Uist Wool Quotes

Val was eating cornflakes. She ate very little else, at home. They were light, they were pleasant, they were comforting, and then after a day or two they were like cotton wool. ~ A.S. Byatt

I scarce ever knew a city that did not wish the destruction of its neighbouring city, nor a family that did not desire to exterminate some other family. The poor in all parts of the world bear an inveterate hatred to the rich, even while they creep and cringe to them; and the rich treat the poor like sheep, whose wool and flesh they barter for money ~ Voltaire

Probably? So you're asking me to trust my life to steel wool and peanut butter?"
"Poisoned peanut butter."
"Cal, I don't care if it's nuclear peanut butter. ~ Scott Westerfeld

I can see through almost any scam, especially one perpetrated by the federal government. I can see through it ... they can't pull the wool over my eyes, it's absolutely freakin' impossible to pull the wool over my eyes about the government. ~ Gary Coleman

I was glad to have the opportunity, but now I am glad to be rid of it. The constant violence, or the impending threat of it, and the toll of seeing so many casualties, over time, has enveloped me in an environment that weighs as heavily as a wool shroud even on pleasant days. To be the tiller at the wheel of man's hatred for man should be a tour of duty, not a career. - Ashley Crandall ~ Chris Onstad

Although he had changed his name, his history came with him, even to his writing. The rhythm of his rain-soaked childhood became a sequence of words. His memories of the understory of the great forest burst into lyrical phrases, as resinous as the sap of a pinecone, as crisp as the shell of a beetle. Sentences grew long, then pulled up short, taking on the tempo of the waves upon the shore, or swayed gently, like the plaintive song of a lone harmonica. His fury became essays that pointed, stabbed, and burned. His convictions played out with the monotonous determination of a printing press. And his affections became poems, as warm and supple as the wool of a well-loved sheep. ~ Pam Munoz Ryan

In his comfortable coffin, face veiled in dark silk, eyes open or closed, Pan Loudermilk lies waiting, a player from a tribe never stilled so much as gathered, potential as potent as a knife in the scabbard, a poem in the mind, a wind that rises as a breeze in the tropics, later to lash the wintry coastline, and smash its boats and sailors on the shore. Or perhaps that is purest make-believe, as a puppet is only a tool, made of wood, and wool, and wire. As we are blood, and fancy, and bites of bone and dream. ~ Kathe Koja

You're beautiful, Finnie, but by the gods you have never been more beautiful than you are right now, spread before me, wrapped in my wool and filled with me ~ Kristen Ashley

Evie stiffened nervously when she felt his hands moving along the line of fasteners on the back of her brown wool. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you to change your gown."
"I don't want to. Not now. I… oh, please don't!"
But he persisted, sliding one hand around her front to keep her in place, while his other continued to release the row of buttons. Rather than resort to an undignified struggle, Evie flushed and held still, goose bumps rising on her exposed skin. "I w-wish you wouldn't handle me in such a cavalier manner!"
"The word 'cavalier' implies indifference," he replied, pushing the gown over her hips. It fell in a scratchy heap to the floor. "And there is nothing indifferent about my reaction to you, love."
"One could wish for a bit of respect," Evie exclaimed, shivering before him in her underclothes. "Especially after… after…"
"You don't need respect. You need comfort, and holding, and possibly a good long tumble in bed with me. ~ Lisa Kleypas

When You Return

Fallen leaves will climb back into trees.
Shards of the shattered vase will rise
and reassemble on the table.
Plastic raincoats will refold
into their flat envelopes. The egg,
bald yolk and its transparent halo,
slide back in the thin, calcium shell.
Curses will pour back into mouths,
letters un-write themselves, words
siphoned up into the pen. My gray hair
will darken and become the feathers
of a black swan. Bullets will snap
back into their chambers, the powder
tamped tight in brass casings. Borders
will disappear from maps. Rust
revert to oxygen and time. The fire
return to the log, the log to the tree,
the white root curled up
in the un-split seed. Birdsong will fly
into the lark's lungs, answers
become questions again.
When you return, sweaters will unravel
and wool grow on the sheep.
Rock will go home to mountain, gold
to vein. Wine crushed into the grape,
oil pressed into the olive. Silk reeled in
to the spider's belly. Night moths
tucked close into cocoons, ink drained
from the indigo tattoo. Diamonds
will be returned to coal, coal
to rotting ferns, rain to clouds, light
to stars sucked back and back
into one timeless point, the way it was
before the world was born,
that fresh, that whole, nothing
broken, nothing torn apart. ~ Ellen Bass

I like California but I'm dyed-in-the-wool Oklahoma. I see a deer in L.A., and everybody's standing around it taking pictures. Back home, that's the enemy! ~ Blake Shelton

Warp threads are thicker than the weft, and made of a coarser wool as well. I think of them as like wives. Their work is not obvious - all you can see are the ridges they make under the colorful weft threads. But if they weren't there, there would be no tapestry. Georges would unravel without me. ~ Tracy Chevalier

Someone knocked me down; I pushed Brinker over a small slope; someone was trying to tackle me from behind. Everywhere there was the smell of vitality in clothes, the vital something in wool and flannel and corduroy which spring releases. I had forgotten that this existed, this smell which instead of the first robin, or the first bud or leaf, means to me that spring has come. I had always welcomed vitality and energy and warmth radiating from thick and sturdy winter clothes. It made me happy, but I kept wondering about next spring, about whether khaki, or suntans or whatever the uniform of the season was, had this aura of promise in it. I felt fairly sure it didn't. ~ John Knowles

On bottom ... Fellows studied the blue and green Mackenzie plaid kilt laid out across his bed. He'd worn it before, at Christmas at Kilmorgan, feeling strange with wool wrapping his hips, air circulating his thighs. Scotsmen had to be mad. ~ Jennifer Ashley

The concrete highway was edged with a mat of tangled, broken, dry grass, and the grass heads were heavy with oat beards to catch on a dog's coat, and foxtails to tangle in a horse's fetlocks, and clover burrs to fasten in sheep's wool; sleeping life waiting to be spread and dispersed, every seed armed with an appliance of dispersal, twisting darts and parachutes for the wind, little spears and balls of tiny thorns, and all waiting for animals and for the wind, for a man's trouser cuff or the hem of a woman's skirt, all passive but armed with appliances of activity, still, but each possessed of the anlage of movement. ~ John Steinbeck

Trouble travels fast / When you're specially designed for crash testing / Or wearing wool sunglasses in the afternoon. ~ Jack Johnson

It's a bit undignified to get into, but it's verra easy to take off"
"How do you get into it?" I asked curiously.
"Well, ye lay it out on the ground, like this" -he knelt, spreading the cloth so that it lined the leaf-strewn hollow- "and then ye pleat it every few inches, lie down on it, and row."
I burst out laughing, and sank to my knees, helping to smooth the thick tartan wool. ~ Diana Gabaldon

Why, man of idleness, labor has rocked you in the cradle, and nourished your pampered life; without it, the woven silk and the wool upon your bank would be in the shepherd's fold. For the meanest thing that ministers to human want, save the air of heaven, man is indebted to toil; and even the air, in God's wise ordination, is breathed with labor. ~ Edwin Hubbel Chapin

Sorry, kitty, I think they're all out of balls of wool. ~ Mina Carter

The common man, no matter how sharp and tough, actually enjoys having the wool pulled over his eyes, and makes it easier for the puller. ~ P.T. Barnum

When you recognize who your enemy is, he can no longer brainwash you, he can no longer pull wool over your eye so that you never stop to see that you are living in pure hell on this earth, while he lives in pure heaven right on this same earth! ~ Malcolm X

It left a tuft of wool behind, caught on the matted grasses. I plucked it, and held it to my nose. It had that spicy scent of Keir's. I twirled it in my fingers, and smiled when I realized that Keir smelled like a goat. ~ Elizabeth Vaughan

The aroma of tea mixed with the scent of old books, leather chairs, and wool from the carpet in a soothing fusion. ~ Faith Hunter

I smelt him, smelt Johnny; for a second I thought - what? That he was there, was with me, that he wasn't...But I realised it was his perfume, the one I'd had made specially for him by an artisan perfumer in New York, his own custom-made one-off blend. It had been hideously expensive but I hadn't cared as long as it had pleased him. It was all intense essential oils, layer upon layer of labdanum, patchouli, vanilla, vetiver, ambrette, frankincense, myrrh, amber, Bulgarian rose absolute, Oud wood - the list was endless and beautiful, like a scented prayer. The woman had said some of the ingredients would keep their fragrance for a hundred years, would never die. Like me, he'd said, like us. I'd put some drops of the heavy dark oil on a couple of cotton wool pads and put them in the box when we got it, now the fragrance - strange, narcotic, archaic - filled the room like his ghost, embracing me in memories. ~ Joolz Denby

It was difficult to anticipate - in these monsters with enormous, fantastic beaks which they opened wide immediately after birth, hissing greedily to show the backs of their throats, in these lizards with frail, naked bodies of hunchbacks - the future peacocks, pheasants, grouse or condors. Placed in cotton wool, in baskets, this dragon brood lifted blind, walleyed heads on thin necks, croaking voicelessly from their dumb throats. ~ Bruno Schulz

He nearly tripped and fell down the last few steps, his legs not used to an end to the descent, a flat piece of ground rather than one more tread to sink to. ~ Hugh Howey

I really cannot understand the point of what you're saying. Really,' said Clotilde, looking at her. 'What a very extraordinary person you are. What sort of a woman are you? Why are you talking like this? Who are you?'
Miss Marple pulled down the mass of pink wool that encircled her head, a pink wool scarf of the same kind that she had once worn in the West Indies.
'One of my names,' she said, 'is Nemesis.'
'Nemesis? And what does that mean?'
'I think you know,' said Miss Marple. 'You are a very well educated woman. Nemesis is long delayed sometimes, but it comes in the end. ~ Agatha Christie

You play beautifully," she told him, although the music was obscurely classical and, because there were no lyrics, unmemorable to her. But the compliment was like a drop of water on the dry wool of his face. His cheeks seemed to soften, color, even swell. "I hope it doesn't disturb you," he said. She held out her hand, the thin string of the bakery box looped around her wrist. "Not at all," she said, although three or four times now she had hung on her husband's arm to keep him from banging the broom handle against the ceiling. "We enjoy it," she said. And then, at a loss for a more substantial compliment, she added, "You must have some beautiful piano. ~ Alice McDermott

One Night Stand"

Listen, you silk-hearted bastard,
I said in the bar last night,
You wear those dream clothes
Like a swan out of water.
Listen, you wool-feathered bastard,
My name, just for the record, is Leda.
I can remember pretending
That your red silk tie is a real heart
That your raw wool suit is real flesh
That you could float beside me with a swan's touch
Of casual satisfaction.
But not the swan's blood.
Waking tomorrow, I remember only
Somebody's feathers and his wrinkled heart
Draped loosely in my bed. ~ Jack Spicer

I ran to Joe and pulled him in. I pushed my face into his jacket and breathed in the wool and dry-cleaning. Joe's height was always a narcotic for me, the way my head hit him at the chest. I dug my fingers under his shoulder blades and turned my cheek so my nose touched flesh. The dampness of his clavicle, the tickle of his chest hair. The smell of Joe. My man. ~ Maria Semple

<...> slaves became the major form of Southern wealth (aside from land), and slaveholding became the means to prosperity. <...> The later impoverishment of the South nourished the myth that the slave economy had always been historically "backward," stagnating, and unproductive. We now know that investment in slaves brought a considerable profit and that the Southern economy grew rapidly throughout the pre–Civil War decades. It is true, however, that the system depended largely on the international demand for cotton as the world entered the age of industrialization, led by the British textile industry. There was an increasing demand for clothing that was cheaper than linen and not as hot and heavy as wool. ~ David Brion Davis

I'm a dyed-in-the-wool party man. I don't know just what party I am in right now, but I am for the party. ~ Huey Long

Except for the severe coloring, Arsinoe does not look much like a queen. Her hair is rough, and they cannot keep her from cutting it. Her black trousers are the same ones she wears everyday, and so is her light black jacket. The only piece of finery they could get her into for the occasion was a new scarf that Madrigal found at Pearson's, made from the wool of their fancy, flop-eared rabbits. ~ Kendare Blake

He chuckled, a low, amused rumble. The girl was accustomed to his presence in Bella's bedchamber, but on previous occasions he hadn't been fully hard, his c*ck straining beneath black wool trousers. Apparently he had embarrassed her. Too bad. He was not up to the task of hiding his desires until she left the room tonight. ~ Evangeline Collins

Slowly he took out the clothes in which, ten years beforem Cosette had left Montfermeil; first the little dress, then the black scarf, then the great heavy child's shoes Cosette could still almost have worn, so small was her foot, then the vest of very thich fustian, then the knitted petticoat, the the apron with pockets, then the wool stockings ... Then his venerable white head fell on the bed, this old stoical heart broke, his face was swallowed up, so to speak, in Cosette's clothes, and anybody who had passed along the staircase at that moment would have heard irrepressible sobbing. ~ Victor Hugo

Howard, instead of trying to explain the hermit's existence in terms of hearth fires and trappers' shacks, preferred the blank space the old man actually seemed to inhabit; he liked to think of some fold in the woods, some seam that only the hermit could sense and slip into, where the ice and snow, where the frozen forest itself, would accept him and he would no longer need fire or wool blankets, but instead flourish wreathed in snow, spun in frost, with limbs like cold wood and blood like frigid sap. ~ Paul Harding

If there is one thing I despise, it is the perverse affectation of rich people who go around dressing as if they were poor, in second-hand clothes, ill-fitting gray wool bonnets, socks full of holes, and flowered shirts under threadbare sweaters. Not only is it ugly, it is also insulting: nothing is more despicable than a rich man's scorn for a poor man's longing. ~ Muriel Barbery

I know you are busy pulling the wool over my eyes but you may want to address the inconsistencies in your persona first. ~ Et Imperatrix Noctem

The abbot had called her a sweet soul. This was true, but she was also massively irritating. She fussed over Rabalyn as if he was still three years old, and her conversation was absurdly repetitive. Every time he left the little cottage she would ask: 'Are you going to be warm enough?' If he voiced any concerns about life, schooling or future plans, she would say: 'I don't know about that. It's enough to have food on the table today.' Her days were spent cleaning other people's sheets and clothes. In the evenings she would unravel discarded woollen garments and create balls of faded wool. Then she would knit scores of squares, which would later be fashioned into blankets. Some she sold. Others she gave away to the poorhouse. Aunt Athyla was never idle. ~ David Gemmell

It is not about the pasture of the sheep, but about their wool.
[Lat., Non est de pastu ovium quaestio, sed de lana.] ~ Pope Pius II