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G Quotes

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All G Quotes

“Gardens come and go, but I find myself getting attached to certain perennials. My tulips are bridesmaids, with fat faces and good posture. Hollyhocks are long necked sisters. Daffodils are young girls running out of a white church, sun shining on their heads. Peonies are pink-haired ladies, so full and stooped you have to tie them up with string. And roses are nothing but (I hate to say it) bitches--pretty show-offs who'll draw blood if you don't handle them just right. -Vangie Galliard Nepper, From her "Garden Diary," March 1952”

“Gardens remind us to be patient and humble because that’s what they are. They have no delusions of grandeur or plotting schemes. They trust implicitly that they will be cared for as part of the cycle of nature. They give so much, yet they are unaware of their gift. They have no perception of themselves. They treat all of their inhabitants, of every type and form, as sacred and worthy. They surrender themselves to the moment with flawless confidence and, when it is called for, with the unmarred hope of renewal.”

“Gardens Souls digging and grieving
Under spades so silver
That outcast dawn. The earth becomes lighter
Yet grows darker with each inch
The shovel takes into the dirt. The white of the texture
That once before touched our hands
In innocence leaps into forgiveness. The grave is deep and uneven,
Its lines are simply met with even words
That haunt the living and haunt our worst. Purple shadows reckoning our streets,
Leaving the darkness to sleep
With a mantle of marble at least. The moon's line shows sorrow
On hands that dig down far
And reveal the things — that dawned on us before.”

“Gardez-vous, surtout et ce sera mon dernier conseil, d'écouter jamais des interprétations sinistres et des discours envenimés dont les motifs secrets sont souvent plus dangereux que les actions qui en sont l'objet. Toute une maison s'éveille et se tient en alarmes aux premiers cris d'un bon et fidèle gardien qui n'aboie jamais qu'à l'approche des voleurs; mais on hait l'importunité de ces animaux bruyants qui troublent sans cesse le repos public, et dont les avertissements continuels et déplacés ne se font pas même écouter au moment qu'ils sont nécessaires.”

“Gareth [Edwards] was very much about including everyone in what we were making, so he would cut together different scenes to show us what we were making. And the crew, cast, everyone would go into a theater there at Pinewood Studios and watch 10 minutes of what we were making. It was always so exciting. It looked amazing, and the music was huge.”

“Gareth's eyes slipped open. “You make me nervous when you do that.” “Do what?” “Brood. Your brooding is rather loud.” “Oh please. I was hardly—” His eyebrow rose. “Fine. I was brooding. It's not like you don't.” “Mine is inherent to my romantic nature. Cloaks and castles.” Adele threw up her hands. “That's it. You are forbidden to look at any more cheap books about yourself.”

“Gareth sucked in a breath. Hyacinth’s brother wasn’t going to make this easy on him. But that didn’t matter. He had vowed to do this right, and he would not be cowed. He looked up, meeting the viscount’s dark eyes with steady purpose. “I would like to marry Hyacinth,” he said. And then, because the viscount did not say anything, because he didn’t even move, Gareth added, “Er, if she’ll have me.” And then about eight things happened at once. Or perhaps there were merely two or three, and it just seemed like eight, because it was all so unexpected. First, the viscount exhaled, although that did seem to understate the case. It was more of a sigh, actually—a huge, tired, heartfelt sigh that made the man positively deflate in front of Gareth. Which was astonishing. Gareth had seen the viscount on many occasions and was quite familiar with his reputation. This was not a man who sagged or groaned. His lips seemed to move through the whole thing, too, and if Gareth were a more suspicious man, he would have thought that the viscount had said, “Thank you, Lord.” Combined with the heavenward tilt of the viscount’s eyes, it did seem the most likely translation. And then, just as Gareth was taking all of this in, Lord Bridgerton let the palms of his hands fall against the desk with surprising force, and he looked Gareth squarely in the eye as he said, “Oh, she’ll have you. She will definitely have you.” It wasn’t quite what Gareth had expected. “I beg your pardon,” he said, since truly, he could think of nothing else. “I need a drink,” the viscount said, rising to his feet. “A celebration is in order, don’t you think?” “Er…yes?” Lord Bridgerton crossed the room to a recessed bookcase and plucked a cut-glass decanter off one of the shelves. “No,” he said to himself, putting it haphazardly back into place, “the good stuff, I think.” He turned to Gareth, his eyes taking on a strange, almost giddy light. “The good stuff, wouldn’t you agree?” “Ehhhh…” Gareth wasn’t quite sure what to make of this. “The good stuff,” the viscount said firmly. He moved some books to the side and reached behind to pull out what looked to be a very old bottle of cognac. “Have to keep it hidden,” he explained, pouring it liberally into two glasses. “Servants?” Gareth asked. “Brothers.” He handed Gareth a glass. “Welcome to the family.”

“Gareth turned to Gregory. “Your sister will be safe with me,” he said. “I give you my vow.” “Oh, I have no worries on that score,” Gregory said with a bland smile. “The real question is—will you be safe with her?” It was a good thing, Gareth later reflected, that Hyacinth had already quit the room to fetch her coat and her maid. She probably would have killed her brother on the spot.”

“Gargantua, at the age of four hundred four score and forty- four years begat his son Pantagruel, from his wife, named Badebec, daughter of the King of the Amaurotes in Utopia, who died in child-birth: because he was marvelously huge and so heavy that he could not come to light without suffocating his mother.”

“Gargiulo, scarpe bianche, cravatta bianca, camicia bianca, e quella faccia di levantino sopra, nera come una cozza. «Tu conosci l'inglese, non è vero? Bravo, bravo, allora è inutile che lo traduco: sometìng old e sometìng niu, un po' di vecchio e un poco di nuovo, eh, quelli non li fai fessi, 'ste cose le sanno. Le dosi a discrezione personale, e là ti voglio. Ma mai, ma-i, tutto nuovo. E invece guarda a Gargiulo come si è combinato stamattina. Non sa che l'eleganza è tutta questione di dosaggio, come in politica. E si vede che ci ha pensato, il poveretto. Oggi sono pochi quelli che sanno portare il frac senza fare la figura di camerieri. Eh, 'ste cose tuo padre le sa.»”

“Gargoyles were the complement to saints; Leonardo's caricatures were complementary to his untiring search for ideal beauty. And gargoyles were the expression of all the passions, the animal forces, the Caliban gruntings and groanings which are left in human nature when the divine has been poured away. Leonardo was less concerned than his Gothic predecessors with the ethereal parts of our nature, and so his caricatures, in their expression of passionate energy, merge imperceptibly into the heroic.”