone looking at the sky and denying God.
The flight was extremely normal . . . for the first 36 seconds then after that got very interesting.
I've always loved airplanes and flight. The space program was really important to me as a kid. I still have a photo of Armstrong and Aldrin on the moon in my living room.
Later, I realized that the mission had to end in a let-down because the real barrier wasn't in the sky but in our knowledge and experience of supersonic flight.
Musical ideas sprang to my mind like a flight of butterflies, and all I had to do was to stretch out my hand to catch them
Real flight and dreams of flight go together. Both are part of the same movement. Not A before B, but all together.
It's wonderful to climb the liquid mountains of the sky. Behind me and before me is God and I have no fears.
When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush Of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there, I did not die.
I owned the world that hour as I rode over it. free of the earth, free of the mountains, free of the clouds, but how inseparably I was bound to them.
The plane seems exultant now, even arrogant. We did it, we did it! We're up, above you. We were dependant on you just now, prisoners fawning on you for favors, for wind and light. But now, we are free. We are up! We are off! Like someone singing ecstatically, climbing, soaring- a sustained note of power and joy.
Perfectionism is a perpetual flight into an illusory future that cannot be attained.
Sometimes I feel a strange exhilaration up here which seems to come from something beyond the mere stimulus of flying.
Death is like an arrow that is already in flight, and your life lasts only until it reaches you.
For most gulls it was not flying that matters, but eating. For this gull, though, it was not eating that mattered, but flight.
Flying was a very tangible freedom. In those days, it was beauty, adventure, discovery - the epitome of breaking into new worlds.
Man must rise above the Earth - to the top of the atmosphere and beyond - for only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.
Father, we thank you, especially for letting me fly this flight - for the privilege of being able to be in this position, to be in this wondrous place, seeing all these many startling, wonderful things that you have created.
Not long ago, when I was a student in college, just flying an airplane seemed a dream. But that dream turned into reality.
I have lifted my plane . . . for perhaps a thousand flights and I have never felt her wheels glide from the Earth into the air without knowing the uncertainty and the exhilaration of first-born adventure.
If you have flown, perhaps you can understand the love a pilot develops for flight. It is much the same emotion a man feels for a woman, or a wife for her husband.
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