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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“His circle of influence includes other precious men and women who, like him, go out there and make a difference. Together, they form an assembly of pioneers who proclaim hope into the atmosphere. Their collective impact is not a fleeting success, but has lasting significance.”

“His cock was throbbing, the crown oozing with his sexual juice. He stabilized her and partook of an unhurried flex against her cleft. As though she'd been poked with a pin, she jerked upright. "Why do you keep doing that?" "Doing what?" He pretended innocence, flattening her against his erection, and feasting with another leisurely flex. "That thrusting motion. It just feels so... so..." "Extraordinary?" "Yes. But naughty, too. And forbidden." She wedged herself more fully along the crest of his phallus. "My body seems to fathom what you propose, when I've no notion myself." "Absolutely." His wanton fingers slipped under the hem of her chemise and petted the smooth skin of her thighs.”

“His colleagues at the Bar called him Filth, but not out of irony. It was because he was considered to be the source of the old joke, Failed In London Try Hong Kong. It was said that he had fled the London Bar, very young, very poor, on a sudden whim just after the War, and had done magnificently well in Hong Kong from the start. Being a modest man, they said, he had called himself a parvenu, a fraud, a carefree spirit. Filth in fact was no great maker of jokes, was not at all modest about his work and seldom, except in great extremity, went in for whims. He was loved, however, admired, laughed at kindly and still much discussed many years after retirement.”

“His comments are not compliments, or even propositions. They are declarations of ownership. They are threats. They are the intrusive thumb of male privilege and patriarchal violence, reminding me of my place as I move around within public space. They are the put-down, the screw-you, the worthless-slur, the great derision that is a constant, omnipresent reminder that society allows male sexual violence to function commonly as a social norm. It is the constant reminder that I should always be scared. That I am never safe. That someone always wants to hurt me, and that society will always, always turn its face the other way, as seen by the normalcy with which men can publicly deride me with confidence and gusto in their threats.”

“His concept of allochrony - initially introduced shyly as 'untimeliness', then later radicalized to an exit from modernity - is based on the idea, as suggestive as it is fantastic, that antiquity has no need of repetitions enacted in subsequent periods, because it 'essentially' returns constantly on its own strength. In other words, antiquity - or the ancient - is not an overcome phase of cultural development that is only represented in the collective memory and can be summoned by the wilfulness of education. It is rather a kind of constant present - a depth time, a nature time, a time of being - that continues underneath the theatre of memory and innovation that occupies cultural time.”

“His contagious conviction that our love was unique and desperate infected me with an anxious sickness; soon we would learn to treat one another with the circumspect tenderness of comrades who are amputees, for we were surrounded by the most moving images of evanesecence, fireworks, morning glories, the old, children. But the most moving of these images were the intagible relfections of ourselves we saw in one another's eyes, reflections of nothing but appearances, in a city dedicated to seeming, and, try as we might to possess the essence of each other's otherness, we would inevitably fail.”

“His contempt for humanity grew fiercer, and at last he came to realize that the world is made up mostly of fools and scoundrels. It became perfectly clear to him that he could entertain no hope of finding in someone else the same aspirations and antipathies; no hope of linking up with a mind which, like his own, took pleasure in a life of studious decrepitude; no hope of associating an intelligence as sharp and wayward as his own with any author or scholar.”

“His conviction of having no purpose in life other than to act as a distillation of poison was part of the ego of an eighteen-year-old. He had resolved that his beautiful white hands would never be soiled or calloused. He wanted to be like a pennant, dependent on each gusting wind. The only thing that seemed valid to him was to live for the emotions--gratuitous and unstable, dying only to quicken again, dwindling and flaring without direction or purpose.”

“His copy was full of lofty echoes: Greek Tragedy; Damocle's sword; manna from heaven; the myth of Sisyphus; the last of the Mohicans; hydra-headed and Circe-voiced; experiments with truth; discovery of India; biblical resonance; the lessons of Vedanta; the centre does not hold; the road not taken; the mimic men; for whom the bell tolls; a hundred visions and revisions; the power and the glory; the heart of the matter; the heart of darkness; the agony and the ecstasy; sands of time; riddle of the Sphinx; test of tantalus; murmurs of mortality; Falstaffian figure; Dickensian darkness; ...”

“His [Crowley's] grief was profound. And he himself was far from the peak of health. It seems that all his recent traveling weighted heavily on his already weakened constitution from past illnesses. He was recovering from the debilitating after-effects of malaria, with raging migraines and throat pathology (for which he received surgery). Therefore, Crowley needed pain medication for an assortment of rare and exotic diseases and conditions. The fact that in Crowley's time certain extremely strong medications were regularly prescribed, even for polite and proper English ladies, does not deter Crowley's detractors from trying to paint him as a crazed drug fiend.”

“His crucifixion is the key; His resurrection is the door... it is only by his death that we have the mandate to enter into the gates of eternal life. His doors are open always. Christ is king!”

“His dark eyes suddenly appear a little boyish. "Can you, ah, put bubbles in?" I grin wide. "You want a bubble bath?" "Hey. The bubbles help keep in the heat, and they smell nice." The man is a good ten inches taller than me, with shoulders twice as wide. The world knows him as a barbarian warlord king-killer on their favorite show. But he is adorable just now. "You don't have to convince me," I say lightly. "I love a good bubble bath." "Do you now?" he murmurs under his breath but then gives me an innocent look when I glance back. He wasn't kidding about his love of bubbles. Multiple bath gels and a nice wide loofah wait on a rack by the tub. I eye it, and he shifts his weight as if being caught out. Not hiding my smile, I pour some gel into the water rushing from the faucet. The scents of bergamot and warm vanilla fill the humid air. It's a subtle fragrance but delicious, like sticking your nose into the warm crook of a well-groomed man's neck.”