Quotes – Page 279 | Just Great DataBase

you what. Curley’s like a lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He’s alla time picking scraps with big guys. Kind of like he’s mad at ’em because he ain’t a big guy. You seen little guys like that, ain’t you? Always scrappy?

Everybody turned into a baby, and all humanity, without exception, conspired biologically to produce two perfect people named Adam and Eve, he supposed.

But the Gospels actually taught this: Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn’t well connected.

I thought, the kindest and funniest ones, the ones who hated war the most, were the ones who’d really fought.

No matter how prosperous a man was, if he was unable to rule his women and his children (and especially his women) he was not really a man.

I sink down into my body as into a swamp, fenland, where only I know the footing. Treacherous ground, my own territory. I become the earth I set my ear against, for rumors of the future.Each twinge, each murmur of slight pain, ripples of sloughed-off matter, swellings and diminishings of tissue, the droolings of the flesh, these are signs, these are the things I need to know about, Each month I watch for blood, fearfully, for when it comes it means failure. I have failed once again to fulfill the expectations of others, which have become my own.I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure, or a means of transportation, or an implement for the accomplishment of my will. I could use it to run, push buttons of one sort or an other, make things happen. There were limits, hut my body was nevertheless lithe, single, solid, one with me.Now the flesh arranges itself differently I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is hard and more real than I am and glows red within its translucent wrapping. Inside it is a space, huge as the sky at night and dark and curved like that, though black-red rather than black. Pinpoints of light swell, sparkle, burst and shrivel within it, countless as stars. Every month there is a moon, gigantic, round, heavy, an omen. It transits, pauses, continues on and passes out of sight, and I see despair coming towards me like famine. To feel that empty, again, again. I listen to my heart, wave upon wave, salty and red, continuing on and on, marking time.

Really – I’m OK.” And he was, too, except that he could find no explanation for why the song had affected him grotesquely. He had supposed for years that he had no secrets from himself. Here was proof that he had a great big secret somewhere inside, and he could not imagine what it was.

Yeah, well, I wasn’t complimenting you. Just saying: stop thinking Ben should be you, and he needs to stop thinking you should be him, and y’all just chill the hell out.

Avoiding Germans, they were delivering themselves into rural silences ever more profound. They ate snow.

The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.

I love her for that, because it was so human.

La vanidad y el orgullo son cosas distintas, aunque muchas veces se usen como sinónimos. El orgullo está relacionado con la opinión que tenemos de nosotros mismos; la vanidad, con lo que quisiéramos que los demás pensaran de nosotros.

The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep, somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.

a veces es malo ser tan reservada. Si una mujer disimula su afecto al objeto mismo, puede perder la oportunidad de conquistarle;

But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

nothing contributes so much to tranquillize the mind as a steady purpose—a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This

universally

Billy took off his tri-focals and his coat and his necktie and his shoes, and he closed the venetian blinds and then the drapes, and he lay down on the outside of the coverlet. But sleep would not come. Tears came instead. Billy turned on the Magic Fingers, and he was jiggled as he wept.

Having spoken plainly so far, Okoye said the next half a dozen sentences in proverbs. Among the Ibo the art of conversation is regarded very highly, and proverbs are the palm-oil with which words are eaten.

We are two-legged wombs, that’s all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices.