Yellow Journalism Quotes

The greatest monster that there is: fake news media: torture with bullying, psychological warfare, spying and then using truthful misleading to complete their plot. The cheapest job ever. ~ Maria Karvouni

With a camera, a microphone, and sufficient cash, you, too, can craft your own version of the world and emblazon it with a premium of fear over facts. (Be warned though: Paranoid schizophrenia makes for compelling film, but it's no way of life.) ~ David T. Hardy

I worked for a newspaper in Europe for, I lived in Europe for about seven years, so I worked in this sort of a yellow journalism kind of a thing, it was like a scandal sheet. ~ Kurt Loder

I have written millions of words about contemporary England - in journalism. Why don't I take it as the background for a novel? I may do one day. But the simple answer is that it does not excite the novelistic part of my brain; it does not fire it up. ~ Sebastian Faulks

It's true that journalism in reality is not the journalism that we learnt in the university. It is far from it. ~ Nilantha Ilangamuwa

I sang colors to counteract the onset of gray winter. Cadmium yellow, brown madder, cerulean blue, I whispered, invoking pause. ~ Tina May Hall

Geric," she called. He turned back around. "What kind of flowers were they?" "I don't rightly know," he said. He made faltering gestures with his hands, forming their size and shape from the air. "They were yellow, and smallish, and had lots of petals." "Thank you," she said. "They were beautiful. ~ Shannon Hale

Shadow crawled across the floor to the yellow foam-rubber pad and climbed onto it, pulling the thin blanket over himself, and closed his eyes, and he held onto nothing, and he held onto dreams. ~ Neil Gaiman

She chose books because they never left her lonely the way that Kirk had left her lonely. BEcause company was often nothing of the kind, whereas a good book always was.
She chose books for the smell of fresh-pressed pages, for the yellow-brown musk of library mould, but always for the breathy kiss of paper rustling. She chose books because some of the held prose that made her weep, or poetry that winded her, and words that mae her heart skip beats.
She chose books because some came readey-made with characters that seemed like perfect versions of hrself, all of them little proofs that somehow, somewhere, it might just be possible for her to be better: to be popular, powerful, sexy and smart.
She chose books because they lied to her with more conviction than people ever had. ~ Dan Micklethwaite

It was journalism at its best: irreverent, mischievous and beholden to no one. ~ Toby Young

With the help of the janitor he screwed on to the side of the desk a pencil sharpener - that highly satisfying, highly philosophical implement that goes ticonderoga-ticonderoga, feeding on the yellow finish and sweet wood, and ends up in a kind of soundlessly spinning ethereal void as we all must. ~ Vladimir Nabokov

I think newspapers shouldn't try to compete directly with the Web, and should do what they can do better, which may be long-form journalism and using photos and art, and making connections with large-form graphics and really enhancing the tactile experience of paper. ~ Dave Eggers

As for modern journalism, it is not my business to defend it. It justifies its own existence by the great Darwinian principle of the survival of the vulgarest. ~ Oscar Wilde

I expected to go into journalism or law. ~ Christie Hefner

Woodward said that he had told no one the name of Deep Throat.
Mrs. Graham paused. 'Tell me,' she said.
Woodward froze. He said he would give her the name if she wanted. He was praying she wouldn't press it. Mrs. Graham laughed, touched his arm and said she was only kidding, she didn't really want to carry that burden around with her. Woodward took a bite of his eggs, which were cold.
Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward ~ Carl Bernstein

With his chin dropped to his chest, he was staring at her from under his brows, his pale yellow eyes glowing as they locked on her and her alone.
Her first cogent thought was that he was a predator.
Her second… was that she wanted to be caught. ~ J.R. Ward

I knew how to bake. The first thing I was sure of was that this was all about cake. Pies, tarts and tartlets, a dozen different kinds of gorgeous cookies, soufflés- they all spun through my head and I dismissed them all. I was going to specialize. It also seemed to me that there was no single cake that could really represent what I could do. I got on my hands and knees and emptied out a low cupboard until I found a set of six-inch cake pans. With these it would be reasonable to take every restaurant three different kinds of cakes, one chocolate, one fruit, and one wild card, like the sweet potato cake or the scarlet empress. I had a Bundt pan that held about three cups of batter, and I thought of an almond cake surrounded by little marzipan birds, tiny yellow buntings asleep at the base. I was a fool for marzipan. ~ Jeanne Ray

John Wayne is as tough as an old nut and as soft as a yellow ribbon. ~ Elizabeth Taylor

I've always loved shows like '48 Hours' and 'Dateline,' and I've always been passionate about getting to the truth, and journalism. ~ Regina Hall

I am a lama," said the man in yellow. "It is lamas who identify
incarnate Buddhas. If I say the Lord Chenresi is among us, some
will listen. Some of high rank will confirm my word. It is a good
thing for religion to have manifestations--which have been scarce
of late, and men are not so respectful as they used to be. Also,
it is a long way from Lhassa to this monastery. There can be a
rumor sent forth, that will take hold and excite, arousing the hope
of people, of whom many will be monks. So that they who will be
sent from Lhassa to investigate will not dare to deny the story,
knowing how much safer it is to deceive men than to undeceive them. ~ Talbot Mundy

The little man behind that desk was the joke candidate of election years, best remembered for his trademark yellow bowtie. In Riker's fashion philosophy, bows should be reserved to the pigtails of little girls or the collars of tiny dogs hatched from peanut shells. ~ Carol O'Connell

Years later, I remember the waxy taste of the yellow paint, the papery taste of splintered wood, the sharp metallic of the graphite. ~ Alexandria Marzano-Lesnevich

How gaily and lightly these people I met carried their radiant heads, and swung themselves through life as through a ball-room! There was no sorrow in a single look I met, no burden on any shoulder, perhaps not even a clouded thought, not a little hidden pain in any of the happy souls. And I, walking in the very midst of these people, young and newly-fledged as I was, had already forgotten the very look of happiness. I hugged these thoughts to myself as I went on, and found that a great injustice had been done me. Why had the last months pressed so strangely hard on me? I failed to recognize my own happy temperament, and I met with the most singular annoyances from all quarters. I could not sit down on a bench by myself or set my foot any place without being assailed by insignificant accidents, miserable details, that forced their way into my imagination and scattered my powers to all the four winds. A dog that dashed by me, a yellow rose in a man's buttonhole, had the power to set my thoughts vibrating and occupy me for a length of time. ~ Knut Hamsun

Unanimity makes me itchy. It almost always hides a grave. I started digging. ~ Ben Ehrenreich

Lucy headed home, taking Charles Avenue over to Oak Grove, where some of the loveliest gardens in town resided. She walked alen the sidewalk, lingering longer in the shady patches, admiring the rose- bushes in riotous palettes of red, pink, yellow, and mauve. They spilled out over fences, showy and untamed, perfuming the air with their spicy-sweet scent. She understood that such inflated beauty was likely the result of witchcraft, but that didn't lessen its allure. ~ Janet Hill

Journalism kills you, but it keeps you alive as long as you're doing it. ~ Horace Greeley

...[the birds] were the yellow of all yellows, the kind of yellow that every other yellow secretly wishes to be. ~ Redmond O'Hanlon

Painting is a self-disciplined activity that you have to learn by yourself. ~ Romare Bearden

The point is, that the function of the novel seems to be changing; it has become an outpost of journalism; we read novels for information about areas of life we don't know - Nigeria, South Africa, the American army, a coal-mining village, coteries in Chelsea, etc. We read to find out what is going on. One novel in five hundred or a thousand has the quality a novel should have to make it a novel - the quality of philosophy. ~ Doris Lessing

[...]a man and a boy, side by side on a yellow Swedish sofa from the 1950s that the man had bought because it somehow reminded him of a zoot suit, watching the A's play Baltimore, Rich Harden on the mound working that devious ghost pitch, two pairs of stocking feet, size 11 and size 15, rising from the deck of the coffee table at either end like towers of the Bay Bridge, between the feet the remains in an open pizza box of a bad, cheap, and formerly enormous XL meat lover's special, sausage, pepperoni, bacon, ground beef, and ham, all of it gone but crumbs and parentheses of crusts left by the boy, brackets for the blankness of his conversation and, for all the man knew, of his thoughts, Titus having said nothing to Archy since Gwen's departure apart from monosyllables doled out in response to direct yes-or-nos, Do you like baseball? you like pizza? eat meat? pork?, the boy limiting himself whenever possible to a tight little nod, guarding himself at his end of the sofa as if riding on a crowded train with something breakable on his lap, nobody saying anything in the room, the city, or the world except Bill King and Ken Korach calling the plays, the game eventless and yet blessedly slow, player substitutions and deep pitch counts eating up swaths of time during which no one was required to say or to decide anything, to feel what might conceivably be felt, to dread what might be dreaded, the game standing tied at 1 and in theory capable of going on that way forever, or at leas ~ Michael Chabon

Even though it's locked in a cage, my heart is a bird that flutters at the sound of her voice, as if trying to fly to the point in the sky where yellow meets blue. ~ Jarod Kintz

She noticed the lemony yellow light in her dream and heard nothing of her alarm clock so continued to dream and dreamt of Jamestown and the sound of the foghorns over the water and the gulls and every night that was the breath of the day before. ~ Tiger Lewis

Admit it  -  
you wanted the end

with a serpentine
greed. How to negotiate

that strangling
mist, the fibrous

whisper?

To cease to exist
and to die

are two different things entirely.

But you knew this,
didn't you?

Some days you knelt on coins
in those yellow hours.

You lit a flame

to your shadow
and ate

scorpions with your naked fingers.

So touched by the sadness of hair
in a dirty sink.

The malevolent smell
of soap.

When instead of swallowing a fistful
of white pills,

you decided to shower,

the palm trees
nodded in agreement,

a choir
of crickets singing

behind your swollen eyes.

The masked bird
turned to you

with a shred of paper hanging
from its beak.

At dusk,
hair wet and fragrant,

you cupped a goat's face

and kissed
his trembling horns.

The ghost?

It fell prostrate,
passed through you

like a swift
and generous storm. ~ Erika L. Sánchez

I finally let myself think it: he was beautiful. His gray eyes reminded me of the stormy waters of Pitha. When he reached for my cheek, there was a crease along his arm where one wiry muscle met another. His deft, sensitive fingers moved over my cheekbone. His fingernails were stained with yellow powder--from jealousy flowers, I was sure. I was breathless to think of him touching me just because he wanted to.
I sat up, slowly, bringing a hand to the silverskin behind my ear. Soon it would adhere to the nerves in what was left of my scalp, and I would be able to feel it like it was my own skin, though it would never grow hair again. I wondered how I looked now, with a little more than half a head of hair. It didn't really matter.
He wanted to touch me.
"What?" he said. "You're giving me a weird look."
"Nothing," I said. "You just…look nice."
It was a silly thing to say. He was dusty, sweaty, and smeared with my blood. His hair and clothes were mussed. Nice wasn't exactly the word for it, but the other ones I thought of were too much, too soon.
Still, he smiled as if he understood. "You do, too. ~ Veronica Roth

Tough times for Martha Stewart. Yesterday, Martha Stewart reported to her parole officer and had to take a mandatory urine test for cocaine and marijuana. Martha was found to be drug-free and her urine was found to be a lovely yellow saffron. ~ Conan O'Brien

Drill in exact translation is an excellent way of disposing the mind against that looseness and exaggeration with which the sensationalists have corrupted our world. If schools of journalism knew their business, they would graduate no one who could not render the Greek poets. ~ Richard M. Weaver

He turned and gave the Dark Elf a nasty look. "They can do that," he said, "mess with your head, using arcane mind control techniques. Well-known fact."
The Dark Elf sniggered. "I wish," he said. "Sadly, no. You're thinking of journalism, which is slightly different. ~ Tom Holt

Throughout his life--as a child, poor and meanly treated, as a foot-loose youth, as an imprisoned man--the yellow bird, huge and parrot-faced, had soared across Perry's dreams, an avenging angel who savaged his enemies or, as now, rescued him in moments of mortal danger. ~ Truman Capote

In the restaurant kitchen, August meant lobsters, blackberries, silver queen corn, and tomatoes, tomatoes, tomatoes. In honor of the last year of the restaurant, Fiona was creating a different tomato special for each day of the month. The first of August (two hundred and fifty covers on the book, eleven reservation wait list) was a roasted yellow tomato soup. The second of August (two hundred and fifty covers, seven reservation wait list) was tomato pie with a Gruyère crust. On the third of August, Ernie Otemeyer came in with his wife to celebrate his birthday and since Ernie liked food that went with his Bud Light, Fiona made a Sicilian pizza- a thick, doughy crust, a layer of fresh buffalo mozzarella, topped with a voluptuous tomato-basil sauce. One morning when she was working the phone, Adrienne stepped into the kitchen hoping to get a few minutes with Mario, and she found Fiona taking a bite out of red ripe tomato like it was an apple. Fiona held the tomato out.
"I'd put this on the menu," she said. "But few would understand. ~ Elin Hilderbrand

I wonder, did that yellow flower really wink at me then bashfully lower her head? ~ Camelia Lica

To a toad, what is beauty? A female with pop eyes, a wide mouth, yellow belly, and a spotted back, ~ Voltaire

Joseph would reach out to me occasionally, the same way the desert blooms a flower every now and then. You get so used to the subtleties of beige and Brown, and then a sunshine-yellow poppy bursts from the arm of a prickly pear. ~ Aimee Bender