Queer Quotes (displaying: 1 - 30 of 162 quotes )
According to Padilla, remembered Amalfitano, all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual. Poetry, on the other hand, was completely homosexual. Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freaks, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for example, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. William Blake was definitely a faggot. Octavio Paz was a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next.
And now the old story has begun to write itself over there," said Carl softly. "Isn’t it queer: there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before; like the larks in this country, that have been singing the same five notes for thousands of years.
It's a queer sensation, this secret belief that one stands on the brink of the world's greatest catastrophe. For it means the fall of Western Europe, as it fell in the fourth century. It recurs to me every November, and culminates every December. I have to get over it as I can, and hide, for fear of being sent to an asylum.
Peter,' she asked, trying to speak firmly, 'what are your exact feelings for me?' Those of a devoted son, Wendy.' I thought so,' she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room. You are so queer,' he said, frankly puzzled, 'and Tiger Lily is just the same. There is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother.' No, indeed, it is not,' Wendy replied with frightful emphasis.
I see what you think of me,' said he, gravely; 'I shall make but a poor figure in your journal to-morrow.'My journal!'Yes; I know exactly what you will say:- Friday went to the Lower Rooms; wore my sprigged muslin robe with blue trimmings- plain black shoes- appeared to much advantage; but was strangely harassed by a queer, half-witted man, who would make me dance with him, and distressed me by his nonsense.
A world like that is not really natural, or (the thought strikes one later) perhaps it really is, only more so. Parts of it are neither land nor sea and so everything is moving from one element to another, wearing uneasily the queer transitional bodies that life adopts in such places. Fish, some of them, come out and breathe air and sit about watching you. Plants take to eating insects, mammals go back to the water and grow elongate like fish, crabs climb trees. Nothing stays put where it began because everything is constantly climbing in, or climbing out, of its unstable environment.
To be sure I was!' Humpty Dumpty said gaily, as she turned it round forhim. 'I thought it looked a little queer. As I was saying, that SEEMSto be done right--though I haven't time to look it over thoroughly justnow--and that shows that there are three hundred and sixty-four dayswhen you might get un-birthday presents--'Certainly,' said Alice. And only ONE for birthday presents, you know. There's glory for you!'I don't know what you mean by "glory,"' Alice said. Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously. 'Of course you don't--till I tellyou. I meant "there's a nice knock-down argument for you!"'But "glory" doesn't mean "a nice knock-down argument,"' Alice objected. When _I_ use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'itmeans just what I choose it to mean--neither more nor less.'The question is,' said Alice, 'whether you CAN make words mean so manydifferent things.'The question is,' said Humpty Dumpty, 'which is to be master--that'sall.
I had tried to be happy by telling myself that man is an animal, like any other which sought its meat from God. But now I really was happy, for I had learnt that man is a monstrosity. I had been right in feeling all things as odd, for I myself was at once worse and better than all things. The optimist's pleasure was prosaic, for it dwelt on the naturalness of everything; the Christian pleasure was poetic, for it dwelt on the unnaturalness of everything in the light of the supernatural. The modern philosopher had told me again and again that I was in the right place, and I had still felt depressed even in acquiescence. But I had heard that I was in the wrong place, and my soul sang for joy, like a bird in spring. The knowledge found out and illuminated forgotten chambers in the dark house of infancy. I knew now why grass had always seemed to me as queer as the green beard of a giant, and why I could feel homesick at home.