Calling Quotes (page 82)
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The trees were still green, the sky still blue, which counted for something. So they went ahead and plugged their smelly paradise - God's Own Country they called it in their brochures - because they knew, those clever Hotel People, that smelliness, like other peoples' poverty, was merely a matter of getting used to. A question of discipline. Of Rigor and Air-conditioning. Nothing more.
Arundhati Roy
That over these sea pastures, wide rolling watery prairies, and Potters' Fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like some slumberers in their beds; the ever rolling waves but made so by the restlessness.
Herman Melville
Now, I know I’m going to break your hearts, but I am forced to leave you. You must call up all your fortitude, and try to bear it... “Bob swore!” - as the Englishman said for “Good night”, when he first learnt French, and thought it so like English. “Bob swore,” my ducks!" (Chapter XXII)
Charles Dickens
Can we go back to the part where you're in love with me?"No, because I'm not anymore. I've come to my senses."That's a damn shame, that is. You'll have to wait here a minute. There's something I need from inside."I'll not stand out here. I'm going home."I'll only come after you, Brenna," he called over his shoulder as he walked to the door.
Nora Roberts
Someone did a study on the cell phone calls made from the Twin Towers as they fell. The question: Was there any pattern in what people said? The researcher expected they would find repeated SOSes—pleas for life, asking for absolution—but there was remarkably little of that. Instead, what the people said over and over again as they died, what they sent out across the sea of static: “I love you. These words, when said sincerely, have the capacity to right our wrongs, and live on long...
Rosie O'Donnell
She suffers according to the digits
of my hate. I hear the filaments
of alabaster. I would lie down
with them and lift my madness
off like a wig. I would lie
outside in a room of wool
and let the snow cover me.
Paris white or flake white
or argentine, all in the washbasin
of my mouth, calling “Oh.”
I am empty. I am witless.
Death is here. There is no
other settlement.
Anne Sexton
