Quotes - Page 399 | Just Great DataBase

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus

A word of command has made these silent figures our enemies; a word of command might transform them into our friends. At some table a document is signed by some persons whom none of us knows, and then for years together that very crime on which formerly the world’s condemnation and severest penalty fall, becomes our highest aim.

He was quite portly, with a profusion of gray hair, and small blue eyes which age had robbed of much of their brightness but none of their penetration.

Mientras hablaba, el oficial la miraba de la forma en que toda chica sueña que alguna vez la miren".

I do not play this instrument so well as I should wish to, but I have always supposed that to be my own fault because I would not take the trouble of practicing.

She felt no interest in anything about her. The street, the children, the fruit vender, the flowers growing there under her eyes, were all part and parcel of an alien world which had suddenly become antagonistic.

Near Shepherd’s Bush two thousand Beta-Minus mixed doubles were playing Riemann-surface tennis.

I like it when somebody gets excited about something. It's nice.

Zenciler Küçük Siyah Sambo'yu sevmiyorlar, yak gitsin. Beyazlar Tom Amca'nın Kulübesi'yle ilgili iyi şeyler hissetmezler, yak gitsin. Birisi çıkmış tütün ve akciğer kanseri hakkında bir kitap yazmış. Sigaracılar ağlıyor mu? Yak kitabı. Sükunet, Montag. Huzur, Montag

Çok içen insanların yanında ayık kalmak her zaman faydalıdır. Her şeyden önce dilinizi bağlar, fazla gevezelik etmezsiniz. Daha da güzeli insanın kendi kusur ve yanlışlarını örtebilmesidir, nasılsa kimsenin sizi kimsenin sizi görecek hali olmaz. Zira görseler de umursamazlar.

And there he would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry, till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, when he had found the word, and her husband said, "Poor old Augustus--he's a true poet," which was high praise from her husband.

Some people call him proud but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men.

Then the candor of the woman's whole existence, which every one might read, and which formed so striking a contrast to her own habitual reserve—this might have furnished a link. Who can tell what metals the gods use in forging the subtle bond which we call sympathy, which we might as well call love.

She looked up with a certain anxiety. 'But you don't think I'm too plump, do you?'He shook his head.Like so much meat.'You think I'm all right.' Another nod. 'In every way?''Perfect.' he said aloud. And inwardly, 'She thinks of herself that way. She doesn't mind being meat.

Si haces algo demasiado bien, o te andas con cuidado, o con el tiempo empiezas a querer lucirte y entonces ya no eres tan bueno.

Kad es biju zēns, nomira mans vectēvs. Viņš bija tēlnieks un ļoti labs cilvēks. Viņš mīlēja pasauli un cīnījās pret naba­dzību, un viņa rokas vienmēr kaut ko veidoja. Viņš taisīja mums rotaļlietas un savā mūžā izgatavoja ne­skaitāmus darinājumus. Un, kad viņš nomira, es pēkšņi sapratu, ka raudu nevis par viņu pašu, bet par to, ko viņš vairs nedarīs. Es raudāju tādēļ, ka veetēvs nekad vairs netaisīs rotaļlietas, negriezīs koka figū­riņas, nepalīdzēs mums audzēt baložus, nespēlēs vi­joli un nestāstīs joku stāstus tā, kā to neprata neviens cits. Vectēvs bija daļa no mums, kad viņš nomira, tā visa pēkšņi vairs nebija, un neviens nespēja šo robu aizpildīt. Viņš bija neparasts cilvēks. Viņš bija ļoti va­jadzīgs cilvēks. Es neesmu varējis samierināties ar viņa nāvi. Bieži es domāju tieši par to, cik daudz brī­nišķu kokgrebumu viņa nāve sev paņēma līdz, cik daudz joku stāstu palika neizstāstītu, cik daudz ba­ložu nenoglāstītu. Viņš veidoja pasauli. Viņš deva pasaulei kaut ko no sevis. Tai naktī, kad viņš nomira, tā kļuva daudz, daudz nabagāka.

Then Mr. McKee turned and continued on out the door. Taking my hat from the chandelier I followed. ‘Come to lunch some day,’ he suggested, as we groaned down in the elevator. ‘Where?’ ‘Anywhere.’ ‘Keep your hands off the lever,’ snapped the elevator boy. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr. McKee with dignity, ‘I didn’t know I was touching it.’ ‘All right,’ I agreed, ‘I’ll be glad to.’ … I was standing beside his bed and he was sitting up between the sheets, clad in his underwear, with a great portfolio in his hands.

...Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.

He pondered long over this, for might not another man, returning to another valley, have found none of these things? Why was it given to one man to have his pain transmuted into gladness? Why was it given to one man to have such an awareness of God?

The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.’ Whither would you soar?