Quotes - Page 418 | Just Great DataBase

Rezábamos por la vacuidad, para hacernos dignas de ser llenadas: de gracia, de amor, de abnegación, de semen y de niños.Oh, Dios, Rey del universo, gracias por no haberme hecho hombre.Oh, Dios, destrúyeme. Házme fértil. Mortifica mi carne para que pueda multiplicarme. Permite que me realice…

I'm not too sure what the name of the song was that he was playing when I came in, but whatever it was, he was really stinking it up. He was putting all these dumb, show-offy ripples in the high notes, and a lot of other very tricky stuff that gives me a pain in the ass. You should've heard the crowd, though, when he was finished... They went mad... I swear to God, if I were a piano player or an actor or something and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me.

Besides, nothin’s real scary except in books. Atticus

This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone

Este tipo de caída a la que creo que te diriges es de un tipo muy especial, terrible. Al que cae no se le permite ni oír ni sentir que ha llegado al fondo. Sólo sigue cayendo y cayendo.

I found Dolores Haze at the kitchen table, consuming a wedge of pie, with her eyes fixed on her script. They rose to meet mine with a kind of celestial vapidity.

Bimba mia, non è mai una vergogna sentirsi buttare addosso una parolaccia. Dimostra soltanto quanto sia meschina la persona che te la dice: a te non può fare alcun male.

Atticus had urged them to accept the state’s generosity in allowing them to plead Guilty to second-degree murder and escape with their lives, but they were Haverfords, in Maycomb County a name synonymous with

Nothing changes instantaneously: in a gradually heating bathtub you'd be boiled to death before you knew it. There were stories in the newspapers, of course, corpses in ditches or the woods, bludgeoned to death or mutilated, interfered with, as they used to say, but they were about other women, and the men who did such things were other men. None of them were the men we knew. The news paper stories were like dreams to us, bad dreams dreamt by others. How awful, we would say, and they were, but they were awful without being believable. They were too melodramatic, they had a dimension that was not the dimension of our lives. We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories.

I see the eight of us in the Annexe as if we were a patch of blue sky surrounded by menacing black clouds.

I think that one of these days," he said, "you're going to have to find out where you want to go. And then you've got to start going there.

You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy,... in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs,...the little deadly demon...; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.

around the house to get in, but he run out the front door just ahead of me. I sawed who he was, all right. I was too distracted about Mayella to run after’im. I run in the house and she was lyin’ on the floor squallin’— Then what did you

but things like long life ’n’ good health, ’n’ passin’ six-weeks tests . . .

I don't want a man around, what use are they except for ten seconds' worth of half babies

Time has not stood still. It has washed over me, washed me away, as if I'm nothing more than a woman of sand, left by a careless child too near the water. I have been obliterated for her. I am only a shadow now, far back behind the glib shiny surface of this photograph. A shadow of a shadow, as dead mothers become. You can see it in her eyes: I am not there.

I have a feeling that you're riding for some terrible, terrible fall. But I don't honestly know what kind. This fall I think you're riding for—it's a special kind of fall, a horrible kind. The man falling isn't permitted to feel or hear himself hit the bottom. He just keeps falling. The whole arrangement's designed for men who, at some time or other in their lives, were looking for something their own environment couldn't supply them with. Or they thought their own environment couldn't supply them with. So they gave up looking. They gave it up before they ever really even got started...

The jail was Maycomb’s only conversation piece: its detractors said it looked like a Victorian privy; its supporters said it gave the town a good solid respectable look, and no stranger would ever suspect that it was full of niggers. As

I am alive, I live, I breathe, I put my hand out, unfolded, into the sunlight. Where I am is not a prison but a privilege, who was in love with either/or.

It was lousy in the park. It wasn't too cold, but the sun still wasn't out, and there didn't look like there was anything in the park except dog crap and globs of spit and cigar butts from old men, and the benches all looked like they'd be wet if you sat down on them. It made you depressed, and every once in a while, for no reason, you got goose flesh while you walked. It didn't seem at all like Christmas was coming soon. It didn't seem like anything was coming.