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M Quotes

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“Miss Elizabeth has never been to Old School Custard. Shall we?" "What's the flavor?" "Has that ever stopped us?" Nick pulled out his phone and started tapping. "It's our lucky day, kiddo. Salted Caramel." He turned to me as we headed out the door. "It's a frozen custard shop that makes only one flavor a day, but they always have chocolate and vanilla for backup." "I've never had frozen custard." "You're in for a treat----tons more calories than ice cream, but much creamier. Complete yum." Old School Custard was a small shop with walls covered in pictures of all the local high schools. I found Garfield and imagined Tyler in that huge building, teaching his beloved math. I then noticed an amazing chalk calendar with the flavor for each day listed, with creative drawings, and I understood why it was addicting---who could resist flavors like Malted Milk Balls, Caramel Macchiato, Espresso, or Banana Nutella? I ordered the Turtle Sundae----two scoops of Salted Caramel custard, pecans, hot fudge, caramel sauce, and whipped cream. Nick ordered the Recess, pretty much the same thing, but with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups instead of pecans. And Matt's Playground came complete with crushed Oreos for "dirt" and gummy worms.”

“Miss Elizabeth Mapp might have been forty, and she had taken advantage of this opportunity by being just a year or two older. Her face was of high vivid colour and was corrugated by chronic rage and curiosity; but these vivifying emotions had preserved to her an astonishing activity of mind and body, which fully accounted for the comparative adolescence with which she would have been credited anywhere except in the charming little town which she had inhabited so long. Anger and the gravest suspicions about everybody had kept her young and on the boil.”

“Miss Foxe's other passion was fairy tales. She loved the transformations in them. Everybody was in disguise, or on their way to becoming something else. And all was overcome by order in the end. Love could not prevail if the order of the tale didn't wish it, and neither could hatred, nor grief, nor cunning. If you were the first of three siblings, then you were going to make a big mistake, and that was that. If you were the third sibling, you couldn't fail.”

“Miss Gates is a nice lady, ain't she?" Why sure," said Jem. "I liked her when I was in her room." She hates Hitler a lot . . ." What's wrong with that?" Well, she went on today about how bad it was him treating the Jews like that. Jem, it's not right to persecute anybody, is it? I mean have mean thoughts about anybody, even, is it?" Gracious no, Scout. What's eatin' you?" Well, coming out of the courthouse that night Miss Gates was--- she was going' down the steps in front of us, you musta not seen her--- she was talking with Miss Stephanie Crawford. I heard her say it's time somebody time somebody taught 'em a lesson, they were gettin' way above themelves, an' the next thing they think they can do is marry us. Jem, how can you hate Hitler so bad an' then turn around and be ugly about folks right at home---”

“Miss Goldman is a Communist; I am an Individualist. She wishes to destroy the right of property, I wish to assert it. I make my war upon privilege and authority, whereby the right of property, the true right in that which is proper to the individual, is annihilated. She believes that co-operation would entirely supplant competition; I hold that competition in one form or another will always exist, and that it is highly desirable it should.”

“Miss Granger, you foolish girl, how could you think of tackling a mountain troll on your own? Five points will be taken from Gryffindor for this,” said Professor McGonagall. “I’m very disappointed in you.” Hermione left. Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and Ron. “Well, I still say you were lucky, but not many first years could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll. You each win Gryffindor five points.”

“Miss Grantham's sense of humour got the better of her at this point, and, tottering towards a chair, she sank into it, exclaiming in tragic accents:'Oh Heavens! I am betrayed!' His lordship blenched; both he and miss Laxton regarded her with guilty dismay. Miss Grantham buried her face in her handkerchief, and uttered one shattering word: 'Wretch!”

“Miss Hathaway,” the countess said to Amelia in a tone of friendly concern, “the earl says Ramsay House has been unoccupied for so long, it must be a shambles.” Mildly startled by the woman’s directness, Amelia shook her head firmly. “Oh no, ‘shambles’ is too strong a word. All the place wants is a good thorough cleaning, and a few small repairs, and…” She paused uncomfortably. Lady Westcliff’s gaze was frank and sympathetic. “That bad, is it?” Amelia hitched her shoulders in a slight shrug. “There’s a great deal of work to be done at Ramsay House,” she admitted. “But I’m not afraid of work.” “If you need assistance or advice, Westcliff has infinite resources at his disposal. He can tell you where to find—” “You are very kind, my lady,” Amelia said hastily, “but there is no need for your involvement in our domestic affairs.” The last thing she wanted was for the Hathaways to appear to be a family of cheapjacks and beggars. “You may not be able to avoid our involvement,” Lady Westcliff said with a grin. “You’re in Westcliff’s sphere now, which means you’ll get advice whether or not you asked for it. And the worst part is, he’s almost always right.”

“Miss Havisham is a glitch in the smooth functioning of the Patriarchy, enforcing awareness of a moment of social disaster and personal shame, something it seems she would want us to forget (but no one would forget). (Maybe an interesting "discussion question" for readers of Complicated Grief might be, "What do Terry Barton and Miss Havisham have in common?"?)”

“Miss Havisham is an important feminine literary figure in the tradition of Antigone (though it's significant that Antigone is fighting to bury something and Miss Havisham refuses, as it were, to bury the corpse). Like Hamlet, she's focused on what everyone would rather not know or would like to forget, and she seems crazy / stuck as well as bitter, but she's also a perfect prototype of a performance artist. She's intentionally hard to deal with inviting the audience to remain with the violated body, the evidence of violence.”

“Miss Hawkes, I fear I cannot find the book I'm looking for." "What is it? Do you know the author?" "I do. His name is Vatsyayana." Oh, but he was horrible. Hateful! It was Fionna's dearest wish to slap him, but he was too far away. And if he thought to rattle her, he was sorely mistaken. "Ah, yes, I know his work." His smile widened slowly, an unmistakable gleam in his eyes. For an instant he looked almost boyish. Under other circumstances, it might have been utterly engaging. As it was, it just infuriated her more.”

“Miss Ingram was a mark beneath jealousy: she was too inferior to excite feeling. Pardon the seeming paradox; I mean what I say. She was very showy, but she was not genuine; she had a fine person, many brilliant attainments, but her mind was poor, her heart barren by nature; nothing bloomed spontaneously on that soil; no unforced natural fruit delighted by its freshness. She was not good; she was not original; she used to repeat sounding phrases from books; she never offered, nor had, an opinion of her own. She advocated a high tone of sentiment, but she did not know the sensations of sympathy and pity; tenderness and truth were not in her”

“Miss Keaney was whistling and stamping her feet. On the pitch, Connell and Aidan embraced like reunited brothers. Connell was so beautiful. It occurred to Marianne how much she wanted to see him having sex with someone; it didn’t have to be her, it could be anybody. It would be beautiful just to watch him. She knew these were the kind of thoughts that made her different from other people in school, and weirder.”

“Miss Kinokuni used once-milled flour for her noodles. They had a light and fluffy sweetness with a pleasing chewiness and a silky-smooth texture. It was a flavor so delicate and refined it made all three of us feel as if we had ascended to heaven after only a single bite. Conversely, Mr. Yukihira chose thrice-milled flour. Compared to once-milled flour, it has a much coarser texture making for rougher noodles with a harsher scent... but as it's made from the outermost parts of the groat, including their hulls, it packs the strongest buckwheat flavor of all three types of flour!" Had Mr. Yukihira chosen to use once-milled flour for his noodles, frying them as he did would certainly have destroyed their delicate flavor. But because he chose thrice milled, which comes with the most powerful flavor... ... even frying the noodles in a hot wok wasn't enough to smother their buckwheaty goodness! That is precisely what allowed him to masterfully construct such a delicious flavor!”

“Miss Mackintosh waved her arms wildly. "Oh, please stop, and let me guess," she cried. "I shall go crazy with joy if I'm right. It was an old Peerage, and so she found that Lady Deal was Helena Herman--" "Whom she had seen ten years ago at a music hall as a male impersonator," cried Diva. "And didn't want to know her," interrupted Miss Mackintosh. "Yes, that's it, but that is not all. I hope you won't mind, but it's too rich. She saw you this morning coming out of your house in your bath-chair, and was quite sure that you were that Lady Deal." The three ladies rocked with laughter. Sometimes one recovered, and sometimes two, but they were re-infected by the third, and so they went on, solo and chorus, and duet and chorus, till exhaustion set in. "But there's still a mystery," said Diva at length, wiping her eyes. "Why did the Peerage say that Lady Deal was Helena Herman?" "Oh, that's the last Lady Deal," said Miss Mackintosh. "Helena Herman's Lord Deal died without children and Florence's Lord Deal, my Lady Deal, succeeded. Cousins." "If that isn't a lesson for Elizabeth Mapp," said Diva. "Better go to the expense of a new Peerage than make such a muddle. But what a long call we've made. We must go.”

“Miss Manners keeps urging people (to no avail whatsoever) not to make personal celebrations into office parties. These are not people who were drawn together voluntarily by mutual affection, but co-workers who are there to make their living. True, many of them may become friends and share one another's joys and sorrows, but others may find that a cordial working relationship is all they want or can manage to summon to conceal their distaste. It can become too much to expect these people to fake warmth, which is a good reason for not setting up office events that require this.”

“Miss Mapp had experienced a cruel disappointment last night, though the triumph of this morning had done something to soothe it, for Major Benjy's window had certainly been lit up to a very late hour, and so it was clear that he had not been able, twice in succession, to tear himself away from his diaries, or whatever else detained him, and go to bed at a proper time. Captain Puffin, however, had not sat up late; indeed he must have gone to bed quite unusually early, for his window was dark by half-past nine. To-night, again the position was reversed, and it seemed that Major Benjy was "good" and Captain Puffin was "bad". On the whole, then, there was cause for thankfulness, and as she added a tin of biscuits and two jars of Bovril to her prudent stores, she found herself a conscious sceptic about those Roman roads. Diaries (perhaps) were a little different, for egoism was a more potent force than archæology, and for her part she now definitely believed that Roman roads spelt some form of drink. She was sorry to believe it, but it was her duty to believe something of the kind, and she really did not know what else to believe. She did not go so far as mentally to accuse him of drunkenness, but considering the way he absorbed red-currant fool, it was clear that he was no foe to alcohol and probably watered the Roman roads with it.”

“Miss Milborne rose to her feet somewhat suddenly. '"I" send for George?' she repeated, in stupefied notes. 'Have you taken leave of your senses?' 'No, of course I have not! You must know that there can be nothing he would not do for your sake! You have only to beg him-' 'I would sooner die an old maid!' Startled by the suppressed passion in the Beauty's voice, Hero could only blink at her in surprise. Miss Milborne pressed her hands to her hot cheeks. 'Upon my word, I had not thought it possible! So I am to send for George, and to supplicate him not to engage in a duel! After he has been making shameless love to you! Nothing- "nothing" could prevail upon me to do it! I am astonished you should ask it of me! Pray tell me why you, who are on such intimate terms with him, do not supplicate George yourself! I am persuaded your words must carry quite as much weight with him as mine. More, I dare say!' Hero sprang up, her hands tightly locked together within her ermine muff, quite as angry a flush as Isabella's in her cheeks. 'You are right! I "will" go to George! He does not make shameless love to me; no, for he has no love for me! but he is fond of me, a little, and he did say he would not wish to make me unhappy! I do not know how I can have been so foolish as to think that you would help me, for there is nothing behind your beauty but vanity and spite, Isabella!”

“Miss Moorthy was aware that her interested concern in everybody’s well-being might be seen by the uncharitable as busybodyness. To Miss Moorthy it was simply a matter of setting things right starting from where she was. She could not single-handedly save the Amazonian rainforests but she could, and did, stop students from carving their names on trees or trampling on plants. It was all the same thing on a different scale, wasn’t it?”