Quotes About Author

Maybe I should start with a question," he says. "Do you agree that inventory is a liability?" "Of course, everybody knows that. And even if we didn't know it, the last few months have shown to what extent inventory is a liability.

And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son? When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head. (And I have my dead.)

Though God hath raised me high, yet this I count the glory of my crown: that I have reigned with your loves.

To tell you the truth, she doesn't. Freak is the correct pronunciation," he said, then pointed north. "They're the ones who pretend it's something else.

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb The crowns o the world; oh, eyes sublime With tears and laughter for all time!

What monster have we here? A great Deed at this hour of day? A great just deed -- and not for pay? Absurd -- or insincere?

I am one who could have forgotten the plague, listening to Boccaccio's stories; and I am not ashamed of it.

Pomegranates you may cut deep down the middle and see into, but not hearts,—so why should I try and speak?

Did you ever read Bulwer's 'Eva, or the Unhappy Marriage'?

The other day, however, Mrs. Trollope and her daughter-in-law called on us, and it is settled that we are to know them; though Robert had made a sort of vow never to sit in the same room with the author of certain books directed against liberal institutions and Victor Hugo's poetry.

Flush highly approves of Pisa (and the roasted chestnuts), because here he goes out every day and speaks Italian to the little dogs.

Flushie means to bark the next time he sees you in revenge for what you say of him.

To prove to you that I who 'used to care' for poetry do so still, and that I have not been absolutely idle lately, an 'Athenaeum' shall be sent to you containing a poem on the subject of the removal of Napoleon's ashes. It is a fitter subject for you than for me. Napoleon is no idol of mine. I never made a 'setting sun' of him.

She said that she did not see Balzac. Balzac went into the world scarcely at all, frequenting the lowest cafés, so that it was difficult to track him out. Which information I receive doubtingly. The rumours about Balzac with certain parties in Paris are not likely to be too favorable nor at all reliable, I should fancy; besides, I never entertain disparaging thoughts of my demi-gods unless they should be forced upon me by evidence you must know.

Have you read 'Shirley,' and is it as good as 'Jane Eyre'? We heard not long since that Mr. Chorley had discovered the author, the 'Currer Bell.' A woman, most certainly.

Like the minor poet who knows the meanness of his gift, I am doomed to a lifetime of frustration: to be able to comprehend beauty, but not create it.

Peter handed me a glass of wine—my own Neon White Red,

She laid a hand on his shoulder, a motherly gesture that made his skin crawl.

She blinked, and considered and slicked her whiskers against her face in contemplation.

Politeness counts the effort, or so one of my clademothers used to say.

She laughed, a cat's soundless amusement, and nodded thanks.

You generally need at least a modicrum of stability for people to have the time and resources to innovate and the will to make risky choices.

The dry tone, brittle enough to break an edge and cut yourself on.

Cynric did not make merely human errors. Her mistakes were more on the epic scale, her failings those of demigods.