Quotes About Contrast

I often thought about him during the war; if only Novecento were here, who knows what he'd do, what he'd say. 'Fuck war', he'd say. But somehow, coming from me, it wasn't the same.

Closing in on three hundred pounds, the woman with her in lockup looked like a Sumo wrestler squeezed into a bright, lime-green spandex outfit. She might have been a jogger, but her garish makeup suggested otherwise.

A nudist? In Edinburgh? Does he realise what parallel we're on?

When she had lived in Bobonong the houses seemed perfectly normal to her and the house in which her family lived had seemed quite comfortable. But looking at it with eyes that had seen Gaborone, and the large buildings there, their house had seemed mean and cramped.

You should have seen him," she said. "A real ladies' man. Stuff in his hair. Dark glasses. Fancy shoes. He had no idea how funny he looked. I much prefer men with ordinary shoes and honest trousers.

His two young mechanics lived in a completely different world, it seemed to him. This was not the world that he and Mma Ramotswe inhabited - a world in which people went about their business in an orderly way, drank tea at regular intervals, and retired to bed before nine-thirty at night.

But then men do not see things the same way we do, she thought. They have different eyes.

It will be good for them to get out of London and get some country air. All those people in London breathing the air in and out; just think of it, Emma. Just think of all that breathing going on in London—it's a wonder there's any air left for the rest of us.

All cats are grey in the dark, he had written in one chapter. So remember that how much you can see of a situation depends on how much light you can shine upon it.

How sorry she felt for white people, who couldn't do any of this, and who were always dashing around and worrying themselves over things that were going to happen anyway. What use was it having all that money if you could never sit still or just watch your cattle eating grass? None, in her view; none at all, and yet they did not know it. Every so often you met a white person

Penury was a matter of hard chairs and mean cushions; prosperity—old money—was a matter of feathers: an absurd reductionist view of it, but at times quite strikingly true.

How rapid was his look and bashful, Tender and bold, while off and on With an obedient tear it shone.

Troco o mundo gentil e pacato Pelo esplendoroso espalhafato...

It was a land of almost breathtaking beauty or of savage poverty; a land of screaming ghosts or of sun-flung possibilities; a land of inviting warmth or of desperate drought. How you see a country depends on whether you are driving through it, or living in it. How you see a country depends on whether or not you can leave it, if you have to.

No woman can be truly beautiful who is not, also sometimes, truly ugly.

They have a saying, the French, that no woman, can be truly beautiful who is not also sometimes truly ugly.

Unfortunately in this world of ours, each person views things through a certain medium, which prevents his seeing them in the same light as others…

Here we would notice that what we would call Japanese aesthetics (in contrast to Western aesthetics) is more concerned with process than with product, with the actual construction of a self than with self-expression. The

The happier people become the more I noticed my sadness.

Gone was the cream and rose complexion he'd remembered. She was tan, which changed everything. What with the loose, wild hair, it lent an almost... heathenish edge, giving her normally pretty blue gaze a somewhat piercing, laser-like quality. Conversely, though she'd always been a sturdy thing, lithe, but strong and solid, at the moment, she looked... enveloped by the chef coat she wore, as if it were a size too big, or she'd suddenly grown smaller.

Sometimes I get bored riding down the beautiful streets of L.A. I know it sounds crazy, but I just want to go to New York and see people suffer.

Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence Ã¢â'¬Â¦ —HELEN KELLER

Death comes to me again, a girl in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling. It's not so terrible she tells me, not like you think, all darkness and silence. There are windchimes and the smell of lemons, some days it rains, but more often the air is dry and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase built from hair and bone and listen to the voices of the living. I like it, she says, shaking the dust from her hair, especially when they fight, and when they sing.

Oh, well. Everyone else has suave, cosmopolitan sheep: why not us? The Millers at Hepple have a ewe that's been to Kelso three times, and they've never been farther than Ford in their lives." Kate peered absently into the farm pond, and clucked again. "Thoughtless creatures. They've forgotten the fish.