Quotes - Page 335 | Just Great DataBase

Mayella Ewell must have been the loneliest person in the world. She was even lonelier than Boo Radley, who had not been out of the house in twenty-five years.

Los ruiseñores no hacen otra cosa que crear música para que la disfrutemos. No se comen los jardines de la gente, no hacen nidos en los graneros, no hacen otra cosa que cantar su corazón para nosotros. Es por eso que es un pecado matar a un ruiseñor.

Here, she felt, putting the spoon down, was the still space that lies about the heart of things, where one could move or rest...

She saw that he had singled her out from the three, as a woman is singled out in such cases, for no reasoned purpose of further acquaintance, but in commonplace obedience to conjunctive orders from headquarters, unconsciously received by unfortunate men when the last intention of their lives is to be occupied with the feminine.

Three blind mice, three blind mice,See how they run, see how they run,They all ran after the farmer's wife,Who cut off their tails with a carving knife,Did you ever see such a thing in your life,As three blind mice?

He looked at the sky and saw the white cumulus built like friendly piles of ice cream and high above were the thin feathers of the cirrus against the high September sky.

Can't repeat the past? Why of course you can!

They would hit a man in the water, if they were hungry, even if the man had no smell of fish blood nor of fish slime on him.Ay, the old man said. Galanos. Come on galanos.

but the sword   Of MICHAEL from the Armorie of God   Was giv'n him temperd so, that neither keen   Nor solid might resist that edge: it met   The sword of SATAN with steep force to smite   Descending, and in half cut sheere, nor staid,   But with swift wheele reverse, deep entring shar'd   All his right side; then SATAN first knew pain,

He supposed he was not a sufficiently dignified person for suicide.Peaceful death abhorred him as a subject and would not take him.

You did not do so badly for something worthless,' he said to his left hand. 'But there was a moment where I could not find you.

But there's something missing in them, even the nice ones. It's like they're permanently absent-minded, like that can't quite remember who they are.

Other worshipful objects were content with worship; men, women, God, all let one kneel prostrate; but this form, were it only the shape of a white lampshade looming on a wicker table, roused one to perpetual combat, challenged one to a fight in which one was bound to be worsted.

With Sue as companion he could have renounced his ambitions with a smile. Without her it was inevitable that the reaction from the long strain to which he had subjected himself should affect him disastrously.

I try to conjure, to raise my own spirits, from wherever they are. I need to remember what they look like. I try to hold them still behind my eyes, their faces, like pictures in an album. But they won't stay still for me, they move, there's a smile and it's gone, their features curl and bend as if the paper's burning, blackness eats them. A glimpse, a pale shimmer on the air; a glow, aurora, dance of electrons, then a face again, faces. But they fade, though I stretch out my arms towards them, they slip away from me, ghosts at daybreak. Back to wherever they are.

Maybe it’s about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it.

Why they came east I don’t know. They had spent a year in France, for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking a little wistfully for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.

Then when you want free association, you could stretch your patient out the way the barber does to lather up his customer, and when the fifty minutes are up, you could tilt the chair forward again and hand him a mirror so he can see what he looks like on the outside after you’ve shaved his ego.

When power is scarce, a little of it is tempting

It is impossible for me to be all sugar one day and spit venom the next. I'd rather choose the golden mean (which is not so golden), keep my thoughts to myself, and try for once to be just as disdainful to them as they are to me. Oh, if only I could!