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D Quotes

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All D Quotes

“Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don’t you?” “Of course I believe in the truth,” said Rhoda, staring. “Yes, you say that, but perhaps you haven’t thought about it. The truth hurts sometimes – and destroys one’s illusions.” “I’d rather have it all the same.” said Rhoda. “So would I. But I don’t know that we’re wise.” Mrs. Oliver; Rhoda Dawes”

“Do you believe that?” Melinda says, directing her wonderment at Irv. “That if someone commits suicide they go to hell?” “No.” “But many Christians do, right?” “There’s a debate, but it’s doctrine.” “But you don’t think so?” “No.” “Why not?” “For the same reason the Catholics believe in the Trinity, Melinda.” The appetizers arrive with a speed that Sigrid finds suspicious. “Which is . . . what?” “It’s how I understand Jesus’s words spoken from the cross,” says Irv, taking a calamari. “Jesus spoke seven times on the cross. In Matthew Twenty-Seven, verse forty-six and in Mark Fifteen verse thirty-four he says, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ This led to the Trinity,” Irv said, sucking cocktail sauce and grease from his thumb. “The thinking is, if Jesus was Lord, who was he speaking to? He was obviously speaking to someone or something other than himself, unless . . . ya know.” Irv makes a circular cuckoo motion by his head with a piece of squid. “So perhaps he was speaking to the Father, or to the Holy Spirit. In this act, he distinguishes himself from the eternal and embodies everything that is Man. The fear, the sadness, the tragedy. The longing. The recognition of betrayal. We see him, in that moment, only as the Son, and because of that, as ourselves. As I read it, Melinda, we are not invited in that moment to be cruel to him for his despair, or to mock him. Instead we are asked to feel his pain. When Jesus says, ‘It is finished’ I don’t read, ‘Mission accomplished.’ I see a person resigned. A person who has lost hope. A person who has taken a step away from this life. And our pity for him grows. And finally he says, ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ Now, I’m not going to equate Jesus letting go with suicide, but any decent and forgiving Christian person would have to admit that we are looking at a person who cannot fight anymore. We are being taught to be understanding of that state of mind and sympathetic to the suffering that might lead a person to it. It does not follow to me that if someone succumbs to that grief we are to treat them with eternal contempt. I just don’t believe it.”

“Do you believe that the God of Jesus loves you beyond worthiness and unworthiness, beyond fidelity and infidelity—that he loves you in the morning sun and in the evening rain—that he loves you when your intellect denies it, your emotions refuse it, your whole being rejects it. Do you believe that God loves without condition or reservation and loves you this moment as you are and not as you should be.”

“Do you believe you're a starter or a benchwarmer? Do you believe you're an all-star or an also- ran? If the answers to these questions are the latter, your play on the field will reflect it. But when you've learned to shut off outside influences and believe in yourself, there's no telling how good a player you can be.”

“Do you believe yourself in love with Deveaux?” He snarled the words. Between gritted teeth, he said, “It’s emblazoned on your pretty face. But you wouldn’t love him if you truly knew him. Your feelings would wither and die.” “What are you talking about?” “He’s lied to you repeatedly.” “Uh-huh. I’ll just take your word for it?” “No, I received my information from the Fool. He was quite worried about his Empress’s safety when you were in Deveaux’s keeping.” “You know I’ll fact-check.” “I expect you to.” “And why would you two be discussing my safety?” “I’ve been up-front about my intentions with you, unlike Deveaux. Did you never wonder about his instant infatuation with you?” “Maybe he had a thing for cheerleaders.” Death shook his head. “No, he targeted you before he ever saw you.” “That doesn’t make sense.” “You were possessed by someone he hated.” He downed another shot. “Jack despised Brand. That was no secret.” “You never asked yourself why?” “Because Brand was rich and seemed to have everything so easy.” “I’m sure that had something to do with it. However, the main reason he hated Brandon Radcliffe”—Death’s eyes had never looked so flat and dark—“was that they shared a father” “You’re saying Brand and Jackson were . . . half brothers?” Only one son had known of their connection. Was this why Jack’s eyes had darted when I’d asked him if he had any secrets? Death was relishing this. “Deveaux coveted all his brother had: the perfect family, the house, the car. The girl. He could never have any of the others—but he could have you. And he did.” “You’re lying.” You can trust me alone, Evie. “Matthew would’ve told me about this.” Death tsked. “Such trust you have in the Fool. How do you think I learned what my armor would do to your powers?” I tottered on my feet. “H-he wouldn’t!” “It’s nothing personal with him, just strategy and scheming.” I’d thought Matthew an innocent, wide-eyed boy. “The Fool knew that I’d kill you if I had no means to control you. In essence, he’s saved your life. So far, at least.” Death continued, “Deveaux didn’t even like you, but he pursued you.” “You don’t know anything!” I cried, though I could hear Jack’s words: Even when I hated you, I wanted you. “One benefit of my endless life? I have quite a grasp on human behavior.” “Maybe he did target me. But his feelings grew from that. You’ll have to do better than this.” “Do better? As you wish, creature.” With an evil grin, he said, “Deveaux killed your mother.”

“Do you bother God with your persistent prayer? God wants you to bother him as it opens up a new view of God. This is what God wants. You see it as bothering, but God sees it as a relationship. So is God bothered? How do your trust issues change when you realize that God wants to be bothered by you?”

“Do you call it doubting to write down on a piece of paper that you doubt? If so, doubt has nothing to do with any serious business. But do not make believe; if pedantry has not eaten all the reality out of you, recognize, as you must, that there is much that you do not doubt, in the least. Now that which you do not at all doubt, you must and do regard as infallible, absolute truth.”

“Do you call the people in Los Angeles in the nineties - do you call them rebels or opposition ? They are rebels. They are not rebels even, they are beheading. This opposition, opposing country or government, by beheading ? By barbecuing heads ? By eating the hearts of your victim ? Is that opposition ? What do you call the people who attacked the two towers on the 11th of September ? Opposition ? Even if they're not Americans, I know this, but some of them I think have nationality - I think one of them has American nationality. Do you call him opposition or terrorist ?”

“Do you call yourselves Christians? Does then the religion of Him whom you call your Savior inspire your spirit, and guide your practices? Surely not. It is recorded of him that a bruised reed he never broke. Cease, then, to call yourselves Christians, lest you declare to the world your hypocrisy. Cease, too, to call other nations savage, when you are tenfold more the children of cruelty than they.”

“Do you care about your image?' Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I was mentally kicking myself. He'd been kidding around, and meanwhile I sounded like an afternoon special. But he didn't seem to mind. 'Sure. It's my armor.' 'Your what?' The WALK sign flashed, and he put a hand on my elbow as we crossed the street. And yes, even that faint pressure on that small spot made my entire arm tingle. 'My armor. You know. Self-protective camouflage. Everybody has an armor. Even you, I bet, even though I still haven't figured out what form yours takes.”

“Do you care?" I ask. "Do you care that I have no skirt?" "At the moment, Tori, no. It's in the airing cupboard. It's just a bit crinkled." "Yeah, I found it. It's supposed to be a pleated skirt, Mum. Currently, there are no pleats." "Tori. I'm really busy." "But I don't have a skirt to wear to school." "Wear your other skirt then, for Christ's sake!" "I literally just told you, it's too sma-" "Tori! I really don't care!" O stop talking. I look at her. I wonder if I'll end up like her. Not caring whether my daughter has a skirt to wear to school.”

“Do you come from a family of cooks?" I ask as I rasp the cheese against the prickly grater, trying to distract myself from the familiar smells and sounds. "Kind of. My grandma used to be an amazing cook. Her mother had emigrated from Alsace-Lorraine, so she knew how to make all of these incredible French-German dishes---curly endive salad with bacon dressing, sausages with sauerkraut, green bean stew with potatoes and bacon. When I'd come to visit for lunch, she'd make me radish sandwiches on white bread with salt and butter." "Sounds like the answer is yes, then." "Not exactly. That was my dad's mom. My mom's mom stored cereal and wine in her oven.”