Note Passing Quotes

Your perception is riveting, Amal," he says in a bored and sarcastic tone, dropping the note down on my desk. "It's comforting to know that there are people in my class who have the maturity and intelligence to make derogatory comments about other people's external appearances."
Now what am I supposed to say to that?
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Friggin' mind reader. ~ Randa Abdel-Fattah

In his thoughtful and complex style of analysis, Hitler continued on to note the following: "Since the newspapers in question did not enjoy an outstanding reputation ... I regarded them more as the products of anger and envy than the [representation] of a principled, though perhaps mistaken, point of view." In the lines above, we see Hitler begin to wrestle with anti- Semitism, flatly reject religious anti-Semitism as unworthy of Austrian cultural tradition, and suspect that the arguments of the anti-Semitic press and gutter pamphlets were exaggerated beyond credibility by too much subjective and too little objective and principled argument. The view of virtually every Hitler biographer that he based his anti-Semitism on arguments derived from the gutter press and pamphlets of Vienna does not hold up in the face of the words above. To the contrary, we see Hitler take the measure of that literature.

--Hitler: Beyond Evil and Tyranny, pp. 103-104 ~ Russel H.S. Stolfi

True blues ain't no new news about who's been abused
For the blues is as old as my stolen soul
I sang the blues when the missionaries came
Passing out bibles in Jesus' name
I sang the blues in the hull of the ship
Beneath the sting of the slavemaster's whip
I sang the blues when the ship anchored the dark
My family being sold on a slave block
I sang the blues being torn from my first born
And hung my head and cried when my wife took his life
And then committed suicide.
I sang the blues on the slavemaster's plantation helping
Him build his free nation
I sang the blues in the cottonfield, hustlin' to make the daily yield
I sang the blues when he forced my woman to beg
Lord knows how I wished he was dead
I sang the blues on the run, ducking the dogs and dodging the gun
I sang the blues hanging from the tree in a desperate attempt to break free
I sang the blues when the sun went down, cursing the master when he wasn't around
I sang the blues in all these wars dying for some unknown cause
I sang the blues in a high tone, low moan, loud groan, soft grunt, hard funk
I sang the blues in land sea and air, about who when why and where
I sang the blues in church on sunday, slaving on monday, misused on tuesday, abused on wednesday, accused on thursday, fried alive on friday, and died on saturday.
Sho nuff singing the blues
I sang the blues in the summer, fall winter ~ Jalal Mansur Nuriddin

Little by little I began to listen better: to the sap moving in the plants, to the blood in my veins. I learned to understand my own intention, to prune and to add, to feel where the power gathered and speak the right words to draw it to its height. That was the moment I lived for, when it all came clear at last and the spell could sing with its pure note, for me and me alone. ~ Madeline Miller

[In China at that time:] The penalty for adultery is death by strangulation. Mai-da's mother has added the following note to this section; 'Adultery is a feminine vice. Copulation on the man's part is not his wife's concern, unless he sires a child. Then she must accept the child as one of his homestead. ~ Nora Waln

With God for thy portion thou art rich indeed, for He will supply thy need, comfort thy heart, assuage thy grief, guide thy steps, be with thee in the dark valley, and then take thee home, to enjoy Him as thy portion for ever. "I have enough," said Esau; this is the best thing a worldly man can say, but Jacob replies, "I have all things," which is a note too high for carnal minds. ~ Charles Haddon Spurgeon

Note that scholars are judged mostly on how many times their work is referenced in other people's work and thus cliques are formed of people who quote one another. It's an "I quote you, you quote me" type of business. ~ Nicholas Nassim Taleb

I was not the sort of boy who could train a dragon with a mere lifting of an eyebrow. I was not a natural at the Heroism business. I had to work at it. This is the story of becoming a Hero the Hard Way. ~ Cressida Cowell

The Silmarils are Eorclanstánas (also treated as an Old English noun with plural Silmarillas). There are several different forms of this Old English word: eorclan-, eorcnan-, and eorcan- from which is derived the 'Arkenstone' of the Lonely Mountain. The first element may be related to Gothic airkns, 'holy'. With middangeard line 37 cf. my father's note in Guide to the Names in The Lord of the Rings, in A Tolkien Compass, p. 189: 'The sense is 'the inhabited lands of (Elves and) Men', envisaged as lying between the Western Sea and that of the Far East (only known in the West by rumour). Middle-Earth is a modern alteration of medieval middel-erde from Old English middan-geard'. ~ Christopher Tolkien

The only great reason for being in a long-distance relationship is the belief she or he might be 'the one'. If you're just passing time with someone for fun, you might as well do that locally. ~ Kevin Darne

Julia quickly looked back down at the keyboard, trying to continue her recital unperturbedly, but she was fully aware of his eyes on her. In fact, she wanted his gaze on her. She wanted him to absorb every note she was playing. And suddenly, she found herself wishing he could somehow hear that this music had once been meant for him. ~ Jen Minkman

Like they were part of two different solar systems, neither revolving with or around the other, and both were just with each other for a passing moment. ~ Cora Carmack

A number of current theoretical explorations will turn out to be passing fancies ... ~ Abraham Pais

The cicadas pierce the air with their searing one-note calls; dust eddies across the roads; from the weedy patches at the verges, grasshoppers whir. The leaves of the maples hang from their branches like limp gloves; on the sidewalk my shadow crackles. ~ Margaret Atwood

When a fine old carpet is eaten by mice, the colors and patterns of what's left behind do not change,' wrote my neighbor and friend, the poet Jane Hirschfield, after she visited an old friend suffering from Alzheimer's disease in a nursing home. And so it was with my father. His mind did not melt evenly into undistinguishable lumps, like a dissolving sand castle. It was ravaged selectively, like Tintern Abbey, the Cistercian monastery in northern Wales suppressed in 1531 by King Henry VIII in his split with the Church of Rome. Tintern was turned over to a nobleman, its stained-glass windows smashed, its roof tiles taken up and relaid in village houses. Holy artifacts were sold to passing tourists. Religious statues turned up in nearby gardens. At least one interior wall was dismantled to build a pigsty.

I've seen photographs of the remains that inspired Wordsworth: a Gothic skeleton, soaring and roofless, in a green hilly landscape. Grass grows in the transept. The vanished roof lets in light. The delicate stone tracery of its slim, arched quatrefoil windows opens onto green pastures where black-and-white cows graze. Its shape is beautiful, formal, and mysterious. After he developed dementia, my father was no longer useful to anybody. But in the shelter of his broken walls, my mother learned to balance her checkbook, and my heart melted and opened. Never would I wish upon my father the misery of his final years. But he was sacred in his ruin, and I took from it the ~ Katy Butler

Beehive"

Within this black hive to-night
There swarm a million bees;
Bees passing in and out the moon,
Bees escaping out the moon,
Bees returning through the moon,
Silver bees intently buzzing,
Silver honey dripping from the swarm of bees.
Earth is a waxen cell of the world comb,
And I, a drone,
Lying on my back,
Lipping honey,
Getting drunk with silver honey,
Wish that I might fly out past the moon
And curl forever in some far-off farmyard flower. ~ Jean Toomer

None of it made any difference. The hollow feeling refused to go away. The next days were very hard. I found myself in the grip of a crippling ennui. I was back at square one, but I couldn't bring myself to resume my job hunt; it was all I could do to drag myself from the bedroom floor to the sofa. With every passing day my financial affairs grew more ruinous, and it became harder and harder even to conceive of how I might dig myself out of the hole I was in - which only compounded my ennui, and my disinclination to do anything about it. ~ Paul Murray

May be that is how life is. Clouds, whether bright or dark, they just keep passing. The duration they stay with us depends on whether the circumstance around us is breezy, windy or stormy. ~ Abhishek Krishnan

I read the note and it did not please me and I threw it away, so not even time could find it. ~ Richard Brautigan

Trey cocked one brow at her. "Do I not get a say in this?"
"She patted his arm. "Of course you do. Just note that if your opinion is different from mine, it will be disregarded. ~ Suzanne Wright

Time meant opportunity. After all, what more do we have than time? We measure it arbitrarily, but as we spend it, until it's used up, it is called living. ~ Kenneth Eade

For some reason I didn't believe it. I don't know why. Maybe it was because my father was the kind of person who told himself things over and over until he believed them, who could justify almost anything. What I wanted was for it to really be okay. I wanted him to really not care, to maybe even be happy about it. Instead he was acting like I was making a bad career choice, like I was passing up an English degree at Fairmont in favor of a bartending certificate at the local community college. ~ Nick Burd

Note to goyim readers: not every Jew who grew up in Brooklyn was rich. And as long as I'm on it, here's another note: fuck you. That's all. Whether or not you assumed we were rich, if you're a goyim, fuck you. But keep reading, and tell your friends to buy the book. ~ Gilbert Gottfried

Following

Someone is always falling in love with you:
men and women, infants and children,
octogenarians and adolescents.
A tenant of heaven-haven on the pearly doorstep
hopes you will wave your hand in passing.
Where you stood just now a white bird
has flown into a ponderosa pine
and a black bee hovers in a bush of yellow flowers.

People would like to discuss you, but hold back.
Mystery is a fragile substance, too easy to tear.
Several persons, however, have noticed that you are followed
not by the usual shadow but by a shaft of sunlight.
Even on a day of fog or light rain.
Even after sunset.

When you are not present, you still walk quietly
through our minds, and we tell ourselves little stories
or small poems about you, like this one.
When a bird sings, we listen carefully
hoping your name will be mentioned. ~ Virginia Adair

Imagine being beaten up every day for something you didn't do and yet, when it's over, you keep on smiling. That's what every day of Donald's life was like. His death was a small death. No one mourned his passing; they merely agreed it was for the best that he be forgotten as quickly as possible, since his was a life misspent. ~ John William Tuohy

Some writers are the kind of solo violinists who need complete silence to tune their instruments. Others want to hear every member of the orchestra - they'll take a cue from a clarinet, from an oboe, even. I am one of those. My writing desk is covered in open novels. I read lines to swim in a certain sensibility, to strike a particular note, to encourage rigour when I'm too sentimental, to bring verbal ease when I'm syntactically uptight. I think of reading like a balanced diet; if your sentences are baggy, too baroque, cut back on fatty Foster Wallace, say, and pick up Kafka, as roughage. If your aesthetic has become so refined it is stopping you from placing a single black mark on white paper, stop worrying so much about what Nabokov would say; pick up Dostoyevsky, patron saint of substance over style. ~ Zadie Smith

Benevolent desires, after passing a certain point, can not undertake their own fulfillment without incurring the risk of evils beyond those sought to be remedied. ~ Herman Melville

He stretched out his hands as he sang, sadly, because all beauty is sad…The poem had done no 'good' to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved. ~ E.M. Forster

They won't do it, Ian," Jordan Townsende said the night after Ian was released on his own recognizance. Pacing back and forth across Ian's drawing room, he said again, "They will not do it."
"They'll do it," Ian said dispassionately. The words were devoid of concern; not even his eyes showed interest. Days ago Ian had passed the point of caring about the investigation. Elizabeth was gone; there had been no ransom note, nothing whatever-no reason in the world to continue believing that she'd been taken against her will. Since Ian knew damned well he hadn't killed her or had her abducted, the only remaining conclusion was that Elizabeth had left him for someone else.
The authorities were still vacillating about the other man she'd allegedly met in the arbor because the gardener's eyesight had been proven to be extremely poor, and even he admitted that it "might have been tree limbs moving around her in the dim light, instead of a man's arms." Ian, however, did not doubt it. The existence of a lover was the only thing that made sense; he had even suspected it the night before she disappeared. She hadn't wanted him in her bed; if anything but a lover had been worrying her that night, she'd have sought the protection of his arms, even if she didn't confide in him. But he had been the last thing she'd wanted.
No, he hadn't actually suspected it-that would have been more pain than he could have endured then. Now, however, he not only suspected it, he knew it, and the ~ Judith McNaught

There was thin, reverberating silence; the sort of delicately plucked note that isn't heard, but felt in the heart. ~ Kirsty Eagar

Friends and family came and went, sometimes helping her with her tears, other times making her laugh. But even in her laughter there was something missing. She never seemed to be truly happy; she just seemed to be passing time while she waited for something else. She was tired of just existing; she wanted to live. But what was the point in living when there was no life in it? These questions went through her mind over and over until she reached the point of not wanting to wake up from her dreams
they were what felt real.
Deep down, she knew it was normal to feel like this, she didn't particularly think she was losing her mind. She knew that one day she would be happy again and that this feeling would just be a distant memory. It was getting to that day that was the hard part. ~ Cecelia Ahern