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T Quotes

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All T Quotes

“The Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills,' was Moiraine’s reply. She stood in the doorway looking more Aes Sedai than he ever remembered her, ageless, with dark eyes that seemed ready to swallow him, slight and slender yet so regal she could have commanded a roomful of queens if she could not channel a spark. That blue stone on her forehead was catching the light again. 'You will do well, Rand.' He stared at the door long after it closed behind them.”

“The whiff of Ben's parcel hovered under the delicious aroma of fish. Suddenly John felt hungry. The men, he saw, were sipping from a ladle which they passed between them. The tallest of the three slurped and smiled. 'Whether or not Miss Lucretia consumes it, the kitchen has discharged its duty,' he declared cheerfully. He towered a whole head over the others. 'A simple broth is most apt for a young stomach, especially a stomach which chooses privation over nourishment. Lampreys. Crab shells ground fine. Stockfish and...' He sniffed then frowned. 'Simple, Mister Underley?' jibed Vanian in a nasal voice. 'If it is simple, then how is it spiced?' 'Came in a parcel this morning,' Henry Palewick offered. 'Down from Soughton. Master Scovell had it out in a moment. Smelled like flowers to me. Whatever it was.' 'Which flowers?' demanded the fourth man of the quartet, in a foreign accent. He pointed a large-nostrilled nose at Henry. 'Saffron, agrimony and comfrey bound the cool-humored plants; meadowsweet, celandine and wormwood the hot.”

“The whiff of ocean on the southern breeze and the smell of burning asphalt brought back memories of summers past. It had seemed as though those sweet dreams of summer would last forever: the warmth of a girl’s skin, an old rock ‘n’ roll song, freshly washed button-down shirt, the odor of cigarette smoke in a pool changing room, a fleeting premonition. Then one summer (when had it been?) the dreams had vanished, never to return.”

“The whiffs of coffee and chicory and fried dough danced awkwardly with the occasional and unmistakable wafts of urine left by naive tourists or wild fraternity brothers or desperate homeless people or all of the above. Beset among throngs of tourists identified by lanyards and name tags, and dramatic straw hats, the board awaited the delivery of mountains of beignets dusted like the Alps with sweet snow.”

“The Whig interpretation of history ... is the tendency in many historians to write on the side of Protestants and Whigs, to praise revolutions provided they have been successful, to emphasise certain principles of progress in the past and to produce a story which is the ratification if not the glorification of the present.”

“The Whirling Linguist (Naskaristana 2670-2671) Language is a paradox, by ambition it is expansive, but by neurology it is restrictive, and language tied to ideology, is downright decrepit. I live in six languages, and occasionally dabble in a few more, and I learnt none inside classrooms, I just outgrew the jungle memberships. What makes a language native is not flawless syntax or grammar, but a shameless flow of passion. For example, yo soy humano, por que humano? cunku benim icin bi tek insanlik onemli - sesangi sarang, sarangi sesang - and to hell with armchair linguists and grammar nazis, who can't tell day from night without consulting textbooks - I'm the center that the dervish whirls around, I'm the flame that syllables dance around, I'm the immeasurable that your complex-obsessed psychology books patronize with analysis, and philosophy books desecrate with ivory-tower, lifeless logic disconnected from soil, most of whom are more interested in calculation and condescension than the elevation of human condition. You think Naskar writes me, Naskar is an idiot, I'm beyond Naskar, beyond every single puny mortal brain, I'm the original sentience that occasionally seeks out fitting vessels, with a dominant tendency of expansion and a tinge of naivety, and makes them whirl at my whim, so that your little toddler species doesn't crawl back into jungle slime.”

“The whirlwind in his brain—which had so many times tugged his pituitary in ways that made him TAKE instead of GIVE— subsided for the very first time. Tightness in his crotch usually corresponded with a tightness in his gut, making him want to CONTROL, to CHOKE, to SUBDUE... but not this time. Not ever again.”

“The whiskey warmed his tongue and the back of his throat, but it did not change his ideas any, and suddenly, looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar, he knew that drinking was never going to do any good to him now. Whatever he had now he had, and it was from now on, and if he drank himself unconscious when he woke up it would be there.”

“The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He's this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I've always wanted to hear the bartender's side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before the fall of the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for this big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?”

“The whispers you hear in your ear that you fear in the air everywhere, they are ghosts. The moans and the groans in the lowest of tones no one owns or condones, they are ghosts. You might deem them gremlins or water or wind, while others say shadows or rodents or sin. But oh! I say no! ‘Tis not so, child, for lo! The chills that you feel in a thrill that proves goose bumps are frightfully real, they are ghosts!”