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Scotland Quotes

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Scotland Quotes

“The long warm light that came just before the night shimmered like water. As fall approached, the sounds of bellowing red stags punctuated the woods, fierce as bears. The leaves were not yet changing, but there was something substantial and weighty to them, a fullness that could be heard when the breeze lifted them. Summer was building, building, until it had to collapse into fall, and the effort was breathtaking to watch.”

“This fallen world is not going to provide you with the proof of God’s love. Only faith will. And to have faith, you have to become like a madman in the eyes of this world. Just keep in mind that the world itself is mad. And so, to be a madman, according to the judgement of a mad world, is, in fact, to be perfectly sane. So, if that’s what it takes, then be mad. Be mad and reject the demonic whispers of the Devil that tells you Christ does not love you. Reject the fallen logic of this world that tells you Christ does not love you. Reject the wisdom of your fallen mind, reject the emotions of your fallen heart. For both will tell you at various moments in your life that Christ does not love you. Learn not to listen to them. Learn to be blind to them. Learn to be dead to them. There is a very good reason why Christ says one can only open to real life when one has rejected and lost this fallen life.”

“As their eyes became accustomed to the light, the girls were startled to see the figure in front of them. Hunched over, wearing a dark cloak, was an old man. His long, white hair straggled over his shoulders, his skin was covered with grey whiskers and one of his eyes, hooded, drooped below the other bulging one. His mouth hung open and his yellowed teeth did nothing to stop his rank breath pervading the air.”

“A society beset by terrifying social problems was threatened by realism... exacerbated by the deep-seated evils of poverty and overcrowding generated by Scotland's pell-mell industrialisation. To expose these would be revolutionary; it would also break the discipline of puritanism by mentioning the unmentionable... The Kirk enforced silence out of conviction, the middle class out of fear. The bogus community of the Kailyard was an alternative to the horror of the real thing.”

“Wilson was the clay-footed prophet of the British-Scots middle class. He created a flatulent rhetoric of national feeling as an antidote to either true national cosciousness or will. He exploited nationalism and religion in order to pursue class politics.”

“She was convinced the country was about to succumb to revolutionary socialism. Her own circumstances encouraged this belief: just on the edge of the really rich country set, she shared their views and opinions but lacked the financial and architechtural insulation from real or imagined political troubles. She found crushed larger cans and cigarette packets in her front garden and interpreted these as menacing signals from the Perthshire proletariat. Every flicker and dim of electric light was a portent of class war.”

“...a lack of affordable housing in rural Scotland is perhaps the biggest issue threatening the viability of communities today. This situation is not new but since house prices really took off some 20 years ago, there is asense that the issue has now become existential. Lack of employment is often similarly highlighted as a major issue, but thanks to the social security system most people can manage, to some degree at least, a period of being unemployed or under employed. In contrast, without adequate and secure accommodation people very quickly have to leave their home communities in search of housing, more often than not in distant towns and cities - even if, as is often the dase, they have a job offer locally.”

“Son, it’s easy tae be guid oan a fu’ belly. It’s when a man’s goat two bites an’ wan o’ them he’ll share, ye ken whit he’s made o’. Listen. In ony country in the world, who are the only folk that ken whit it’s like tae leeve in that country? The folk at the boattom. The rest can a’ kid themselves oan. They can afford to hiv fancy ideas. We canny, son. We loass the wan idea o’ who we are, we’re deid. We’re wan anither. Tae survive, we’ll respect wan anither. When the time comes, we’ll a’ move forward thegither, or nut at all.”

“...the idea that Smith can somehow be seen as representative of modern capitalism is a stretch. He was a man of his time, in the very particular society of oligarchic, 18th century Scotland. It was a world in which he thrived precisely by not fighting the status quo, but rather by making a proposal for harnessing greed, while keeping merchants in their social place and celebrating the ruling class of the time, and trying to envision a way in which it could play a part in a modernizing economy. In many ways, he got it right. While capitalism flourished in 18th century Scotland, the landed elite remained firmly in place and has managed to do so to this very day. In that aspect, Smith was quite visionary.”

“Scots is a West Germanic language with a literature going back more than 800 years, yet Scotland is a country where only English is compulsory in school, and where Scotland's history is barely taught beyond primary school, and where (non-Scottish) newspaper owners have been known to prohibit the reviewing of Scottish books on the grounds that this would be 'provincial', while the myopic hegemony of the Anglocentric media enshrines a set of attitudes which routinely ignores or belittles our culture.”

“It is possible that John Major... will be able to suspend the battle for Scotland with an armistice on Unionist terms. But my guess is that he will not be able to bring about permanent political peace. To do that would require an unpredicted and irreversible shift in Scottish feeling - a shrugging off of real history and a retreat from real politics altogether... A Scotland genuinely at ease with itself would be an argumentative, grown-up Scotland with a lively parliament as well as a strong economy - a conscience and a tongue, as well as limbs and a body. And when it does speak, its voice will be sharp and fresh. And its views will perhaps surprise us.”

“I gave in to the weight around me. I’d become the Lady of the Lake without Excalibur, the damsel in distress without the prince to save her, Dorothy without her slippers or Alice without her “drink me” potion. Fantastic dreams weaved into amazing tales of triumph over obstacles. I was not triumphant over anything. I was a coward.”

“Robert Louis Stevenson wa Uskochi aliponukuu nahau ya ‘kamera haiwezi kudanganya’ katika kitabu chake cha ‘South Seas’ mwaka 1896, miaka 57 baada ya sanaa ya upigaji wa picha kugunduliwa, hakumaanisha tuwe asili. Hakumaanisha tusizirekebishe picha zetu baada ya kuzipiga na kuzisafisha! Alimaanisha tuwe nadhifu tuonekanapo mbele za watu au mbele ya vyombo vya habari; ambapo picha itapigwa, itasafishwa, itachapishwa na itauzwa kama ilivyo bila kurekebishwa.”

“Yet here he has consciously denied the Parliament of Scotland a familiar consumable image. When a lesser architect with a less wise client could have contrived a form, an image that could have popularised the project and the mission of government (playing with the stereotypes of Scottish history and charcater), Miralles has given a form to Parliament devoid of symbols (at least easily recognised symbols), devoid of answers or illusions, its form representing nothing but its own nature... ...the Parliament seems to be an object outside of history, a place speaking only of the circumstances of its own nature and use... the architect of the Scottish Parliament has created an object promising nothing but itself. At this time and place in Scottish history and to a public wary of the easy promises of politicians, it is too early to say anything. ...what the Parliament will symbolise will be formed in the events of the history it makes, formed and reformed over the centuries in response to the laws made within it and its relation to the changing idea of Scotland. It is not shaped to be loved, to be immediately attractive, to make promises it cannot keep, to toy with vulgar myths or to play with representations of history or culture, and it may never be comfortable.”

“For two weeks every August, the normally private Charlotte Square opens its gates to admit the literary masses. Huge white tents block views of the iron railings that normally keep everyone out, and picnic tables and pastel deck chairs circle the equestrian statue of Prince Albert in the middle of the lawn, inviting readers to relax with their newest signed novel. The tents fill with crowds to see every sort of author: high-flying politicos touting bestselling memoirs; writers of fantasy, chick-lit, sci-fi, young adult (and every possible combination of those). Authors and illustrators enthrall throngs of preschoolers and parents; up-and-comers present their work for appreciative and encouraging audiences. Books are signed by the hundreds and set out for sale in the inviting bookshop tents. People bask in the sunshine, when there is any, or gather in the café tent and grumble good-naturedly about the rain. They shake hands; gush "I love your work"; add to their "to be read" lists, and leave carrying new hardbacks in handy Book Festival-branded tote bags.”

“Scotland was a coal economy and it was from the coalfields of Fife, the Lothians, Lanarkshire and Ayrshire that modest six-coupled steam locomotives of late-Victorian design hauled trains of wagons to the towns and cities, where coal was then used for heating, industry and transport. Practically every room in every household had a coal fire and the belching chimneys of factories ensured that the air in industrial areas was usually filthy with sooty smoke and, in autumn and winter, thick smogs enveloped the cities. The porous sandstone from which most of central Scotland's buildings were constructed was consequently uniformly black with absorbed pollution. People smoked everywhere - at home, at work, on transport, in cafes, bars and restaurants and even at their seats in the cinema. Clothing became saturated in smoke from coal and tabacco alike and so, for housewives, doing the washing was a constant burden.”

“Excuse me?” The librarian looked up again. “I need help now. I need to print this article and . . . do you have any books about dukes?” The librarian’s eyes went wide and she rubbed her hands together with glee. “We have a fantastic romance section,” she said. “Do you need recommendations? How do you like your dukes? Grumpy? Tortured? Alpha, beta, or alpha in the streets, beta in the sheets?” “Actually, I meant nonfiction,” Portia said glumly. The librarian sighed. “Aye. Just a warning, love—the non-fic dukes are not nearly as fun.”

“Tommy looked blank. "What's a flashlight?" "You don't have flashlights?" Jessup said. "Jeeze! A cylinder, like, with batteries inside it, and a light bulb behind glass at one end--" Tommy's blue eyes glinted dangerously. "We have a thing in Scotland that's a cylinder too. Very thin, made of wood, with graphite in the center. We call it a pencil." Jessup hooted. "You think we don't have pencils?" "You think we don't have flashlights?" Tommy snapped. "That's just American dialect. In the English language they're called torches." Emily said mildly, "Actually we're Canadians.”

“Wan decade frae wir last self-defeatin referendum, we're close tae hae the centenary ae MacDiarmid's masterpiece, A Drunk Man Looks at the Thistle. Oan the man's daith, Norman MacCaig said they should observe twa minutes' pandemonium. Fine description ae MacDiarmid himself, as much as whit he unleashed. MacDiarmid wiss Scotland's ultimate political poet. We winna rehearse the man's mony faults here - "problematic", says Heaney. Aye. And in spite ae this, MacDiarmid's mair important tae the cause ae Scots and Scotland than ony ither poet frae the previous century. "My job, as I see it, has never been to lay a tit's egg, but to erupt like a volcano, emitting not only flame, but a lot of rubbish." And that's hou Mount MacDiarmid maun be regarded: tempted as we may be tae tak oot the rubbish, we canna thraw the hail lot awa, as wull shairly be settin the bins ablaze. An whit's mair self-defeatin nor a bin fire?”

“Now Scots, it must be observed, is not English badly spelled; nor is it a dialect of English. To simplify, but not in a direction away from the truth; the Scots language was a development - and by now is a degeneration - of the Anglian branch of what is called Old English, and was originally spoken from the Forth to the Humber - that's to say, on both sides of the Border. The Saxon branch to the South flourished and became what we call English. With the establishment of the Border, the Anglian branch developed as Scots. Scots and English, therefore, are cousin languages with a common ancestor, and it is as absurdto call Scots a dialect of English as it would be to call English a dialect of Scots.”

“According to analysis by Scottish Environment LINK, Scottish Natural Heritage's overall budget allocation fell from £80.5 million in 2010-11 to £46.5 million in 2019-20, a 42 per cent reduction in real terms. In the same period the budgets of the government's other environment advosory agencies were also slashed, SEPA's by 34.4 per cent and RESAS's (Rural & Environmental Science & Analytical Services) by 41 per cent. In the severity of these cuts, we saw the divide between rhetoric and reality, between the government's stated commitment to the environment and their true financial investment.”

“There, before me, was a pond surrounded by large patches of tall grass and spindly trees that swayed gently with the cool breeze. In the middle of the water was a man hunched over, bound to two tree stumps. He was moaning and in pain. I could feel it from where I stood. I moved towards him but stopped when a deep voice spoke in the darkness. “Do not touch him.”

“What’s wrong? Where’s Gavin?” Mabellio grabbed my shoulders as I tried to barge through the door. “He’s fine.” He paused. “Now.” “Oh my God,” I cried. “I want to see him.” Golar spoke in a calm, soothing tone. “You may, but understand he will need time to heal before he can journey anywhere. You both are welcome to stay, along with Oliver, of course, until he is able.” I nodded my head quickly. “Thank you.” I started to walk through the doorway but turned back towards Golar and Mabellio. “Do you know how or why he is even here? I am utterly confused. This is my dream. My nightmare. How is he a part of that?”

“In an instant, five harlequin-like clowns emerged and began to perform all kinds of acrobatic tricks, encircling us––correction...corralling us. They were graceful but a little creepy too. They were wearing black and white costumes that were form fitting and appeared to move like some psychedelic drug trip when they flipped around. That of course was odd, but not nearly as odd as the chant they were singing as they continued to perform their tricks. See us dance. Watch us flip. Care to take a chance? We’ll only need a sip. Come to see our mistress? Or come to see our master? She can be quite viscous. But he is a disaster. We love them both, and we’ll let you choose. Either way, we wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

“What happened in Scotland in the 1960s and the 1970s and what laid the foundation for the enormous creative achievements of the 1980s was the liberation of the voice. The Scottish voice declared its independence. The liberation of the voice was at first the acceptance of and an assertion of the vernacular. But the real liberation of the voice came not from the assertion of the rights of the vernacular itself, but from the assertion of the right to move without boundaries between the vernacular and standard English, between the demotic and the literary.”

“It is... difficult to dissociate Jamie's preoccupation with questions of land access and ownership from the fact that she is writing out of a country with one of the most unequal distributions of land ownership in Europe. Jamie has referred to 'the scandalous business of land ownership, especially in Scotland, where 80% of the land is owned by 10% of the people, and issues related to these imbalances often surface in her work. In a recent interview, Jamie remarked: 'I feel I might be striking a tiny blow: by getting out into thse places, and developing a language and a way of seeing that is not theirs but ours... It's the simplest act of resistance and renewal.”

“My angel of mercy.” The gut-wrenching words stabbed Masie in the chest. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called that. She looked down, horrified by what she saw. He was lying in a pool of blood, his hand out-stretched. “My angel,” he wheezed as he struggled to breathe. He was a warrior, strong and fearless. She bent down and whispered softly in his ear, “Close yer eyes and I’ll end yer pain.” She paused just before her teeth sank into his flesh. Something within his essence held her back. He had to live.”