So, cutting the lashing of the waterproof match keg, after many failures Starbuck contrived to ignite the lamp in the lantern; then stretching it on a waif pole, handed it to Queequeg as the standard-bearer of this forlorn hope. There, then, he sat, holding up that imbecile candle in the heart of that almighty forlornness. There, then, he sat, the sign and symbol of a man without faith, hopelessly holding up hope in the midst of despair.
It was prettily devised of Aesop, The fly sat on the axle tree of the chariot wheel and said, what dust do I raise!
A man ninety years old was asked to what he attributed his longevity.
I reckon, he said, with a twinkle in his eye, it because most nights I went to bed and slept when I should have sat up and worried.
There's more of yourself in a book than a play.
that's why we know all about Dickens and not much about Shakespeare. Ben Jonson murdered people; Marlowe was a spy; Shakespeare just sat in the corner and took notes.
I will be brief. Not nearly so brief as Salvador Dali, who gave the world's shortest speech. He said I will be so brief I have already finished, and he sat down.
One day I sat thinking, almost in despair;
a hand fell on my shoulder and a voice said reassuringly: cheer up, things could get worse. So I cheered up and, sure enough, things got worse.
The cruelest lies are often told in silence.
A man may have sat in a room for hours and not opened his mouth, and yet come out of that room a disloyal friend or a vile calumniator.
Only the other day I was inquiring of an entire bed of old-fashioned roses, forced to listen to my ramblings on the meaning of the universe as I sat cross-legged in the lotus position in front of them.
There once was a Bald Man who sat down after work on a hot summer's day.
A Fly came up and kept buzzing about his bald pate, and stinging him from time to time. The Man aimed a blow at his little enemy, but - whack - his palm come on his own head instead; again the Fly tormented him, but this time the Man was wiser and said: YOU WILL ONLY INJURE YOURSELF IF YOU TAKE NOTICE OF DISPICABLE ENEMIES.
Sir Walter, being strangely surprised and put out of his countenance at so great a table, gives his son a damned blow over the face. His son, as rude as he was, would not strike his father, but strikes over the face the gentleman that sat next to him and said Box about: twill come to my father anon.
We all have known good critics, who have stamped out poet's hopes;
Good statesmen, who pulled ruin on the state; Good patriots, who, for a theory, risked a cause; Good kings, who disemboweled for a tax; Good Popes, who brought all good to jeopardy; Good Christians, who sat still in easy-chairs; And damned the general world for standing up. Now, may the good God pardon all good men!
We for a certainty are not the first have sat in taverns while the tempest hurled their hopeful plans to emptiness, and cursed whatever brute and blackguard made the world.
Most of us who turn to any subject we love remember some morning or evening hour when we got on a high stool to reach down an untried volume, or sat with parted lips listening to a new talker, or for very lack of books began to listen to the voices within, as the first traceable beginning of our love.
Listening: A wise old owl sat in an oak.
The longer he sat, the less he spoke. The less he spoke, the more he heard. Why can't we be like that wise old bird?
My uncle ordered popoversfrom the restaurant's bill of fare.
And, when they were served,he regarded them with a penetrating stare.Then he spoke great words of wisdomas he sat there on that chair:To eat these things, said my uncle,You must exercise great care.You may swallow down what's solid,but you must spit out the air!And as you partake of the world's bill of fare,that's darned good advice to follow.Do a lot of spitting out the hot air.And be careful what you swallow.
You have sat too long for any good you have been doing.
Depart, I say, and let us have done with you. In the name of God, go!
No one sat me down with a piece of paper and said, ?This is what is expected of you. But I?m lucky enough in the fact that I have found my role I love being with people.?
Do we write books so that they shall merely be read? Don't we also write them for employment in the household? For one that is read from start to finish, thousands are leafed through, other thousands lie motionless, others are jammed against mouseholes, thrown at rats, others are stood on, sat on, drummed on, have gingerbread baked on them or are used to light pipes.