My dearest Pudding pie" I read aloud. "Yes, my little turnip?" "Hilarious," I muttered. "If you ever call me anything of the sort again we shall have words.
Memory did not let go; it remained the net dragged in one's wake, with all sorts of strange things snarled in the knotted strands.
So you need an alarm system because you gonna be in bad neighborhoods?" "Actually, I sort of stole a car, and I'm afraid the owner will try to get it back.
...true friendship, the kind the whims of life cannot break, cannot stop or limit, true friendship of this sort, you will probably find only once, and then only if you’re lucky.
Nowadays most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.
And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.
Therefore a wise prince ought to adopt such a course that his citizens will always in every sort and kind of circumstance have need of the state and of him, and then he will always find them faithful.
...the reason is that when we look at nature, we receive a sort of permission to be alive in this world...
...I do have to wonder what sort of childhood the Grimm brothers endured. They are not a merry bunch of storytellers, what with their children roasted by witches, maidens poisoned by old crones, and whatnot.
I asked my Greek chorus about this sort of hero: the Underappreciated Personification of Resolve.
Making art can be a mystical, spiritual experience. Sort of like golfing on water, which I haven’t done, because I’m more Michael Phelps and less Michael Phelps.
His name was Chase, so to make things interesting, I gave him a bit of a head start. Sort of like I do when pursuing a woman that I love.
Happiness is the lucky pane of glass you carry in your head. It takes all your cunning just to hang on to it, and once it's smashed you have to move into a different sort of life.
Servitude of any sort is distasteful to all men, but especially objectionable is subjection to others in the case of those who ought to rule.
When he finished cleaning my open wounds, he found a jar of salve and began rubbing it into the rough parts of my skin. I sort of got lost in the feel of his hands massaging mine.
No one needed to say it, but the room overflowed with that sort of blessing. The combination of loss and abundance. The abundance that has no guilt. The loss that has no fix. The simple tiredness that is not weary. The hope not built on blindness.
It is completely raw, the sort of thing I feel free to do with the door shut—it’s the story undressed, standing up in nothing but its socks and undershorts.
I have a sort of . . . thing, I suppose, for certain words. They spark inside me, somehow, turning me to touchpaper, but I don't know what they are until someone says them.
When we really want to go for something better, we shall smash the old. Until then, any sort of proposal, or making proposals, is no more than a tiresome game for self-important people.
Despite his money and his looks and all the good-on-paper attributes he possessed, he was not a reader, and, well, let's just say that is the sort of nonsense up with which we will not put.
Don't you agree? Swordplay is a dance of sorts, an understanding of the logical, most sophisticated next step. Except that in a fight, one must take the unexpected step. In dance it is all about taking the right, expected step.
