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D Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with D. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All D Quotes

“Dwight Eisenhower said that from the beginning, his mother and father operated on an assumption that set the course of his life - that the world could be fixed of its problems if every child understood the necessity of their existence. Eisenhower's parents assumed, and taught their children, that if their children weren't alive, their family couldn't function. (page 34)”

“Dwustu lat (1616-1835) potrzebowali katoliccy teolodzy, aby uznać udowodnioną tezę Kopernika o tym, że Ziemia krąży wokół Słońca. Za to nieudowodnionemu twierdzeniu o bezpłodnych dniach kobiety przyklasnęli pośpiesznie, pięćdziesiąt lat wcześniej, zanim okazało się, że dni bezpłodne wprawdzie istnieją, ale znacząco różnią się od tych wskazanych przez Poucheta i Lecomte'a, i że fatalną pomyłką było biologiczne porównanie kobiety z suczką.”

“Dy5topia in the context of this book is a very real place, with very real 'inhabitants', but to understand Dy5topia you must first look closely at our world. Like the fisherman’s net that allows so much water to spill through, catching only the aquatic life, so too does Dy5topia collect only the fear of our world. Dy5topia is our dark reflection and a manifestation of our collective fears, and so its structure is created and maintained by our fear.”

“DYER. (Sits down) There was nothing that I recall save that the Sunne was a Round flat shining Disc and the Thunder was a Noise from a Drum or a Pan. VANNBRUGGHE. (Aside) What a Child is this! (To Dyer) These are only our Devices, and are like the Paint of our Painted Age. DYER. But in Meditation the Sunne is a vast and glorious Body, and Thunder is the most forcible and terrible Phaenomenon: it is not to be mocked, for the highest Passion is Terrour.”

“Dying Hours by Stewart Stafford All debts were settled on Christmas Eve, Fail to do so, and there’d be no reprieve, In the dying flame of a guttering candle, Monies got paid, and cash got handled. When the last customer left to journey home, Quinn, the shop owner, found himself alone, He stared at pooling shadows, no one there, Told himself to hurry, be with those who care. As he closed up, something screamed out, A figure from out of the dark began to shout, A man with no eyes begged alms for the dead, Or any old soup with a thick slice of bread. Quinn said he was a business, not a charity, The man’s eyes opened with some clarity, “Very well,” the man said, “Nothing’s free,” “I’ll drag your soul to Hell, come with me!” © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

“Dying. I slid to my knees before it, sinking into the bloody moss. “Let me help you. I can heal you.” I’d do it the same way I’d helped Rhysand. Remove those arrows—and offer it my blood. I reached for the first one, but a dry, bony hand settled on my wrist. “Your magic …,” it rasped, “is spent. Do not … waste it.” “I can save you.” It only gripped my wrist. “I am already gone.” “What—what can I do?” The words turned thin—brittle. “Stay …,” it breathed. “Stay … until the end.” I took its hand in mine. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could think to say. I had done this—I had brought it here. “I knew,” it gasped, sensing my shift in thoughts. “The tracking … I knew of it.” “Then why come at all?” “You … were kind. You … fought your fear. You were … kind,” it said again. I began crying. “And you were kind to me,” I said, not brushing away the tears that fell onto its bloodied, tattered robe. “Thank you—for helping me. When no one else would.” A small smile on that lipless mouth. “Feyre Archeron.” A labored breath. “I told you—to stay with the High Lord. And you did.” Its warning to me that first time we’d met. “You—you meant Rhys.” All this time. All this time— “Stay with him … and live to see everything righted.” “Yes. I did—and it was.” “No—not yet. Stay with him.” “I will.” I always would. Its chest rose—then fell. “I don’t even know your name,” I whispered. The Suriel—it was a title, a name for its kind. That small smile again. “Does it matter, Cursebreaker?” “Yes.” Its eyes dimmed, but it did not tell me. It only said, “You should go now. Worse things—worse things are coming. The blood … draws them.” I squeezed its bony hand, the leathery skin growing colder. “I can stay a while longer.” I had killed enough animals to know when a body neared death. Soon, now—it would be a matter of breaths. “Feyre Archeron,” the Suriel said again, gazing at the leafy canopy, the sky peeking through it. A painful inhale. “A request.” I leaned close. “Anything.” Another rattling breath. “Leave this world … a better place than how you found it.” And as its chest rose and stopped altogether, as its breath escaped in one last sigh, I understood why the Suriel had come to help me, again and again. Not just for kindness … but because it was a dreamer. And it was the heart of a dreamer that had ceased beating inside that monstrous chest. Its sudden silence echoed into my own. I laid my head on its chest, on that now-silent vault of bone, and wept.”

“Dying in one’s fourth decade is unusual now, but dying is not. “The thing about lung cancer is that it’s not exotic,” Paul wrote in an email to his best friend, Robin. “The reader can get into these shoes, walk a bit, and say, ‘So that’s what it looks like from here. Sooner or later, I’ll be back here in my own shoes.’ That’s what I’m aiming for, I think. Not the sensationalism of dying and not the exhortations to gather rosebuds but: Here’s what lies up ahead on the road.” Of course, he did more than just describe the terrain. He traversed it bravely.”