Quotes About Woman

That awful thing, a woman's memory!

One should never trust a woman who tells one her real age. A woman who would tell one that, would tell one anything.

Colonel. Can she read and write?   Peter. Ay, that she can, sir. Colonel. Then she is a dangerous woman.

Look at the moon. How strange the moon seems! She is like a woman rising from a tomb. She is like a dead woman. One might fancy she was looking for dead things.

Indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age.  It looks so calculating .

Wenn eine Frau ihre Fehler nicht charmant begehen kann, ist sie nichts als ein Weib.

That awful thing, a woman's memory!

Never trust a woman who wears mauve, whatever her age may be, or a woman over thirty-five who is fond of pink ribbons. It always means that they have a history.

The Book of Life begins with a man and a woman in a garden. It ends with Revelations. In

I don't know how it is with others, but for me the charm of a woman increases if she is a young traveler, has spent five days on a scientific trip lying on the hard bench of the Tashkent train, knows her way around in Linnaean Latin, knows which side she is on in the dispute between the Lamarckians and the epigeneticists, and is not indifferent to the soybean, cotton, or chicory.

Man makes history; woman is history. The reproduction of the species is feminine: it runs steadily and quietly through all species, animal or human, through all short-lived cultures. It is primary, unchanging, everlasting, maternal, plantlike, and cultureless. If we look back we find that it is synonymous with life itself.

Maybe she was drunk - the woman never could drink. One little sniff of tequila and she was off into some blonde la-la land.

Hell, it is well known, has no fury like a woman who wants her tea and can't get it.

Abandon the idea, Jeeves. I fear you have not studied the sex as I have. Missing her lunch means little or nothing to the female of the species. The feminine attitude toward lunch is notoriously airy and casual. Where you have made your bloomer is confusing lunch with tea. Hell, it is well known, has no fury like a woman who wants her tea and can't get it. At such times the most amiable of the sex become mere bombs which a spark may ignite. Bertie Wooster

She laughed - a bit louder than I could have wished in my frail state of health, but then she is always a woman who tends to bring plaster falling from the ceiling when amused.

That's what I meant when I said that about the cheek of Woman as a sex. What I mean is, after what had happened, you'd have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that sort of thing, what?

Bar a weekly wrestle with the Pink 'Un and an occasional dip into the form book I'm not much of a lad for reading, and my sufferings as I tackled The Woman (curse her!) Who Braved All were pretty fearful.

She ignored my observation. This generally happens with me. Show me a woman, I sometimes say, and I will show you someone who is going to ignore my observations.

Here, you! The boss wants you. Buck up!' Mr Stafford was talking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as Henry entered. 'Oh, Rice, here's a woman wants her husband shadowed while he's on the road. He's an actor. I'm sending you. Go to this address, and get photographs and all particulars. You'll have to catch the eleven o'clock train on Friday.' 'Yes, sir.' 'He's in The Girl

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And until tonight I had always felt that there was a lot in it. I had never scorned a woman myself, but Pongo Twistleton once scorned an aunt of his, flatly refusing to meet her son Gerald at Paddington and give him lunch and see him off to school at Waterloo, and he never heard the end of it.

Body of my woman, I will persist in your grace.

Full woman, fleshly apple, hot moon, thick smell of seaweed, crushed mud and light, what obscure brilliance opens between your columns? What ancient night does a man touch with his senses? Loving is a journey with water and with stars, with smothered air and abrupt storms of flour: loving is a clash of lightning-bolts and two bodies defeated by a single drop of honey.

The sun is touching every door and making wonder of the wheat. The first wine is pink in colour, is sweet with the sweetness of a child, the second wine is able-bodied, strong like the voice of a sailor, the third wine is a topaz, is a poppy and a fire in one. My house has both the sea and the earth, my woman has great eyes the colour of wild hazelnut, when night comes down, the sea puts on a dress of white and green...

Oh yeah, that's what you want to be," she muttered as she slammed the drawer shut and fumbled for the one next to it, "the kind of woman men sleep with out of pity.