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B Quotes

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All B Quotes

“Beaten biscuits: This is the most laborious of cakes, and also the most unwholesome, even when made in the best manner. We do not recommend it; but there is no accounting for tastes. Children would not eat these biscuits-nor grown persons either, if they can get any other sort of bread. When living in a town where there are bakers, there is no excuse for making Maryland biscuit. Believe nobody that says they are not unwholesome. . . . Better to live on Indian cakes.”

“Beatha - do Mháire Mhic Amhlaoibh, An Fál Mór, Co. Mhaigh Eo. - Níor airigh tú caint ar an slabhcán? - arsa Mary Nell le hiontas, an slabhcán a bhailíodh sí ina gearrchaile di ar charraigreacha an Fháil Mhóir, a thugadh sí abhaile is a ghearradh go mion, é a bhruith ainsin le deoirín uisce. Nuair a d'fhuaraíodh sé dhéanadh sí leac - an blas a bhíodh air leis an ngráinne salainn! Níor bhlais Mary Nell an slabhcán le dhá scór bliain: - Ní bhadrálann éinne thart anseo a thuilleadh leis, Róleitheadhach atá siad. Ach an stuif sin a bhíonns ag fear an tsiopa I bpotaí beaga a thigeann sé, dath pinc air - 'Yoghurt?' - Yoghurt. Yoghurt! M'anam go liveálfainn ar an stuif sin. M'anam go liveálfainn air. -”

“Beati coloro che accettano senza discutere la disciplina in cui vivono, che obbediscono liberamente agli ordini dei capi...o coloro che sono pervenuti, per vie proprie, a convinzioni chiare e incrollabili...Coloro che riposano su questi comodi letti dogmatici sono vittime di forme di miopia autoindotta e portano paraocchi che possono anche dare l'appagamento, ma non certo la comprensione di cosa significa essere uomo.”

“Beating yourself up is a useless and damaging process and it is also a CHOICE. You don’t have to do it. Ask what good is it doing? Also ask is this the way that you want to deal with yourself? You can choose to look more objectively and see what you can do to improve, or accept the way that you are, with a smile. Things won’t get better by attacking and demeaning yourself. Relax and encourage yourself instead.”

“Beatitude begins at the moment thought-feeling has gone beyond the author’s need to think — he doesn’t need to think anymore and he now finds himself close to the grandeur of nothingness. One could also say of “everything”. But “everything” is quantity, and quantity has limits at its very outset. True incommensurability is nothingness, which has no barriers and is where a person can spread out her thought-feeling.”

“Beatitude starts in the moment when the act of thinking has freed itself from the necessity of form. Beatitude starts at the moment when the thinking-feeling has surpassed the author's need to thinking - he no longer needs to think and now finds himself close to the grandeur of the nothing. I could say of the "everything". But "everything" is a quanitity, and quantity has a limit in its very beginning. The true incommensurability is the nothing, which has no barriers adn where a person can scatter their thinking-feeling.”

“BEATITUDES My God, this is staggering, Woah! Immense. This epiphany quivers me as I write. How powerful, nonpareil, & superordinary is your Word. The BEATITUDES for instance, is a saintly archetype of direct investment, --seed planting & a sure-way harvest. May I liken it a bit to a spiritual trading --one in which, to get this-- you do this. Simple, practical & yet so effective. The only ingredient required for this is aBsOluTe OBEDIENCE. Meanwhile, all of humanity-- everyone actively, passively, knowingly or otherwise is a trader at this heavenly market of life. --©Bright Heaven's”

“BEATRICE: Do you truly not know who he was? Mr. Dorian Gray, the lover of Mr. Oscar Wilde, who was sent to Reading Gaol for—well, for holding opinions that society does not approve of! For believing in beauty, and art, and love. What guilt and remorse he must feel, for causing the downfall of the greatest playwright of the age! It was Mr. Gray’s dissolute parties, the antics of his hedonistic friends, that exposed Mr. Wilde to scandal and opprobrium. No wonder he has fallen prey to the narcotic. MARY: Or he could just like opium. He didn’t seem particularly remorseful, Bea. JUSTINE: Mr. Gray is not what society deems him to be. He has been greatly misunderstood. He assures me that he had no intention of harming Mr. Wilde. MARY: He would say that. CATHERINE: Can we not discuss the Wilde scandal in the middle of my book? You’re going to get it banned in Boston, and such other puritanical places.”

“BEATRICE: Laura told me it might help if I read aloud. Mina had given us a book of fairy tales. Blue Fairy Tales? Blue Book of Fairy Tales? I do not remember the exact title. I was never given fairy tales to read as a child, only scientific treatises. How I would have enjoyed them! Although I do not understand how a shoe could fit only one woman in an entire kingdom. DIANA: It was a magical shoe. BEATRICE: Still, that is not logical. I can accept pumpkins turning into coaches, and lizards into footmen, but a shoe will fit many women of the same size. How could the prince know he was choosing the right one?”

“BEATRICE: They are the clothing of the New Woman. They are meant not to be feminine, but practical. CATHERINE: On women they look like men’s clothing, on men they look like women’s clothing. That’s where the New Woman meets the Dandy. BEATRICE: Why is it necessary to categorize people in that fashion? Why can we not all wear whatever we wish, whatever is useful and aesthetically pleasing? I believe that someday we shall all wear garments that are light and of a pleasing texture, easy to put on and take off. At the same time, they will express the aspirations of the spirit. They will be like the garments of the Greeks, both graceful and functional. Why can we not dress in such a fashion now? MRS. POOLE: Because this is England, and you would all catch your deaths of cold.”

“BEATRICE: You make me sound so dramatic, Catherine! CATHERINE: Well, you are dramatic, with your long black hair and the clear olive complexion that marks you a daughter of the sunny south, of Italy, land of poetry and brigands. You would be the perfect romantic heroine, if only you weren’t so contrary about it. BEATRICE: But I have no desire to be a romantic heroine. MARY: Brigands? Seriously, Cat, this isn’t the eighteenth century. Nowadays Italy is perfectly civilized.”

“Beatrix,” Amelia said over her shoulder as they proceeded through the hallway. “Perhaps you should reconsider your attire. Poor Captain Phelan may find it somewhat shocking.” “But he’s already seen me like this,” came Beatrix’s voice from behind Christopher, “and I’ve already shocked him. What is the point in changing clothes? Captain, would you feel more comfortable if I took my breeches off?” “No,” he said hastily. “Good, I’ll keep them on. Really, I don’t see why women shouldn’t dress like this all the time. One can walk freely and even leap. How is one to chase after a goat in skirts?”

“Beatrix looked at Christopher with an arrested expression. His smile faded, and he found himself staring into her blue-on-blue eyes. They were astonishingly direct and lucid... the eyes of a vagabond angel. One had the sense that no matter what she beheld of the sinful world, she would never be jaded. She reminded him that the things he had seen and done could not be polished away like tarnish from silver.”

“Beatrix puts a distance between herself and the rest of the world. She’s very engaging, but also quite private in nature. I see the same qualities in Captain Phelan.” “Yes,” Amelia said. “You’re absolutely right, Catherine. Put that way, the match does seem more appropriate.” “I still have reservations,” Leo said. “You always do,” Amelia replied. “If you’ll recall, you objected to Cam in the beginning, but now you’ve accepted him.” “That’s because the more brothers-in-law I acquire,” Leo said, “the better Cam looks by comparison.”

“Beatrix... you look lovely. Like a young lady." Smiling, Beatrix stood and executed a slow turn for her. The pale green dress, with its intricately pleated bodice and dark green corded trim, fit almost perfectly, the skirts falling down the floor. "Lady Westcliff gave it to me," she said. "It belonged to her younger sister, who can't wear it anymore because she's in confinement.”

“Beatriz breathed in the sweet aromas that lately appealed to her. Those at the forefront were of various honeys in the wooden honey pots anchoring the tablecloth: lavender, orange blossom, and eucalyptus. But the room was a cornucopia of visual and olfactory treats. Marcona almonds were roasting in Reuben's old wood oven, and from the kitchen downstairs wafted scents of all the spices they would be offering their customers fresh over the counter in cloth bags: cinnamon stalks, cloves, anise, ground ginger, juniper berries, finely grated nutmeg. Nora and Beatriz packaged all the spices themselves. They would also offer ribbon-tied bags of Phillip's tea creations served in the café: loose leaves of lemon verbena, dried pennyroyal, black tea with vanilla. All around the room, on the floor, shelves, and counters, were baskets and baskets and baskets of irresistible delights: jars of marmalades and honeys and pure, dark, sugarless chocolate pieces ready to melt with milk at home for the richest hot chocolate. Customers could even buy jars of chocolate shavings, to sprinkle over warmed pears and whipped cream, or over the whipped cream on their hot chocolates. They sold truffles white and dark, with or without rum, biscuits with every variation of nuts and spices, bars small or large of their own chocolate, and dried fruits dipped in chocolate.”

“Beau allowed the boat to stop, so that they bobbed gently in the water. “It’s funny you should ask about that particular tale. The man who gave me the tickets for your concert was very interested in that alligator. We used to come out here at night together, gathering herbs and bark, and we poked around looking for the monster. We never did find it, though.” “Who gave you tickets to Savannah’s show?” Gregori asked softly, already knowing the answer. “A man named Selvaggio, Julian Selvaggio. His family has been in New Orleans almost from the first founding. I met him years ago. We’re good friends”— he grinned engagingly—“ despite the fact that he’s Italian.” Gregori’s eyebrows shot up. Julian was born and raised in the Carpathian Mountains. He was no more Italian than Gregori was French. Julian had spent considerable time in Italy, just as Gregori had in France, but both were Carpathian through and through. “I know Julian,” Gregori volunteered, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Water lapped at the boat, making a peculiar slapping sound. The rocking was more soothing and peaceful than disturbing. Beau looked smug. “I thought you might. You both have a connection to Savannah, you both ask the same questions about natural medicine, and you both look as intimidating as hell.” “I am nicer than he is,” Gregori said, straight-faced.”