Quotes - Page 259 | Just Great DataBase

Let each look to himself and not try to make out white black, and black white; for each of us is as God made him, aye, and often worse.

Et quand il est mort, je me suis aperçu que ce n'était pas lui que je pleurais, mais les choses qu'il faisait.

Her mind was less difficult to develop.

Stand unshod upon it, for the ground is holy, being even as it came from the Creator. Keep it, guard it, care for it, for it keeps men, guards men, cares for men. Destroy it and man is destroyed.

The Commedia , it must be remembered, is a vision of the progress of man’s soul toward perfection.

Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends - whether he may be equally capable of retaining them is less certain.

Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere.

Oh hang kitty; what has she to do with it? Come, be quick. Be quick. Where is your sash?

He hated it when you called him a moron. All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

-La imaginación de las mujeres hace que concibamos demasiadas ilusiones respecto de los hombres.-Y los hombres procuran que así sea

Besides, in drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by insensible steps, to my after tale of misery, for when I would account to myself for the birth of that passion which afterwards ruled my destiny I find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its course, has swept away all my hopes and joys. Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate;

I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be.

Come Darcy,' said he. 'I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing around by yourself in this stupid manner.

A man who had felt less, might.

Everybody wants a little bit of land, not much. Jus’ som’thin’ that was his. Som’thin’ he could live on and there couldn’t nobody throw him off of it.

You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper.

And as imagination bodies forthThe forms of things unknown, the poet’s penTurns them to shapes and gives to airy nothingA local habitation and a name

it is often nothing but our own vanity that decieves us

Oh, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence.Love takes the meaning in love’s conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knitSo that but one heart we can make of it.

Do you realize that the past, starting from yesterday, has been actually abolished? If it survives anywhere, it's in a few solid objects with no words attached to them, like that lump of glass there. Already we know almost literally nothing about the Revolution and the years before the Revolution. Every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street and building has been renamed, every date has been altered. And that process is continuing day by day and minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the party is always right.