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H Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with H. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All H Quotes

“Harvey sought for truth in Truth's own book- Creation - which by God himself was writ;And wisely thought 'twas fitNot to read comments only upon it,But on th' original itself to look.Methinks in Art's great circle others standLock'd up together hand in hand:Every one leads as he is led,The same bare path they tread,A dance like that of Fairies, a fantastic round,With neither change of motion nor of ground.Had Harvey to this road confined his wit,His noble circle of the blood had been untrodden yet.”

“Harvey wanted to dive into his ugliness; he intentionally reached for those long hours of soul desolation. He waited. He paced, ready to face down whatever was to come. Paulette’s, though, busted loose uninvited, catching her completely off guard when she was already hurting, feeling crumbled, and vulnerable. When all she really wanted was some quiet gentle feelings for a change. A few flowers. Some sunshine. A way out of all that inner torment for even just a moment. Had she had brought only nastiness out of her childhood? Hadn’t there been anything sweet she could remember instead? As she wandered back to her cabin, searching for even a single fond memory, light faded everywhere around her. Aw, c’mon, she thought. Everyone had some happy childhood memories. She had to have at least a couple. How about the coloring? Children enjoy coloring; how about that? She’d spent hours and days on her art. It was as close as she could remember to having her Mamma stand over her with anything even remotely resembling approval. Her books and comics could be tales of Jesus, but coloring books had to be Old Testament because “No child’s impure hand could touch a crayon to the sweet beautiful face of our beloved Lord and savior Christ Jesus.” So the little girl had scrunched down over Daniel in the lion’s den. Samson screaming in rage, pain, and terror as they blinded him with daggers and torches. The redder she made the flowing wounds of a man of God shot full of arrows, the richer the flames around those three men being burned in an iron box, the longer Mamma let her stay out of that closet. - From “The Gardens of Ailana”

“Harvey was not content merely to gather knowledge; he digested and arranged it under the guidance of the faculties which compare and reason. ... Harvey appears to have possessed, in a remarkable degree, the power of persuading and conciliating those with whom he came in contact. In the whole course of his long life we hear nothing either of personal enemies or personal enmities ... one of the great men whom God, in virtue of his eternal laws, bids to appear on earth from time to time to enlighten, and to ennoble mankind.”

“Harvey wasn't interested in the clothes, it was the masks that mesmerized him. They were like snowflakes: no two alike. Some were made of wood and of plastic; some of straw and cloth and papier-mâché. Some were as bright as parrots, others as pale as parchment. Some were so grotesque he was certain they'd been carved by crazy people; others so perfect they looked like the death masks of angels. There were masks of clowns and foxes, masks like skulls decorated with real teeth, and one with carved flames instead of hair.”

“Harvey Weinstein took pride in not paying bills,” recounted Miramax’s former chief financial officer John Schmidt. “But when you stiff a filmmaker you are stiffing the very lifeblood of what your business is. The whole independent film business is based on championing the small guy.”

“Has a festival of atrocity films ever been held? Every year at the Oscars ceremony, some might say. It seemed likely in the late 60s, but the new puritans of our day would greet such a suggestion with a shudder. A pity - given the unlimited opportunities which the media landscape now offers to the wayward imagination, I feel we should immerse ourselves in the most destructive element, ourselves, and swim. I take it that the final destination of the 20th century, and the best we can hope for in the circumstances, is the attainment of a moral and just psychopathology.”

“Has anybody even talked to Dr. Shields yet?" Willie shrugged. Then his radio crackled again. "We've set up the command post in the Shieldses' front yard, under a stand of trees. Tell Carl to get his ass up here, ricky-tick." "You heard the man," said Willie. Carl exhaled long and slow, trying to prepare himself for the blast of testosterone he would encounter a few hundred yards up the street.”

“Has anyone had a look at Merripen's shoulder?" Amelia asked, glancing at Win. "It's probably time for the dressing to be changed." "I'll do it," Win said at once. "And I'll take up a supper tray." "Beatrix will accompany you," Amelia advised. "I can manage the tray," Win protested. "It's not that... I meant it's not proper for you to be alone with Merripen in his room." Win looked surprised, and made a face. "I don't need Beatrix to come. It's only Merripen, after all." After Win left the dining hall, Poppy looked at Amelia. "Do you think that Win really doesn't know how he-" "I have no idea. And I've never dared to broach the subject, because I don't want to put ideas into her head." "I hope she doesn't know," Beatrix ventured. "It would be dreadfully sad if she did." Amelia and Poppy both glanced at their younger sister quizzically. "Do you know what we're talking about, Bea?" Amelia asked. "Yes, of course. Merripen's in love with her. I knew it a long time ago, from the way he washed her window." "Washed her window?" both older sisters asked at the same time. "Yes, when we lived in the cottage at Primrose Place. Win's room had a casement window that looked out onto the big maple tree- do you remember? After the scarlet fever, when Win couldn't get out of bed for the longest time and she was too weak to hold a book, she would just lie there and watch a birds' nest on one of the other tree limbs. She saw the baby swallows hatch and learn to fly. One day she complained that the window was so dirty, she could barely see through it, and it made the sky look so grayish. So from then on Merripen always kept the glass spotless. Sometimes he climbed a ladder to wash the outside, and you know how afraid of heights he is. You never saw him do that?" "No," Amelia said with difficulty, her eyes stinging. "I didn't know he did that." "Merripen said the sky should always be blue for her," Beatrix said. "And that was when I knew he... are you crying, Poppy?" Poppy used a napkin to dab at the corners of her eyes. "No, I just inh-haled some pepper." "So did I," Amelia said, blowing her nose.”

“Has anyone noticed that one of the main actions which women appear to play in Woke's Rich Tapestry is ceaseless apologising? Saying sorry for their TERF words, their "cis privilege", their sheer taking up of space in a world where cocks in frocks demand access all areas? It's a wonder we ever got the vote - imagine the Suffragettes today going around apologising to race horses for being insufficiently sensitive to their shared cultural oppression.”

“Has anyone seen me on Letterman? Two million people watch that show and I don't know where they are. You might have seen this next comedian on the Late Show, but I think more people have seen me at the store. That should be my introduction. "You might have seen this next comedian at the store," and people would say "Hell yes I have!"”

“Has anyone seen meadowlark? I’ve been looking for probably forty years now unsuccessfully. He used to live in the field I crossed many a morning heading to the woods, truant again from school. There were no meadowlarks in the school. Which was a good enough reason for me not to want to be there. But now it’s more serious. There is no field, neither have the woods survived. So, where is meadowlark? If anyone has seen him, please would you let me know posthaste?”

“Has anyone...any distinct notion of what poets of a stronger age understood by the word inspiration? ... There is an ecstasy such that the immese strain of it is sometimes relaxed by a flood of tears, along with which one's steps either rush or involuntarily lag, alternately. There is the feeling that one is completely out of hand, with the very distinct consciousness of an endless number of fine thrills and quiverings to the very toes... Everything happens quite involuntarily, as if in a tempestuous outburst of freedom, of absoluteness, of power and divinity.”

“Has Bill Clinton inspired idealism in the young, as he himself was inspired by John F. Kennedy? Or has he actually reduced their idealism? Surely part of the answer lies in Clinton's personal moral lapse with Monica Lewinsky. But more important was his sin of omission - his failure to embrace a moral cause beyond popularity.”