Gabriel’s green eyes sought Will. “It was demon pox, wasn’t it? You know all about it, don’t you? Aren’t you some sort of expert?” “Well, you needn’t act as if I invented it,” said Will.
Don't forget to speak scornfully of the Victorian Age; there will be time for meekness when you try to better it. Very soon you will be Victorian or that sort of thing yourselves; next session probably, when the freshman come up.
Do they hate the idea of her, because she's different from them, and that in this difference there might be some sort of inferiority or superiority that is hers or theirs, that in the end threatens the potential happiness of everyone?
People want to be loved; failing that admired; failing that feared; failing that hated and despised. They want to evoke some sort of sentiment. The soul shudders before oblivion and seeks connection at any price.
Washington was no politician as we understand the word," replied Ratcliffe abruptly. "He stood outside of politics. The thing couldn't be done today. The people don't like that sort of royal airs.
Bowden Cable is the sort of honest and dependable operative that is the backbone of SpecOps. They never win commendations or medals and the public has no knowledge of them at all. They are all worth ten of people like me.
I have an image of Turtle right on the forehead. She seems to go through the lobes of my brain. Sort of like swimming.
Park's eyes got wide. well, sort of wide. Sometimes she wondered if the shape of his eyes affected how he saw things. That was probably the most racist question of all time.
When people see you're happy doing what you're doing, it sort of takes the power away from them to tease you about it.
I wondered what it would be like to be just myself all the time, but my self seemed to be far away, and made up of all sorts of things that didn't really exist.
Sometimes, when something hurts us, our hearts break a little-in a slightly ... more literal way than for humans. Our pain sort of spills out and onto anyone around us. We call it a cracked heart.
So, am I some sort of Savior? Not hardly. Save yourself the worry about needing to be saved from anything.
Dante and this Palero were definitely playing some sort of game, and I didn’t know the rules, which was fine with me. Whenever a game became too complicated, I just set the board on fire.
For years now, I've wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.
But I was - not quite happy. Pending happy. I knew this was not really my life; it was a borrowed life. One that I was temporarily wearing until I could sort out my own.
We are, all four of us, blood relatives, and we speak a kind of esoteric, family language, a sort of semantic geometry in which the shortest distance between any two points is a fullish circle.
Human beings used to be molecules which could do many, many different sorts of dances, or decline to dance at all --as they pleased. My mother could do the waltz, the tango, the rumba....
Perhaps there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers. How delightful if that were true.
About this business of being a gentleman: I paid so heavily for the fourteen years of my gentleman’s education that I feel entitled, now and then, to get some sort of return.
IT'S THE EXPRESSION ON THEIR LITTLE FACES I LIKE, said the Hogfather. "You mean sort of fear and awe and not knowing whether to laugh or cry or wet their pants?" YES. NOW THAT IS WHAT I CALL BELIEF.
For me, taking the sort of dry principles of the law and bringing them into contact with human beings . . . it's like you jump into hyperspace. And everything that's dull about the books and the theory becomes provocative.
