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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“He did not know which was more painful, the waking or the sleeping. When he slept, he dreamed: dark disturbing dreams of blood and broken promises. When he woke, there was nothing to do but think, and his waking thoughts were worse than nightmares.”

“He did not know why she pulled out the hair of the dead. Accordingly, he did not know whether her case was to be put down as good or bad. But in his eyes, pulling out the hair of the dead in the Rashomon on this stormy night was an unpardonable crime. Of course it never entered his mind that a little while ago he had though of becoming a thief”

“He did not like the grown-ups who talked down to him, but the ones who went on talking in their usual way, leaving him to leap along in their wake, jumping at meanings, guessing, clutching at known words, and chuckling at complicated jokes as they suddenly dawned. He had the glee of the porpoise then, pouring and leaping through strange seas.”

“He did not like the thought that he was to blame, but the only alternative he could think of to explain their behavior was much worse: that all the love and attention his parents had given him before had somehow been the result of George’s presence, and with George gone there was nothing for him … and all of that had happened at random, for no reason at all. And if you put your ear to that door, you could hear the winds of madness blowing outside.”

“He did not like to look at the fish anymore since he had been mutilated. When the fish had been hit it was as though he himself were hit. But I killed the shark that hit my fish, he thought. And he was the biggest dentuso that I have ever seen. And God knows that I have seen big ones. It was too good to last, he thought. I wish it had been a dream now and that I had never hooked the fish and was alone in bed on the newspapers. "But man is not made for defeat," he said. "A man can be destroyed but not defeated.”

“He did not mind if the rain drops came on him: he would have lain and got wet through: he felt as if nothing mattered, as if his living were smeared away into the beyond, near and quite lovable. This strange, gentle reaching-out to death was new to him...To him, life seemed a shadow, day a white shadow; night, and death, and stillness, and inaction, this seemed like BEING. To be alive, to be urgent and insistent - that was NOT-TO-BE. The highest of all was to melt out into the darkness and sway there, identified with the great Being.”

“He did not move from the door, but stood watching her, a possessive gleam in his eyes. Licks of flame danced through her blood, and the boldness she had momentarily possessed left her in a long exhale. He wanted her. It was an amazing thought. And though the forbidden novels she had read had given her more insight into what happened between a man and a woman in the bedroom than any young lady should have, there was simply no way to feel prepared for what was to come. Even though this moment was inevitable and had been from the first time she had seen him. As she stared back at him, his brows lowered even farther over his eyes, intensifying the delicate anticipation roaring through Lily's body. His rich voice, when he spoke, flowed through her like fine wine. "Remove your cloak.”

“He did not need to be distracted by a woman. A gorgeous woman, yes, but just a woman. He didn't understand her. That was the problem. She was beautiful but unaware of her beauty. She was rich but not grasping. She was timid, yet she rode fearlessly, and for a scroungy dog she roared like a lion. Because of her, he'd had his best boots nipped by a mutt's sharp teeth. Because of her, he'd ordered all flower arrangements changed from red to yellow roses.”

“He did not remove me from the situations I created and the path that I chose, nor did He nullify the awful consequences of those decisions. He let me choose my path, and He allowed things to unfold in their natural sequence so that I could see the fruits of my decisions, but He was there for me every step of the way.”

“He did not require beauty or vast intelligence or great wit. Just one woman whose heart and soul seemed to be in communion with his. One woman who would look into his hear and see who he really was. One woman who would truly love him. He kept his eyes on this possibility wherever he went, and nowhere , it seemed, was the love that he longed for.”

“He did not talk… He just stayed quiet. And left. He could have just talked. The same old Rumi, my Rumi, did not talk and just left me. My Rumi, who could talk to me through his eyes, did not even look into mine, maybe from fear that I would see what was writ large in them. He did not let me. He just left. My Rumi, is no more my Rumi. He is, just Rumi.”

“He did not understand all he had heard, but from his clandestine glimpse into the privacy of these two, with all the world that his short experience could conceive of at their feet, he had gathered that life for everybody was a struggle, sometimes magnificent from a distance, but always difficult and surprisingly simple and a little sad.”

“He did not want them themselves really. They were too complicated. There was something else. Vaguely he wanted a girl but he did not want to have to work to get her. He would have liked to have a girl but he did not want to have to spend a long time getting her. He did not want to get into the intrigue and the politics. He did not want to have to do any courting. He did not want to tell any more lies. It wasn't worth it.”

“He did not want to be young again -- that time had had particular and transcendent horrors -- but the thought of being any older filled him with panic. He could not imagine finding tranquility of soul in old age; if he could only be allowed to mark time for a while all might yet be well, one might suddenly achieve equilibrium, certainty, serenity. There would still be possibilities. Hopes.”

“He did not want to escape. So he surrendered to this madness, this beautiful madness. This wanting. Let himself melt, as heat shot through his body despite the cold. It had been so long since he'd kissed anyone, and having that heart-shaped mouth under his was so improbable and, frankly, it was making him crazy. So was the no-holds-barred enthusiasm with which she was returning his kiss.”

“He did not want to fail, when the Bee Master had trusted him with the home and the possessions and the occupation that were all he had of his very own, and he did not know that as the storm drew nearer, as the clouds grew blacker, as the heat waves resolved themselves into definite flashes of lightning, as the night closed down black as velvet around him, he did not realize that his moral and mental forces were rising with the tide of the storm, that all the remnants of manhood left in his shaken body were gathering together for some sort of culmination, just as presently the storm would reach its height and then subside.”

“He did not want to write a book about it. He’d tried once, attempting a novel, even some poems, but they broke his heart and he could not bring himself to art anymore. 'So the only way to end this painful curiosity is to transfer it to someone else? To fictionalize it? To talk about it and still live the same problem tomorrow? To appear as if you’ve beaten it just because you can identify the problem?' He would sob in museums, where he sought refuge but escaped in horror. 'Fuck that—art’s not an answer to life, it’s a disguise.”

“He did not why she pulled out the hair of the dead. Accordingly, he did not know whether her case was to be put down as good or bad. But in his eyes, pulling out the hair of the dead in the Rashomon on this stormy night was an unpardonable crime. Of course it never entered his mind that a little while ago he had though of becoming a thief”

“He did not wish to be divine. If there had never been a God, the emperor thought, it might have been easier to work out what goodness was. This business of worship, of the abnegation of self in the face of the Almighty, was a distraction, a false trail. Wherever goodness lay, it did not lie in ritual, unthinking obeisance before a deity but rather, perhaps, in the slow, clumsy, error-strewn working out of an individual or collective path.”