Quotes - Page 136 | Just Great DataBase

Pride is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what would have others think of us.

It's because I'm alone.. If I could just feel it, it would be different, because I would not be alone. But if I were not alone, everybody would know it. And he could do so much for me, and then I would not be alone. Then I could be all right alone.

There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.

Music, moody foodOf us that trade in love.

She had put on make-up in a colour scheme that indicated she might be colourblind.

Man is the only creature that consumes without producing. He does not give milk, he does not lay eggs, he is too weak to pull the plough, he cannot run fast enough to catch rabbits. Yet he is lord of all the animals.

It is too dangerous for me to put these things into words. I am afraid they might then become gigantic and I be no longer able to master them.

If you improve on the present, what comes later will also be better.

Charley: He won't starve. None a them starve. Forget about him.Willy: Then what have I got to remember?

What was the use of doing great things if I could have a better time telling her what I was going to do?

For, so inconsistent is human nature, especially in the ideal, that not to undertake a thing at all seems better than to undertake and come short.

Bad luck doesn't have any chinks in it," he said with deep bitterness. "I was born a son of a bitch and I'm going to die a son of a bitch.

MACBETH:Canst thou not minister to a mind diseas'd,Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow,Raze out the written troubles of the brain,And with some sweet oblivious antidoteCleanse the stuff'd bosom of the perilous stuffWhich weighs upon the heart?DOCTOR:Therein the patient Must minister to himself.

A little water clears us of this deed.

If this thing's hushed up it'll be a simple denial to Jem of the way I've tried to raise him. Sometimes I think I'm a total failure as a parent, but I'm all they've got. Before Jem looks at anyone else he looks at me, and I've tried to live so I can look squarely back at him.. if I connived at something like this, frankly I couldn't meet his eye, and the day I can't do that I'll know I've lost him. I don't want to lose him and Scout, because they're all I've got.

The world news might not be therapeutic.

He drank too much when he could get it, ate too much when it was there, talked too much all the time.

Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:It was the nightingale, and not the lark,That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear;Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree:Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn,No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaksDo lace the severing clouds in yonder east:Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund dayStands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops:I must be gone and live, or stay and die.Jul. Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I:It is some meteor that the sun exhales,To be to thee this night a torch-bearer,And light thee on thy way to Mantua:Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone,Rom. Let me be ta'en,, let me be put to death;I am content, so thou wilt have it so.I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,'T is but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beatThe vaulty heaven so high above our heads:I have more care to stay than will to go:Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so,How is't my soul? let's talk; it is not day.Jul. It is, it is; hie hence, be gone, away!It is the lark that sings so out of tune,Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.Some say the lark makes sweet division;This doth not so, for she divideth us:Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;O! now I would they had changed voices too,Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,Hunting thee hence with hunt's up to the day.O! now be gone; more light and light it grows.Rom. More light and light; more dark and dark our woes.

It were a grief so brief to part with thee.Farewell.

The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil water-way leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky--seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness.