Quotes - Page 149 | Just Great DataBase

The wind came back with triple fury, and put out the light for the last time. They sat in company with the others in other shanties, their eyes straining against crude walls and their souls asking if He meant to measure their puny might against His. They seemed to be staring at the dark, but their eyes were watching God.

You know well I couldn't bear to live with a low common man after you two; and it's wicked and cruel of you to insult me by pretending I could.

You can tell a true war story by the questions you ask. Somebody tells a story, let's say, and afterward you ask, 'Is it true?' and if the answer matters, you've got your answer . . . Absolute occurrence is irrelevant. A thing may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth.

I wait. I compose myself. My self is a thing I must now compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born

But before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself.

Freedom, like everything else, is relative.

He remembered his family with deep feelings of love.

When a man's neck's in danger, he doesn't stop to think too much aboutsentiment.

You have rather the look of another world. I marvelled where you had got that sort of face.

Such is the imperfect nature of man! such spots are there on the disc of the clearest planet; and eyes like Miss Scatcherd's can only see those minute defects, and are blind to the full brightness of the orb.

To be weak is miserable,Doing or suffering.

The answer can't be found in books - or be solved by bringing it to other people. Not unless you want to remain a child all your life. You've got to find the answer inside you - feel the right thing to do. Charlie, you've got to learn to trust yourself

I see now that when Norma flowered in our garden I became a weed, allowed to exist only where I would not be seen, in corners and dark places.

That’s what they mean by the womb of time: the agony and the despair of spreading bones, the hard girdle in which lie the outraged entrails of events.

And make death proud to take us.

She had been sharing a house with him for a week, and he had not once flirted with her. He had worked with her, asked her opinion, slapped her on the knuckles figuratively speaking when she was on the wrong track, and acknowledged that she was right when she corrected him. Dammit, he had treated her like a human being.

Clover was a stout motherly mare approaching middle life, who had never quite got her figure back after her fourth foal.

You are Joseph the dreamer of dreams, dear Jude.And a tragic Don Quixote. And sometimes you are St. Stephen, who, while theywere stoning him, could see Heaven opened. Oh, my poor friend and comrade,you'll suffer yet!

but sing no more this bitter tale that wears my heart away

What a woman! They broke the mould when they made her.