Compliment Quotes (page 2)
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I am a free manand I need my freedom. I need to be alone. I need to ponder my shame and my despair in seclusion; I need the sunshine and the paving stones of the streets without companions, without conversation, face to face with myself, with only the music of my heart for company. What do you want of me? When I have something to say, I put it in print. When I have something to give, I give it. Your prying curiosity turns my stomach! Your compliments humiliate me! Your tea poisons me! I owe...
Henry Miller
Unpraised, I find it hard to start writing in the morning; but the dejection lasts only 30 minutes, and once I start I forget all about it. One should aim, seriously, at disregarding ups and downs; a compliment here, a silence there;[...] the central fact remains stable, which is the fact of my own pleasure in the art.
Virginia Woolf
You'll live to regret it, young fellow! Why didn't you go too? You don't belong here; you're no Baggins—you—you're a Brandybuck!'
'Did you hear that, Merry? That was an insult, if you like,' said Frodo as he shut the door on her.
'It was a compliment,' said Merry Brandybuck, 'and so, of course, not true.
J. R. R. Tolkien
Why did you decide to be an architect?"I didn't know it then. But it's because I've never believed in God."Come on, talk sense."Because I love this earth. That's all I love. I don't like the shape of things on this earth. I want to change them."For whom?"For myself."How old are you?"Twenty-two."Where did you hear all that?"I didn't."Men don't talk like that at twenty-two. You're abnormal."Probably."I didn't mean it as a compliment."I didn't either.
Ayn Rand
Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Professor Snape, and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people's business. Mr. Prongs agrees with Mr. Moony, and would like to add that Professor Snape is an ugly git. Mr. Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor. Mr. Wormtail bids Professor Snape good day, and advises him to wash his hair, the slimeball.
J. K. Rowling
Love, love, love? all the wretched cant of it, masking egotism, lust, masochism, fantasy under a mythology of sentimental postures, a welter of self-induced miseries and joys, blinding and masking the essential personalities in the frozen gestures of courtship, in the kissing and the dating and the desire, the compliments and the quarrels which vivify its barrenness.
Germaine Greer