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Whites Quotes (page 21)

In winter night Massachusetts Street is dismal, the ground's frozen cold, the ruts and pock holes have ice, thin snow slides over the jagged black cracks. The river is frozen to stolidity, waits; hung on a shore with remnant show-off boughs of June-- Ice skaters, Swedes, Irish girls, yellers and singers--they throng on the white ice beneath the crinkly stars that have no altar moon, no voice, but down heavy tragic space make halyards of Heaven on in deep, to where the figures fantastic... Jack Kerouac
At last Fingon stood alone with his guard dead about him; and he fought with Gothmog, until another Balrog came behind and cast a thong of fire about him. Then Gothmog hewed him with his black axe, and a white flame sprang up from the helm of Fingon as it was cloven. Thus fell the High King of the Noldor; and they beat him into the dust with their maces; and his banner, blue and silver, they trod into the mire of his blood. J. R. R. Tolkien
Nothing you do in the White House matters. You know why not? Because as far as the mass of voting morons is concerned, while you're in office, you'll still be the worst single president they've ever had until you stop. Then it's some other poor bastard's turn. And even that doesn't matter, because ten, twenty years later, they'll look back on you, and wonder why they didn't appreciate you when they had you...You don't get to make a difference. You don't get to do jack shit. You know... Neil Gaiman
Said the Sun to the Moon-'When you are but a lonely white crone, And I, a dead King in my golden armour somewhere in a dark wood, Remember only this of our hopeless love. That never till Time is done. Will the fire of the heart and the fire of the mind be one Edith Sitwell
And no more turn aside and brood. Upon love's bitter mystery; For Fergus rules the brazen cars, And rules the shadows of the wood, And the white breast of the dim sea. And all disheveled wandering stars. William Butler Yeats
You have a high opinion of yourself, Anita. Confident. I like that. Always so much more entertaining to break someone strong. The weaklings fold and cry and snivel, but the brave ones, they almost demand that you hurt them." He stalked towards me, reaching out one white spider-hand. "Do you want me to hurt you? Laurell K. Hamilton
High school girls came bustling along, their rosy red cheeks puffing white breaths you could have written cartoon captions in. Haruki Murakami
Now had the sun to that horizon reach'd, That covers, with the most exalted point. Of its meridian circle, Salem's walls; And night, that opposite to him her orb. Rounds, from the stream of Ganges issued forth, Holding the scales, that from her hands are dropt. When she reigns highest: so that where I was, Aurora's white and vermeil - tinctured cheek. To orange turn'd as she in age increased. Dante Alighieri
[B]ut it is only what happens, when they die, to all mortals. The sinews no longer hold the flesh and the bones together, and once the spirit has let the white bones, all the restof the body is made subject to the fire's strong fury, but the soul flitters out like a dream and flies away. Homer
All items listed above belong in the world. In which all things are continuous, And are parts of the original dream which. I am now trying to discover the logic of. This. Is the process whereby pain of the past in its pastness. May be converted into the future tense. Of joy. I Am Dreaming of a White Christmas: The Natural History of a Vision (1974) Robert Penn Warren
Philippa Somerville, standing back a little, did not withdraw her arm. In her white face, a shadow of motherly irritation appeared. ‘Has no one here any sense? Be quiet and sit down. The world will look after itself for a night, without your hand on the rim. Dorothy Dunnett
He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition. James Joyce
The desert was the apotheosis of all deserts, huge, standing to the sky for what looked like eternity in all directions. It was white and blinding and waterless and without feature save for the faint, cloudy haze of the mountains which sketched themselves on the horizon and the devil-grass which brought sweet dreams, nightmares, death. An occasional tombstone sign pointed the way, for once the drifted track that cut its way through the thick crust of alkali had been a highway. Coaches and... Stephen King
Very softly, but very swiftly, Last, the man with the grey face and the staring eyes, bolted for his life, down and away from the White House. Once in the road, free from the fields and brakes, he changed his run into a walk, and he never paused or stopped, till he came with a gulp of relief into the ugly streets of the big industrial town. He made hi way to the station at once, and found that he was an hour too soon for the London express. So, there was plenty of time for breakfast; which... Arthur Machen
That orbd maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor By the midnight breezes strewn. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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