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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“He aquí el fin del hombre renacentista. La maquina y la ciencia que había lanzado sobre el mundo exterior, para dominarlo y conquistarlo, ahora se vuelven contra él, dominándolo y conquistándolo como a un objeto más. Ciencia y maquina se fueron alejando hacia un olimpo matemático, dejando sólo y desamparado al hombre que les había dado vida. Triángulos y acero, logaritmos y electricidad, sinusoides y energía atómica, unidos a las formas más misteriosas y demoníacas del dinero, constituyendo finalmente el Gran Engranaje, del que los seres humanos acabaron por ser oscuras e impotentes piezas.”

“He aquí lo que quiero significar: que si se encuentran ciertos enigmas y frases difíciles en aquella historia de Galilea y se da con la respuesta de aquellos enigmas en la historia de Asís, ello demuestra, en realidad, que ha sido transmitido un secreto en una sola tradición religiosa, y en ninguna otra; demuestra que el arca cerrada en Palestina puede ser abierta en Asís, porque es la Iglesia quien guarda las llaves.”

“He arched a brow. “Miss Lahey, are you flirting with me?” “Well, hot stuff, if you have to ask, I’m not doing it right.” His laughter rumbled low, slithering heat underneath my skin. I pulled him to me, backing him against the table, risking a literal firestorm as his lips laid upon mine with a burning promise of— “That’s how babies are made!” I reeled back and knocked over a chair. “Aunt M!” “Sex kills!” “M, seriously.” Mom walked into the kitchen and rolled her eyes. My aunt patted her belly. “It killed my waistline.” Then she cackled. Who was the banshee now? “Ayden and Rory sitting in a tree,” Selena sing-songed, “making b-a-b-b-y-n-g.” “Mom!” “Selena,” Mom admonished. “That’s not the right spelling.”

“He arrived one day at Senez, a former episcopal city, riding a donkey, his means at that moment being so scanty that he could afford no other conveyance. The mayor, welcoming him at the gates of the residence, watched with shocked eyes while he dismounted, and laughter arose from a few citizens who were standing by. "Gentlemen," said the bishop, "I know what has outraged you. You find it arrogant in a simple priest that he should be mounted like Jesus Christ. Let me assure you that I do it from necessity, not from vanity.”

“He arrives at the girl's window. They are face-to-face. She sees him through the streaky glass, through the rain- now pounding; a mudded, monstrous creature. She opens her mouth to scream, to cry for help, but in that very moment, everything changes. Before her eyes, he changes. She sees through the layers of mud, through the generations of darkness and rage and sorrow, to the human face beneath. A young man's face. A forgotten face. A face of such longing and sadness and beauty; and she reaches, unthinking, to unlock the window. To bring him in from the rain.”

“He asked, 'Croesus, who told you to attack my land and meet me as an enemy instead of a friend?' The King replied, 'It was caused by your good fate and my bad fate. It was the fault of the Greek gods, who with their arrogance, encouraged me to march onto your lands. Nobody is mad enough to choose war whilst there is peace. During times of peace, the sons bury their fathers, but in war it is the fathers who send their sons to the grave.”

“He asked her what he wanted to know since that day when they both had met ---- "Why did you become friends with me?" Surprised by his question, she replied: "Now, you want to know this." Silence prevailed. Then she elaborated: "I don't think friendship or love need any reason. What matters is how long we are committed to the relationship. This is more important than any reason.”

“He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.”

“He asked himself why he wanted his mother back. And his answer was because he was lonely. Because there was now a big, gaping hole where his heart used to be. But it wasn't loneliness, not really. Now that his mom was gone, Hart realized, he was completely without love in his life. It came to him with so much clarity, what he needed to wish for. He couldn't boil it down to anything smaller. He only needed a little anyway. It would go a long way. He put the seed in the ground, closed his tear-soaked eyes, and spoke his wish out loud. "I wish for love." The next day, he walked into a gas station store and found his love there waiting for him.”

“He?” asked Victor incredulously. He wasn’t in the mood for God. Not this morning. “According to your thesis,” he said, “an influx of adrenaline and a desire to survive gave you that talent. Not God. This isn’t divinity, Eli. It’s science and chance.” “Maybe to a point, but when I climbed into that water, I put myself in His hands—” “No,” snapped Victor. “You put yourself in mine.”

“He asked: “You are aware of the Second Law of Thermodynamics, right?” “‘You Do Not Talk About Thermodynamics?’” Rudy said nothing. “The currency of the universe, Entropy. Okay and…?” “A candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long.” “That seems unrelated, but I’ll allow it. Is that supposed to be comforting?” “I like either the lavender or cinnamon-scented ones.” “This isn’t the advice I was asking for and you know that.” “Isn’t it? You know, it doesn’t take a master’s in behavioral psychology to see you’ve some unresolved issues.” “And the universe has a tendency to devolve into chaos, so why bother controlling it, just control myself?” Rudy just continued to shoot glances at Danny’s arm. Danny kept it face down, pretending not to notice. “Rudy: Sigmund Freud meets Dr. Seuss. Thank you.”

“He asked you not to like me, So why did you, Neera? Even now, I perform breaststrokes in caterpillar-stuffed north eastern clouds He didn’t ask me for any poems for 50 years, So why are you asking now, Neera? Even now, standing in 10-foot-deep water, I wield icy rods He wrote an editorial on my sub-judice case, Turning an editor, why are you asking for my writing, Neera? Even now, I love flatbreads stuffed with smoked penguin fat He did not confess to being my anthology’s publisher Why did you confess, Neera? Even now, I have family-pack yawns in the face of families, He didn’t like pronouncing my name So why are you telling it to youths, Neera? Even now, in bloody waters, I join the Bollywood chorus of tiger sharks He had said I have nothing of a true writer So why do you think I do, Neera? At Imlitala, I knew rat roasts don’t taste too good without charcoal smoke He said I have nothing creative in me So why do you think I do, Neera? Having burnt bank notes worth Rs 5,000 crore, I smelt death He said I’ll never write poetry So why do you think I have, Neera? On the banks of Amsterdam’s canals I have heard doddering old men sing limericks He transcended from sorrow to anger and anger to hate Why are you so generous Neera? Please don’t tell my grandmother.”

“He asks me if I'd ever killed someone and rushes from the kitchen table, but I ask him to stay, to listen. "Collateral Damage," I say, "is the polite way of expressing the death of civilians who unknowingly mingle with the enemy." He's thirteen now, fascinated with video games glamorizing real wars. I rise to leave, and he says, "But Dad, you didn't answer my question." I did.”