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W Quotes

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All W Quotes

“Well, Mary!” Her eyes danced with merriment. “I do believe this might be a very exciting Christmas after all! I never did imagine we should meet anybody worth knowing in Kent, but look, our very first evening and we have met Gentlemen!” She capitalized the word as if to give it an even greater degree of importance and Mary frowned, wishing her sister cared for something beyond the meeting of and flirting with gentlemen.”

“Well, maybe humans were, as a race, just fallible... Everybody wanted something. Maybe it was just as Bamako and 'evil' as gold, but maybe it was as sweet and basic as true love. Maybe it was a baby you couldn't have, or some way to keep your family from starving. Maybe you needed a friend. Maybe you just wanted to believe that all these things could be received as gifts, from the universe or God or the spirits.”

“Well met, Mistress Lirael. This ragamuffin, as your servant so aptly described him, is His Highness Prince Sameth, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Hence the bells. But on to more serious matters. Could you please rescue us? Prince Sameth's personal vessel is not quite what I'm used to, and he is eager to catch me a fish before my morning nap.”

“Well, Metcalf, suppose you try keeping that stupid mouth of yours shut, and maybe that’s the way you’ll learn how. Now, where were we? Read me back the last line.’ “‘Read me back the last line,’” read back the corporal who could take shorthand. “Not my last line, stupid!” the colonel shouted. “Somebody else’s.” “‘Read me back the last line,’” read back the corporal. “That’s my last line again!” shrieked the colonel, turning purple with anger. “Oh, no, sir,” corrected the corporal. “That’s my last line. I read it to you just a moment ago. Don’t you remember, sir? It was only a moment ago.”

“Well, Mimi Mackson, tell me what you like to bake." "Lots of things- brownies, cookies, pies, tarts, scones. But cupcakes are my favorite. I like to flavor them with unusual spices and herbs." "I see. And what's the last thing that you made?" "Double-chocolate brownies with cinnamon and cayenne, to welcome someone home." "And prior to that?" "Cheddar-chive biscuits." She waved her hand in front of her face like she smelled something bad. "No, no, my word, that will not do at all. Just sweet things, please." She stood and paced behind the desk. "Ha! Cheese and chives! I wouldn't dream of baking, eating, or even serving those, not to win the world." Well, that was strange. Sweet isn't sweet without savory. One isn't good without the other- I thought everyone knew that. Even the most sugary dessert needs a dash of salt. Mrs. T sat again. "So tell me then, young Mimi. The best sweet thing you've ever, ever made?" "Hmm... lemon-lavender cupcakes, I guess. To celebrate friendship.”

“Well, Misty Hoyt,” Sergei grinned. “Why don’t you go up there on the stage and strut your stuff? I’d like to see you pole dance.” “What?” “Pole dance.” “Oh, pole dance,” I mumbled, slurping back saliva. I figured I would hardly be able to stand up, let alone pole dance. I had never pole danced in my whole life though Misty Hoyt had pole danced and had admitted as much at the bar to Andrei, but I hadn’t had time to catch up with all of Misty’s skills. This was definitely a hole in the planning of my backstory – giving me experience, as a pole dancer, I would not be able to fake. I would look utterly grotesque too, tattooed as I was; the vanity of self-consciousness never dies – I shuddered at the thought of me tattooed and pierced among those buff, golden, perfectly beautiful girls. Whatever! I had to do it. “Okay,” I said, “You are the boss, Mister Sergei.” I managed somehow to stand up, wobble, and then make my way, through tables and guests, and get over to the runway, and climb up onto it. It seemed very high. I weaved, tottered this way and that, and then somehow, I pulled myself together. I pole danced with one of the pole dancers – me weaving around one pole, and she around the other. She was the petite, fine-featured golden Vietnamese girl I had noticed before. I’d seen movies of pole dancing, so I managed to fake it; and then I was the tattooed pierced clown, a freakish waif, I didn’t really have to be very good. Then – I’m foggy about actually when – the golden Vietnamese girl and I were ordered to make love on the runway in the bright lights. The strobe lights had stopped. The other pole dancers had disappeared into the crowd. And now, except for the spotlights on the two of us, the whole place was subdued in dull amber light, a sort of nightclub twilight. The music went down, and it was quiet. I thought maybe I was hallucinating the silence. But no, it was real.”

“Well, Monsieur said Louis XVI good-naturally, are you happy with your King? « Sire, this is the second time that Your Majesty gives me back my life. The first time was by agreeing to endorse the will of my father; this time it's protecting me with this royal generosity. I have always belonged to him, but now, since I will have the honor to be the guardian of his person, I want the King to know that he can demand anything from me, he can expect anything from my devotion, and if a falcon, I shall be that in the future for the King, he can start at any time whatsoever, on any enemy whatsoever, in peace as in war, in the shadow as in the light. « So be it, Monsieur! The King accepts your tribute and will register your promise. You will be a safe weapon in his hand, a weapon he will use, you can be certain, for only the most just causes. You will be in the future the Kings Falcon, but only for three people, me, you and… Monsieur de Rochambeau present here who witnessed your commitment.”

“Well," Mr. Cheeseman interjected. "Perhaps there's an easy solution to this. Maybe Captain Fabulous has an alter ego." "What's an alter ego?" asked Gerard. "It's a superhero's true but secret identity," said Chip. "You know, the way that Superman is really Clark Kent." "Superman is really Clark Kent?" "It's pretty obvious," said Penny. "To everyone but you and Lois Lane." "Okay," Gerard conceded. "Captain Fabulous's alter ego will be...Teddy Roosevelt.”

“Well, Mr. Illiterate Jock, let me enlighten you. There was this philosopher-slash-historian called Foucault, who wrote about how society is like this legendary prison called the panopticon. In the panopticon, you might be under constant observation, except you can never be sure whether someone is watching or not, so you wind up following the rules anyway.” “But how do you know who’s a watcher and who’s a prisoner?” I asked, pulling into the empty parking lot. “That’s the point. Even the watchers are prisoners. Come on, let’s go on the swings.”

“Well, my book is real,” affirmed Ahimsa as he hugged his book of Christmas carols like a sacred bible. “So, if Santa is written in there, which he IS, then he’s real too! Santa exists just like ink on a page exists, so there!” “Well, I’ve never seen him,” argued Jack. “And I’ve never seen a thought, but I can think!” Ahimsa shot back.”

“Well,’ my mother says the next day as I arrive by her bedside with a fresh pot of tea. ‘What should we do?’ I look at her, puzzled. ‘Do?’ Until now, I thought we’d spend our time together doing very little, or nothing at all, and that I’d be miserable, although I’d hide it and deny it. I imagined, in other words, that we’d see one another, as we always have, across a divide. ‘The rain seems to be holding off for now,’ my mother continues, glancing out of her window. ‘Perhaps we could take a walk in the garden?’ ‘You think you can walk?’ ‘No. But there’s a wheelchair on the back porch. Do you feel fit enough to push me around?’ ‘Well,’ I say, brightly. ‘That would certainly make a nice change.’ My mother snaps her head around and glowers at me. Confused, I replay the final lines of conversation in my head, then panic. ‘No, no,’ I say, backtracking. ‘I meant a nice change from being holed up in the bedroom.’ My mother continues to regard me with her penetrating stare. ‘Of course, you did,’ she says, drily.”