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G Quotes

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All G Quotes

“Gerald's arm rose and fell the same way to any song he led, no matter the time signature. He had a nasal twang when he spoke and sang, like a younger Grandpa Jones, but his pitch wasn't bad and he seemed to enjoy song-leading. His job was to get everybody started at the same place and everybody stopped when the song was over, but whatever happened in the middle was up to God and the congregation.”

“Geralt knew that, in moments like this, the enchantress’s telepathic abilities were sharpened and very powerful, so he thought about beautiful matters and beautiful things. About things which would give her joy. About the exploding brightness of the sunrise. About fog suspended over a mountain lake at dawn. About crystal waterfalls, with salmon leaping up them, gleaming as though made of solid silver. About warm drops of rain hitting burdock leaves, heavy with dew. He thought for her and Yennefer smiled, listening to his thoughts. The smile quivered on her cheek along with the crescent shadows of her eyelashes.”

“Gerard Houllier's thoughts on the matter international football echo mine. He thinks that what the national coaches are doing is like taking the car from his garage without even asking permission. They will then use the car for ten days and abandon it in a field without any petrol left in the tank. We then have to recover it, but it is broken down. Then a month later they will come to take your car again, and for good measure you're expected to be nice about it.”

“Gerard Manley Hopkins somewhere describes how he mesmerized a duck by drawing a line of chalk out in front of it. Think of me as the duck; the chalk, softly wearing itself away against the tiny pebbles embedded in the corporate concrete, is Joyce's forward-luring rough-smooth voice on the cassettes she gives me. Or, to substitute another image, since one is hardly sufficient in Joyce's case, when I let myself really enter her tape, when I let it surround me, it is as if I'm sunk into the pond of what she is saying, as if I'm some kind of patient, cruising amphibian, drifting in black water, entirely submerged except for my eyes, which blink every so often. Each word comes floating up to me like a thick, healthy lily pad and brushes past my head.”

“Gerbert, by the window, shuddered; his mouth contorted. The witch began to twist faster and faster while her twin was talking to Gisela, mumbling to her, marching old holy words straight through the child’s ear into her skull, where they entered the bloodstream and looked for the enemy. The monk’s fingers twitched in the same rhythm and he found himself falling into a trance. He knew it would be dangerous to witness the witches brewing and dancing but there was an energy in it that he’d missed badly since he’d been asked to educate the young princess. Gerbert didn’t even notice when the hags stopped, tucked the girl in, rubbed the concoction on her lips and left for the unseen place from which they had come. Gisela healed quickly thereafter: The fever fell that same night and she asked for solid food the next morning. She had no memory of what had happened, but when she bounced on one leg across the meadow in the castle yard, she chanted a little melody that had not been heard in church, an odd melody that made Gerbert’s ears prick up because he sensed the uncanny in it.”

“Geriatric or other life extension for the powerful poses a similar threat to a sentient species as that found historically in the dominance of a self-perpetuating bureaucracy. Both assume prerogatives of immortality, collecting more and more power with each passing moment. This is power which draws a theological aura about itself: the unassailable Law, the God-given mandate of the leader, manifest destiny. Power held too long within a narrow framework moves farther and farther away from the adaptive demands of changed conditions. The leadership grows ever more paranoid, suspicious of inventive adaptations to change, fearfully protective of personal power and, in the terrified avoidance of what it sees as risk, blindly leads its people into destruction. ―BuSab Manual”

“Gerilimden sarhoşa dönen, sessizliğin mucizevi derinliğinden etkilenen ve ölüm tutkusuyla kenetlenmiş kalabalığı hiçbir şeyin yerinden kıpırdatamayacağına inanan Jose Arcadio Segundo, ayaklarının ucuna basarak, başını önündekilerden daha yukarı kaldırdı ve ömründe ilk kez sesini yükseltti: -Sizi gidi hergeleler! diye bağırdı. -Verdiğiniz o bir dakikayı alın da kıçınıza sokun! Onun bağırmasından sonra olanlar kimseyi korkutmadı. Herkes hayal gördüğünü sandı. Yüzbaşı ateş emri verdi ve on dört makineli tüfek o anda emri yerine getirdi. Ama bütün bunlar gülünç bir oyun gibi görünüyordu. Sanki makineli tüfeklere boş kapsül doldurulmuş gibiydi. Çünkü tüfeklerin tarrakası duyulduğu ve ardı kesilmeden kurşun tükürdüğü görüldüğü halde, kalabalıkta en ufak bir tepki yoktu. Bir anda taş kesilmiş gibi duran kalabalıktan ne bir ses, ne bir soluk duyuluyordu. Birden istasyon tarafından yükselen bir ölüm çığlığı büyüyü bozdu. Duyulan, Aaah, anacığım, avazesi yeri göğü titreten bir ses, volkanik bir soluk, dünyalar değiştiren bir kükreme olup bomba gibi patladı kalabalığın ortasında. Panik içinde bir anda kaynaşan kalabalık, kadınla kucağındaki çocuğu yutup sürüklerken, Jose Arcadio Segundo, ancak öteki çocuğu yakalamaya fırsat bulabildi. Yıllarca sonra o çocuk, kendisini bunak bir ihtiyar yerine koymalarına aldırmaksızın o günü anlatacak, Jose Arcadio Segundo'nun kendisini nasıl havaya kaldırdığını, kalabalığın dehşeti üzerinden yüzercesine geçirerek yakındaki bir sokağa nasıl götürdüğünü ballandıra ballandıra anlatacaktı. Çocuk, herkesten yukarıda olduğu için, o anda alandaki çılgına dönmüş kitlenin köşeye doğru koşuştuğunu ve makinelilerin ateş açtığını görebilmiş, aynı anda birkaç kişinin birden, -Yere yatın! Yere yatın! diye bağırdıklarını duyabilmişti. Öndekiler, ilk kurşun dalgasıyla taranmış ve yere yıkılmışlardı bile. Sağ kalanlar yere yatacakları yerde ufak alana çekilmeye çalıştılar. Ne var ki, karşı sokaktaki makineliler de yaylım ateşine başlamışlardı. İki ateş arasında sıkışan kalabalık, iki yöne atılan bir ejder kuyruğuna benziyordu. Kitle devasa bir girdap gibi dönmeye başladı. Hiç kesilmeyen makinelilerin ateşiyle kat kat soyulan soğan gibi ortaya doğru azalıyorlardı. Çocuk, açıkta diz çökmüş bir kadının, gizemli bir güçle kurşunlardan korunarak, kollarını haç biçiminde tuttuğunu gördü. Jose Arcadio Segundo yüzü kana bulanarak yere yıkıldığı anda, çocuğu oraya bıraktı. Hemen sonra da büyük kalabalık, o boşluğu, diz çöken kadını, kurak gökyüzündeki ışığı, Ursula Iguara'nın yığın yığın hayvan biçiminde şekerleme sattığı bu orospu dünyayı örtüverdi.”

“German is a much more precise language than English. Americans throw the word love around for everything: I love my wife! I love all my friends! I love rock music! I love the rain! I love comic books! I love peanut butter! The word you use to describe your feelings for your wife should not be the same word you use to describe your feelings for peanut butter. In German, there are a dozen different words that describe varying degrees of liking something a lot. Germans almost never use the word love, unless they mean a deep romantic love. I have never told my parents I love them, because it would sound melodramatic, inappropriate, and almost incestuous. In German, you tell your mother that you hold her very dear, not that you are in love with her.”