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L Quotes

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All L Quotes

“Ladybird Heart by Stewart Stafford O darling o' my heart, If 'tis true that is what thou art, Then recognise and see me. Didst I not win thy heart so bold, And giveth thee rings of gold? Anon, honour our precious union. But to interfering teams, Thy loyalty now it seems, Thee grants these canker blossoms o'er me. Recall how they hath tried, To jilt me from mine own bride, And keepest thou lonesome and melancholy. So, returneth, my dove, To this, thy bed of love, And sleep soundly beneath thy lovebird's wing. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

“Laethrig is my father's first son, and Sulian is already knotted in a girl's long hair, while I- I am free, and have an itch to the soles of my feet that I shall not find easement for, here in my father's hall." I looked at him in the clear upland light, the set of his head that matched that of the hawk on his fist, the hot red-brown eyes under the black brows; and I thought that he might be well right in that, and thought also that it would be good to have this frowning youngster among my captains. "I can maybe find the means for easing the soles to your feet," I said. "And if there is a like itching in the palm of your sword hand, I can find you a fine way to appease that also.”

“LaForche for his standing, understood Christina’s seditious intents, and for that, he monitored and hated the rude Vixen of Woe. Innumerable times they had quarresquabbled, sometimes very loudly, both during and after class. Christina’s wit, as fast as her blade, for the most part won the scathingly bitter, single-edged dialogues, much to the chagrin and embarrassment of LaForche. It was no big secret that trying to deal with his Anti-Mr. Spock logic was like trying to cross a baking salt-flat desert mid-summer with nothing to drink or eat except stale crackers and a big jar of out-dated defunct Peter Pan peanut butter, its original “crunch” now being only pasty sand mouth goo. She often asked herself how could you argue against no mind. It was an unassuming study in stupility to say the least. —Christina Brickley, The Lady and the Samurai”

“LaForche's never-was has-never been emaciated spirit was now as it had always been, hole’ up by vapidity and things intangible. Yet it looked so common and ordinary, blenting into the masses using the trogs as a mask to hide itself (later Christina recalled Thomas saying that the sleuth Man said there was nothing unnatural like the common, and the detective was right. “The Fork” was a four-star pronged pointless entity, a spirit without form or life, except now it was evident, his external body displaying to all the leftovers of his empty writhing, splastic visage. Short of sheet and simply put, the girl had out-foiled him—. With the wolves of humiliation tearing the meat right off of his soul, he continued in his loner power mongering ways. Once formidable, they now reeked of rancid mal-diminishment. This is all he had left–and knew it, an armload of empty conquests, but the prize, the one he had desired and wanted so much, had eluded his hounding dogmatic futile, empty and sterile grasp. The power of powerlessness tonned his shoulders, gashing him and his god of pride apart. He shot a quick glarance toward the wall phone thinking of “The Bix,” Kerta’s # 1 Ace problem solving “mechanic.” --OnFelipe LaForche , Villain The lady and the Samurai”

“Lagi pula tak ada satu pun kota di Eropa yang bisa memberi potret sahih tentang kota Batavia. Penduduk kota Paris, yang terbiasa dengan jalanan berbau dan teramat kotor, juga plaster temboknya yang buruk, tak akan pernah mengerti tentang kemewahan dan keanggunan rumah-rumah di Jawa, demikian pula di kalkuta, yang saban tahun dikuas dengan lumuran baru dari batu gamping. Lapisan ini memberi kesan selaksa perak mewah, dan garis-garis tata bangunan teramat jelas tergambar rapi. Di kota ini, ada banyak rumah yang dengan mudah melampaui kemegahan istana di Eropa.”

“Lagos was a city that had been turned against itself. There was a bridge that became the perfect trap for crimes, which began with nails being scattered to cause flat tyres. If the driver stopped, the car would be dismantled in 20 minutes and the parts thrown overboard [to people waiting below]. The system had turned into a kind of destructive device that could be used against people. That was the narrative.”

“Lagrange, in one of the later years of his life, imagined that he had overcome the difficulty (of the parallel axiom). He went so far as to write a paper, which he took with him to the Institute, and began to read it. But in the first paragraph something struck him that he had not observed: he muttered: 'Il faut que j'y songe encore', and put the paper in his pocket.' [I must think about it again]”

“Lagrimas ocultas Lagrimas ocultas Se me ponho a cismar em outras eras Em que ri e cantei, em que era q'rida, Parece-me que foi noutras esferas, Parece-me que foi numa outra vida... E a minha triste boca dolorida Que dantes tinha o rir das Primaveras, Esbate as linhas graves e severas E cai num abandono de esquecida! E fico, pensativa, olhando o vago... Toma a brandura plácida dum lago O meu rosto de monja de marfim... E as lágrimas que choro, branca e calma, Ninguém as vê brotar dentro da alma! Ninguém as vê cair dentro de mim!”

“Lahat ng uri ng depresyon ay may pinagmulan. Despite popularity, fame, and money — those things never gave her peace of mind. It was never about what she had, but about how she was wired —differently, uniquely, and sometimes painfully. She was clinically depressed; she functioned in ways the world couldn’t always understand.”

“Lahko rečem, da se trudim imeti kolikor toliko tekoč pregled nad družbenimi obveznostmi in pravicami, le odkar se zavedam jasno pojma o enakopravnosti med spoloma, sem v praksi nenehno v zadregi. Tako zaenkrat rešujem svoj »ženski problem« z genetično kondicijo in čarovniškimi metodami. Namreč zelo zanimiva je miselnost nas žensk samih. Ko sem nekoč nekaj malega razmišljala v spisu, ki je govoril o ženi, družini in otrocih ter vzgoji, in vse to skupaj objavila v reviji Otrok in družina, sem dobila tako neuporaben odgovor od tov. Beltramove, ki je v kratkem povzetku bil v tem: da naj bom srečna, ker imamo raztegljive nogavice, pralne stroje, električni štedilnik in politične pravice, ki jih ni imela nobena od mojih babic. Vrniva se nazaj k delu, ki me obvezuje, in k času, ki ga merimo s 24 urami. V tem času je čas, ki ga in kadar ga uporabim za ustvarjalno delo, vedno zamejen na ure, ko moji otroci zaspijo ali pa še spijo. Oba sta kratka še za tole pismo. (Pismo objavljeno v knjigi Med tradicijo in modernizmom: pričevanja o slovenski poeziji Franceta Pibernika, Ljubljana: Slovenska matica, 1978)”

“Lahore is a delicious city. A mottled mess of vanishing history and new regimes. Lahore becomes ominous when you are in Morgantown. Lahore becomes a quiet mirage, an odd spectacle hung in time that only moves how you want it to move. It only moves when you want it to move. It does not speak to you or wail for you, yet you write only about Lahore. You preserve it in your poetry. You suppress it in a verse. You capture it in the refrain of a poem: its beating heart, its howls and cries, its chuckle. Yes, Lahore chuckles. The colonial drawing room in your mother’s house. The pale light that slithered through the bedroom curtains. The moth your father captured in his palm when you were a child. And then he kissed the brown wings to show you that the moth was a friend. The goodness of the gardener who gave you jasmine flowers every evening. The ceramic bowl with painted tulips where you placed the flowers. The horrid monsoon rains that killed the houseboy. How long can a stanza sustain the scuffling of a city?”

“Laia and Helene: They’re so different. I like that Laia says things I don’t expect, that she speaks almost formally, as if she’s telling a story. I like that she defied my mother to go to the Moon Festival, whereas Helene always obeys the Commandant. Laia is the wild dance of a Tribal campfire, while Helene is the cold blue of an alchemist’s flame. But why am I even comparing them? I’ve know Laia a few days and Helene all my life. Helene’s no passing attraction. She’s family. More than that. She’s part of me.”

“Laid out before him were dishes detailed in gold inscription: Tourte de Faisan aux Truffes, Blanquette de Veau, Barbue aux Huîtres, Tripes à la mode de Caen. Simon explained the preparation of each dish so lovingly that it would have suited Zod to not eat at all and simply listen to this man as he translated the truffled pheasant in pastry, the creamy veal stew with pearl onions and mushrooms, the poached brill with oysters in brown butter, the baked tripe with calvados, and the wine they must order to accompany it,”

“Laid out on the rustic farm table that sits to the side of Maria's enormous kitchen island is a lovely spread of fresh-looking salads. Wheat-berry salad, what looks like a Greek salad, asparagus, a platter of beautifully arranged fruit, and some cooked tuna steaks. "This looks amazing!" I've been mired in fall comfort foods for work, all braised and hearty, and it is very exciting to see such fresh and light fare for a change.”

“Laila could picture the flow of traffic all around her. From above, she watched the cars move along in streams like all those ants on her kitchen floor. What had they been looking for anyway? A crumb here, a speck of sugar there? The vast stockpiles of food in the pantry and fridge remained untouched. For that matter, what kept all these cars returning to the city day after day? A little money, a little entertainment? Surface operations like Livetrac kept the ants fighting over crumbs while the obscene fortunes of a shadowy elite were counted not in dollars but in lives.”