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O Quotes

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All O Quotes

“Oh, that is nice, dear,” she said, beaming not only with lips but also with her eyes, “We often see reality in dreams, where we hardly see the purpose in reality.” “Doesn’t it depend on the way we perceive reality?” said the boy “But before that, you must know if it is your reality” “Do we all have the same reality? “The question is, why don’t we?” she said looking into the boy’s eyes.”

“Oh that it were with me As with the flower; Blooming on its own tree For butterfly and bee Its summer morns: That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns. Oh that my work were done As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun: That when my time is run And daylight too, I so might rest once more Cool with refreshing dew.”

“Oh, that's a good one," I responded to the zingy and aromatic Southampton tea truffle, picking up on hints of apricot in the Ceylon tea. "Heaven," I moaned, gripping the marble countertop where she mixed and tempered her bonbons, after tasting the strawberry balsamic truffle, made with strawberry purée, eight-year-old La Vecchia Dispensa Italian balsamic vinegar, and 66 percent dark chocolate, which was then dusted with freeze-dried strawberry powder.”

“Oh, that's just Thud! That's easy!" yapped a voice. Both men turned to look at Horsefry, who had been made perky by sheer relief. "I used to play it when I was a kid," he burbled. It's boring. The dwarfs always win!" Gilt and Vetinari shared a look. It said: While I loathe you and every aspect of your personal philosophy to a depth unplummable by any line, I'll credit you at least with not being Crispin Horsefry.”

“Oh, that's just what I need. To wait on all of my friends at Macy's." "So what? You guys need the money, right?" "There are jobs, and then there are jobs." "You're talking to a girl who is working at a farm stand so that she can chase her dream job." "That's different." "Oh, yeah? How? Last I checked, Libby wanted you to spend two thousand bucks on chairs. Where's that money coming from?" She sighs. "You and your father are all burned up about those chairs. Poor Libby." "Poor Libby?" Classic. My mom always takes Libby's side. When Libby got a bad grade on an exam or paper, my mom would claim the teacher was incompetent, even when I'd had the same teachers and had aced their classes. When Libby's field hockey tournament was the same weekend as my clarinet recital, my mom chose Libby's tournament because, she said, Libby needed her support more than I did. And when Libby and her girlfriends ate the chocolate mousse I made as part of a project for French class senior year, my mom said it was my fault for leaving it in our refrigerator without a note. How was Libby to know? "Mom, Libby lives in fantasyland. And anyway, if you cared so much about getting her damn chairs, you'd take a job at the gas station if you needed to." I catch myself. "I take that back. If Libby cares so much about the damn chairs, she should get a job at the gas station." She clicks her tongue. "Sydney." "What? Maybe it's time for Libby to grow up and realize she needs to take responsibility for things.”

“Oh, the anxious, aging wives of his white business associates, fingers weighted down with diamonds, constantly tittering on about how busy they were with this committee meeting and that school event, all the while shedding pretty tears for dark-skinned children in distant countries. Charles loved being around them. They flattered him like concubines, wheedling checks for orphans in Burma or wells in Namibia, angling for ever-larger donations of cosmetics to put on the block at one of the endless silent auctions for their children's private schools. Nothing made him feel better than tossing off a check that elicited a breathy gasp of pleasure from one of the wives.”

“Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days To lie at rest among it. I know the realms where people say The flowers have not their fellow; I know where they shine out like suns, The crimson and the yellow. I know where ladies live enchained In luxury's silken fetters, And flowers as bright as glittering gems Are used for written letters. But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; It groweth on its nodding stem Like to a garland golden.”

“Oh! the deep subtlety and cunning craftiness of the enemy! calling, in the name of our God, for enlargement of our confidence in him, that we might the more blindly follow on in the course of his deceivableness. And, Oh! the hollowness of our own hearts, which drank in flattery and seduction, and persuaded us we were drinking in the sincere milk of the word, and growing in love and in meekness. And, Oh! the awful justice, and yet redeeming grace, of our God, who, because of our secret pride, which led to a craving after something more than the gentle dew of the Spirit, morning by morning, gave us, indeed, meat to our lust, by leaving us under a spiritual power, which was supernatural and sweet to the taste, but afterwards wormwood and ashes; and yet remembering his mercy, repented him of his anger, and snatched us as brands from the burning. Surely we have so much of glorious revelation made plain to us, that we can feed upon it in peace and patience, with thanksgiving; and need not to cultivate an unhealthy appetite after crude and novel views, in which we can neither find rest nor edification.”

“Oh the grave!--the grave!--It buries every error--covers every defect--extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him!”

“Oh, the irony of life's little theatrics! I cracked a grin while my tears lined up for their grand performance, and my tongue played hide-and-seek with all those words eager to escape my lips. It's like a comedy of manners, where my emotions put on a masquerade, teasing me with their hidden truths. But fear not, for someday, this wordless mime will take center stage, and the spotlight will shine on my untold tales!”

“Oh! The lettuce! The lettuce got stuck! Remember the time..." I then stop myself. “Sorry. Another...” “Inside joke between you and Travis?” Martin finishes my sentence. “It seems to me like you are bringing up this Travis guy a lot tonight. Maybe he’s a little more than... just a friend?” “No... no.” I stumble for words.”

“Oh the madness of battle! We fear it, we celebrate it, the poets sing of it, and when it fills the blood like fire it is a real madness. It is joy! All the terror is swept away, a man feels he could live for ever, he sees the enemy retreating, knows he himself is invincible, that even the gods would shrink from his blade and his bloodied shield. And I was still keening that mad song, the battle song of slaughter, the sound that blotted out the screams of dying men and the crying of the wounded. It is fear, of course, that feeds the battle madness, the release of fear into savagery. You win in the shield wall by being more savage than your enemy, by turning his savagery back into fear.”

“Oh, the middle third of the U.S.!” Leo spread his arms. “Piece of torta, then. We’ll just search the entire middle of the country!” “Still with the sarcasm,” Percy noted. “Hey, man, I’ve sailed with the most sarcastic scalawags on the high seas.” The two gave each other a high five, though I did not quite understand why. I thought about a snippet of prophecy I’d heard in the grove: something about Indiana. It might be a place to start….”

“Oh, the places you'll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. Fame! You'll be as famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV. Except when they don't Because, sometimes they won't. I'm afraid that some times you'll play lonely games too. Games you can't win 'cause you'll play against you.”

“Oh,' the priest said, 'that's another thing altogether - God is love. I don't say the heart doesn't feel a taste of it, but what a taste. The smallest glass of love mixed with a pint pot of ditch-water. We wouldn't recognize that love. It might even look like hate. It would be enough to scare us - God's love. It set fire to a bush in the desert, didn't it, and smashed open graves and set the dead walking in the dark. Oh, a man like me would run a mile to get away if he felt that love around.”