Bleeding Quotes (page 5)
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O captain! My Captain! Our fearful trip is done. The ship has weather'd every wrack. The prize we sought is won. The port is near, the bells I hear. The people all exulting. While follow eyes, the steady keel. The vessel grim and daring. But Heart! Heart! Heart! O the bleeding drops of red. Where on the deck my captain lies. Fallen cold and dead.
Walt Whitman
He has not recovered the blow?" said he to Athos. He is struck to death."Oh! your fears exaggerate, I hope. Raoul is of a tempered nature. Around all hearts as noble as his, there is a second envelope that forms a cuirass. The first bleeds, the second resists."No," replied Athos, "Raoul will die of it."_Mordioux!_" said D'Artagnan, in a melancholy tone. And he did not add a word to this exclamation. Then, a minute after, "Why do you let him go?"Because he insists on going."And why do you not...
Alexander Dumas
No, there's fifteen francs somewhere, which nobody gives a damn about anymore and which nobody is going to get in the end anyhow, but the fifteen francs is like the primal cause of things and rather than listen to one's own voice, rather than walk out on the primal cause, one surrenders to the situation, one goes on butchering and butchering and the more cowardly one feels the more heroically does he behave, until a day when the bottom drops out and suddenly all the guns are silenced and the...
Henry Miller
Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his...
Cormac McCarthy
I have a strange feeling with regard to you. As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communion would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly. As for you, you'd forget me.
Charlotte Bronte
Lula hauled herself up off the floor and put her hand to her neck. “Do I got holes? Am I bleeding? Do I look like I’m turning into a vampire?”
“No, no, and no,” I told her. “He doesn’t have his teeth in. He was just gumming you.”
“That’s disgustin’,” Lula said. “I been gummed by a old vampire. I feel gross. My neck’s all wet. What’s on my neck?”
I squinted over at Lula. “Looks like a hickey.”
“Are you shitting me? This worthless bag of bones gave me a hickey?” Lula pulled a mirror out of her...
Janet Evanovich
I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.
Charlotte Bronte
in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'dAnd left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd Kingof France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.
William Shakespeare
The office was large, with many women and men at desks, and she learned their names, and presented to them an amiability she assumed upon entering the building. Often she felt that her smiles, and her feigned interest in people's anecdotes about commuting and complaints about colds, were an implicit and draining part of her job. A decade later she would know that spending time with people and being unable either to speak from her heart or to listen with it was an imperceptible bleeding of her...
Andre Dubus