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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“He tipped his head up. "Do you think that stars have shadows?" She followed his gaze. They were close enough to Springfield for light pollution to dull the night skies, but galaxies still spangled above them. The moon had marched nearly to the end of her night, ready to stagger to her own bed at dawn. "I guess if there's some brighter star," she said, thinking of lying on the couch months ago, a deep-voiced man explaining the universe on her television while she tried to convince herself to apply for a new job. "Like the kind that's about to become a black hole. Don't they flare first?" Vince nodded. "Quasars. They flare as they're dying. I guess that would give any other star nearby a shadow.”

“He tips his cap forward over his face and inhales deeply of the moist air. It seems to Harlan that he can smell the whole of these mountains’ lives in that single breath. The gentle notes of wild herbs and grasses, of seedlings introducing themselves to the world. Also the thick and bittersweet must of leaf litter, felled trees, and decaying animals returning to the soil.”

“He told himself a story. Not at first. At first, there wasn’t time for thoughts that came in the shape of words. His head was blessedly empty of stories then. War was coming. It was upon him. Arin had been born in the year of the god of death, and he was finally glad of it. He surrendered himself to his god, who smiled and came close. Stories will get you killed, he murmured in Arin’s ear. Now, you just listen. Listen to me.”

“He told himself that he was a clown clean through. Every time a fly ball had been hit to him with men on the bases, he'd muffed it. Hoping for one thing, then another, and when he did get his chances -- foul ball. Girls, too. He'd never held one. Twice Lucy had given him the cold shoulder. That girl he'd knelt next to at Christmas Mass in Saint Patrick's once -- cold shoulder. Never got beyond wishing with her. Now Catherine. Football. He'd wanted to be a star high-school quarterback and he'd not had the guts to stay in school. Fighting. His kid brother had even cleaned him up. In the war when he'd tried to enlist, a leather-necked sergeant had laughed at him. He was just an all-around no soap guy.”

“He told me a tale of woefulness, one upon a time the heaven woke up and the silence spoke, then came the separation, the agony began, the fear and questions came, and I wept, tears I had never known before. since then the days are falling and abandoned, we walk facing the sun but the shadow is behind us and follow us.”

“He told me he felt like a character being awkwardly written out of a sitcom. 'You know when they are there but they don't do or say anything? Like nobody has a clue what to do with them? Then they disappear and not a single person even bothers to mention it. That is happening to me, I think.' I was familiar with numb feelings of this type. In the garage I felt like anyone could step in and play me, if they were supplied with the correct expression of anguish, the sluggish reactions of someone baffled by their own poor choices.”

“He told me how all of the white men in the region craved colored girls. He said he hired a lot of them both for housework and in his business. “And I guarantee you, I’ve had it in every one of them before they ever got on the payroll.” A pause. Silence above humming tires on the hot-top road. “What do you think of that?” “Surely some refuse,” I suggested cautiously. “Not if they want to eat - or feed their kids,” he snorted. “If they don’t put out, they don’t get the job.”

“he told me i was like a poem, all kinds of feelings bundled into one but i am a song without melody, a screeching noise you don't want to hear i am like an ointment but for the wrong wound; i can't heal you but i would burn i am like that paragraph you delete before sending an okay the last drop of coffee still stuck on your discarded cup i am the rubber band on your wrist, i am lost as soon as you set me down and like the moon on a moonless night i am there but not in your world, not in your eyes, not in your heart. i could have been your comfort shoe, but i broke your feet and you discarded me so now I'm just an occupied space on your shelf you don't use anymore I'm like the stain on the mirror when you're taking pictures; an irritation that stays like the push and shove on the subway station that doesn't make you stop and stare but the one that keeps you moving, completely unaware i'm the stranger on the street that you see yet you don't your eyes pass through me, not in focus, not in the zone i'm not the art kind of beautiful, i'm the beauty that lies there, ignored my existence is poetry, unnoticed, unaware, invisible to your eyes and you just keep moving and i stay, i stay, i stay right there”

“He told me that from now on, everything I did and everything he did was of the utmost importance: any word spoken, the slightest gesture, would take on a meaning, and everything that happened between us would change us continually. 'For that reason,'he said,'I wish I were able to suspend time at this moment and keep things exactly at this point, because I feel this instant is a true beginning. We have a definite but unknown quantity of experience at our disposal. As soon as the hourglass is turned, the sand will begin to run out and once it starts, it cannot stop until it's all gone. That's why I wish I could hold it back at the start. We should make a minimum of gestures, pronounce a minimum of words, even see each other as seldom as possible, if that would prolong things. We don't know how much of everything we have ahead of us so we have to take the greatest precautions not to destroy the beauty of what we have. Everything exists in limited quantity-especially happiness. If a love is to come into being, it is all written down somewhere, and also its duration and content. If you could arrive at the complete intensity the first day, it would be ended the first day. And so if it's something you want so much that you'd like to have it prolonged in time, you must be extremely careful not to make the slightest excessive demand that might prevent it from developing to the greatest extent over the longest period...If the wings of the butterfly are to keep their sheen, you mustn't touch them. We mustn't abuse something which is to bring light into both our lives. Everything else in my life only weighs me down and shuts out the light. This thing wih you seems like a window that is opening up. I want it to remain open...”

“He told me that he's got three daughters who live here. And that he failed them for many years. But he would not fail them this time.' The ships at the front of the human armada became clear, along with the gold lettering on their sides. 'He named his three personal ships after them,' Drakon said with a smile. And there, sailing at the front... I beheld the names of those ships. The Feyre. The Elain. And leading the charge against Hybern, flying over the waves, unyielding and without an ounce of fear... The Nesta. With my father... our father at the helm.”

“He told me that if I hung up, he'd do it. He would commit suicide. He told me that if I called the cops he would kill every single one of them and I knew that he had the potential and the means to do it”

“He told me that literature is full of stories where humans create something in a burst of optimism and then lose control of their creation. Dr. Frankenstein creates a monster only for it to escape from him and commit murder. Aza began to think about these stories when he talked with his friends who were engineers working for some of the most famous websites in the world. He would ask them basic questions, like why their recommendation engines recommended one thing over another, and, he said to me, "they're like: 'We're not sure why it's recommending those things.'" They're not lying—they have set up a technology that is doing things they don't full comprehend. He always says to them: "Isn't that exactly the moment, in the allegories, where you turn the thing off—[when] it's starting to do things you can't predict?”

“He told me that once, in the war, he’d come upon a German soldier in the grass with his insides falling out; he was just lying there in agony. The soldier had looked up at Sergeant Leonard, and even though they didn’t speak the same language, they understood each other with just a look. The German lying on the ground; the American standing over him. He put a bullet in the soldier’s head. He didn’t do it with anger, as an enemy, but as a fellow man, one soldier helping another.”

“He told me that one of the reasons people are so unhappy is they don't talk to themselves. He said you have to keep a conversation going with yourself throughout your life to see how you're doing, to keep your focus, to remain your own friend. He told me that he talked to himself all the time, and that it helped him to grow stronger and better everyday.”