Ordinary people who live their lives peacefully, whose days gently resemble each other, may happen one day to stop and wonder why and what for do they do the things they do and have been doing for so many years?
Eventually, we come to love certain novels because we have expended so much imaginative labor on them. This is why we hang on to those novels, whose pages are creased and dog-eared.
That’s the funny thing about guns; even untrained hands can feel powerful using them. But take that gun away and you’re left with nothing but a coward whose only skill is how to blindly pull a trigger.
Sometimes your kids will say the nastiest things, won't they, Rose? You want to ask,'Whose child is this?'" Rose chuckled. "But usually, they're just in some kind of pain. They need to work it out.
Pleasantly bustling shoppers streamed past us on Bond Street - smart-suited men and well-heeled women whose commitment to luxury goods glazed over their eyes like a bad case of malaria.
Was it possible that Ranulph, too, was a real person, a person inside whose mind things happened? He had thought that he himself was the only real person in a field of human flowers. For Master Nathaniel that was a moment of surprise, triumph, tender...
He had a reputation in society as a man with a lively wit, whose gaiety was pleasant and formidable – which all gaiety must be in a society which would despise you if, while amusing it, you did not make it tremble a little. ("A Woman's Vengeance")
Hmm…” Jason snapped his fingers. “I can call a friend for a ride.” Percy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah? Me too. Let's see whose friend gets here first.
Elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of he...
I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter in all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both.
Stupidity is much the same all the world over. A stupid person's notions and feelings may confidently be inferred from those which prevail in the circle by which the person is surrounded. Not so with those whose opinions and feelings are an emanation...
To him, man was a being with myriad lives and myriad sensations, a complex multiform creature that bore within itself strange legacies of thought and passion, and whose very flesh was tainted with the monstrous maladies of the dead.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment: Besides it is a dull employment, It cuts off all that's life and fire From that which may be termed desire; Just like the bee whose sting is gone Converts the owner to a drone.
Pleasing things: finding a large number of tales that one has not read before. Or acquiring the second volume of a tale whose first volume one has enjoyed. But often it is a disappointment.
I prayed in silence that perhaps even now, the queen might have a son and might know joy like this, such a strange, unexpected joy- the happiness of caring for a child whose whole life was in my hands.
So few American novels have happy endings. Perhaps this is not surprising in a nation whose declaration of independence provides its citizens not with the right to happiness, but the right to its pursuit.
Love, like hefty leftover stew, could be eaten with a spoon—or with some homeless guy I just met. I would offer you some, but we haven’t met yet. And whose fault is that? Oh yeah—yours.
When I write... I am in the fond arms of a childhood friend upon whose colorful heart I can hang the charcoal drawings of my woes.
The pathway traced with blood and tears, and dust of all our father's dead, Whose backward footsteps, wandering, red, Fade to the mist of nameless years. (“The Testimony of the Suns”)
A man [Joyce] whose earliest stories appeared next to the manure prices in the Irish Homestead knew that columns of prose, like columns of shit, could both recultivate the earth.
In mid-wood silence, thus, how sweet to be; Where all the noises, that on peace intrude, Come from the chittering cricket, bird, and bee, Whose songs have charms to sweeten solitude.
