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“She deigned to asked me how ice queens reproduce. I grinned, and her mother looked horrified. “We procreate by way of ice cubes, of course. We put them in our nests and let them incubate for the period of about four months, and when the temperature is right, we put them out to roost and let them flake off into billions of snowflakes, rather like tadpoles breaking in droves from their eggs. And that, child,” I said, with a simulacrum of glee, “is how winter is born.” “Does it hurt?” “No more than the approach of Monday does to most of the world. It is a natural process, you understand, but it is dreadful hard work.”

“My doctor has given me as strong an antihistamine as she is allowed to prescribe, but even that does nothing for the itching and swelling. The moment a grain of pollen enters the keep, I begin to tomato, and after two minutes of being exposed to the Ejaculateum Arboratoeaea, I am lying on the ground with my tongue lolling out of the side of my mouth. I am heartily glad that the trees and plants are still interested in copulatory activities; I only wish they would be so good as to keep their sperm away from my face. Do not pretend that pollen is anything else; it transfers haploid male genetic material and sullies the bedclothes unmercifully.”

“The passion of steeped leaves and stewed broth is a philter that triumphs in our veins. It is our heritage, it is our religion, it is the glory of our being. It is our honour to show the rest of the uncivilized world how a refined and educated society operates. Nothing can be done without tea. For a thing to be done right and to be done well, a hand must be furnished with a cup filled to the brim with the finest vintage of dried and simmered vegetation. There is no other way, I tell you. For a Marridon-born man not to like tea is immoral. It makes him low, shows him to be wholly vulgar and unable to appreciate and welter in all the rapture that such scandal-broth can supply. A sniveling guttersnipe might not like tea, but a knight, a member of the highest order, a banner of Marridonian heraldry, cannot dislike it. It is folly to think so, absolute humbuggery. You are one of the high boughs of Marridon’s ancient tree, sir knight. You are practically born with leaves to steep, to stew, to swelter, to sip. It is almost treasonous not to like tea. I am considered a recluse amongst Marridon’s high society, and even I understand why I must like tea. It is the drink of the thinking man, to be deliberated over and deliciated, to be relished and reveled in, that all its secrets of higher cogitation might be extricated and beloved. One must immerse himself in the distillation if he is to properly understand it. To drink tea ponderously is all the learned Marridonian should ever aspire to.”