Do you know what a soldier is, young man? He's the chap who makes it possible for civilized folk to despise war.
— Allan Massie chap quote
News is what a chap who doesn't care much about anything wants to read. And it's only news until he's read it. After that it's dead.
— Evelyn Waugh
You don't have to be a fantastic hero to do certain things -- to compete. You can be just an ordinary chap, sufficiently motivated to reach challenging goals.
— Edmund Hillary
The sound of distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are very happy that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating monotony to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.
— chap quotation by Emmuska Orczy
I feel like I've started a new chapter in my life, and I need to leave the past behind.
The old fun thing is when somebody typed up the first chapter of War and Peace.
And then made a precis of the rest of it and sent it out and only one publisher recognized it.
He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say when!
One bad chapter does not mean your story is over.
Do you know what a soldier is, young man? He's the chap who makes it possible for civilised folk to despise war.
In the last few years, losing my father, going through a divorce and not getting some jobs I really wanted, is making me a much more interesting person, I think. This all really does feel like a rebirth, a new chapter.
If it's coming near the end of a chapter and I'm really getting into it, I tend to get up earlier and earlier, just because I'm excited to get to work.
Sometimes you think it's the end of the story, but it's just the end of the first chapter.
I retire with a smile on my face, in good health, and ready to spend autumns at my kids' games instead of my own. I'm excited to start the next chapter of my life.
I once knew a chap who had a system of just hanging the baby on the clothes line to dry and he was greatly admired by his fellow citizens for having discovered a wonderful innovation on changing a diaper.
He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say "when!"
A bowler can make or break a chap.
I'd like to produce, direct, write, score, and star in a film in exactly the way Chaplin did. I'll do that before I'm thirty.
With God's help and guidance, we shall soon see the end of this most unpleasant chapter in our history.
The issue of civil rights was too much for the establishment to handle.
One of the chapters of history that's least studied by historians is the 300 to 500 riots in the U.S. between 1965 and 1970.
The only realism in art is of the imagination.
In description words adhere to certain objects, and have the effect on the sense of oysters, or barnacles.
According to my present theme the writer of imagination would attain closest to the conditions of music not when his words are dissassociated from natural objects and specified meanings but when they are liberated from the usual quality of that meaning by transportation into another medium, the imagination.
Either you go to America with Mrs. Van Hopper or you come home to Manderley with me.
Do you mean you want a secretary or something?
No, I'm asking you to marry me, you little fool.
The bright dawn flooded the room, and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering.
Forgive me for startling you with the impetuosity of my sentiments, my dear Scarlett—I mean, my dear Mrs. Kennedy. It cannot have escaped your notice that for some time past the friendship I have had in my heart for you has ripened into a deeper feeling, a feeling more beautiful, more pure, more sacred. Dare I name it you? Ah! It is love which makes me so bold!
I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do. I feel as if this tree knows everything I ever think of when I sit here. When I come back to it, I never have to remind it of anything; I begin just where I left off.
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 came to Mr. Blood, as he trudged forward under the laden apple-trees on that fragrant, delicious July morning, that man—as he had long suspected—was the vilest work of God, and that only a fool would set himself up as a healer of a species that was best exterminated.
We do not always remember the things that do no credit to us.
We justify them, cover them in bright lies or with the thick dust of forgetfulness. All of the things that Shadow had done in his life of which he was not proud, all the things he wished he had done otherwise or left undone, came at him then in a swirling storm of guilt and regret and shame, and he had nowhere to hide from them. He was as naked and as open as a corpse on a table, and dark Anubis the jackal god was his prosector and his prosecutor and his persecutor.
Actually loneliness has a kind of fascination;
it's a state of egotistical, inner grace that you can achieve only by standing guard on old, forgotten roads that no one travels anymore.
You don't choose your friends, they choose you, and you either reject them or you accept them without reservations.
It was evident to him that the world composed and recomposed itself constantly in an endless process of dissatisfaction.
Misery, in cold truth, is a weight less upon those who undergo it than upon the minds of those who see it; for he who is cold and starving is so busy in his efforts to obtain warmth and food that he has little time for self-pity, and endures his unhappy condition better than those who take it upon themselves to suffer for him.
Take my love. One day share my life. Be my dearest, first on earth.
God surely did not create us, and cause us to live, with the sole end of wishing always to die. I believe, in my heart, we were intended to prize life and enjoy it, so long as we retain it. Existence never was originally meant to be that useless, blank, pale, slow-trailing thing it often becomes to many, and is becoming to me, among the rest.
They will both be happy, and I do not grudge them their bliss;
but I groan under my own misery: some of my suffering is very acute. Truly, I ought not to have been born: they should have smothered me at first cry.
Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it? was the first sentence he uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish: they did not melt.
Yes, death. Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forget life, to be at peace. You can help me. You can open for me the portals of death's house, for love is always with you, and love is stronger than death is.
There were no clouds, the sun was going down in a limpid, gold-washed sky.
Just as the lower edge of the red disk rested on the high fields against the horizon, a great black figure suddenly appeared on the face of the sun. We sprang to our feet, straining our eyes toward it. In a moment we realized what it was. On some upland farm, a plough had been left standing in the field. The sun was sinking just behind it. Magnified across the distance by the horizontal light, it stood out against the sun, was exactly contained within the circle of the disk; the handles, the tongue, the share—black against the molten red. There it was, heroic in size, a picture writing on the sun.
Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?
Fly at me again.
I rather liked it, said Laurie, looking
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
Oh, the terrible struggle that I have had against sleep so often of late;
the pain of the sleeplessness, or the pain of the fear of sleep, and with such unknown horror as it has for me! How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads; to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams.
My favorite favorites are people like Bunuel, Fellini and Charlie Chaplin.
There are no conditions in which we subordinate the interests of the class as a whole to the interests of any sect, any chapel, any separate organization.
I didn't want my last chapter to be the guy who sits at the piano and sings love songs.
Many, many of my paintings have come from the first chapter of Moby Dick.
Shakespeare wrote great plays that we're still watching all these years later.
Charlie Chaplin made great comedies and they are still as funny today as they ever were.
It's also possible to have two third person singular points of view, as represented by two characters through whose eyes the story is told in alternating chapters, say.
One of my contemporaries, a colorless chap who worked much harder at his law studies, is now Prime Minister.
Well, you cannot think of cinema now, and you cannot think of cinema in the UK and not place Chaplin in the most extraordinary elevated context, if there can be such a thing, in that he was a genius, he was unique.
They gave me the chaps and hat and everything.
I looked like a real cowboy. I walked around the rodeo and thought, I am a real cowboy and thought everyone thought I was a real cowboy.
At that time we were very definitely told that under no circumstances should there be any secret chapters or any other secrecy in the life of the Party, but that everything should be done publicly.