Quotes About Gossip

Thank you from the bottom of my heart, but I don't want my boy starting out with something like this over his head. Best way to clear the air is to have it all out in the open. Let the county come and bring sandwiches. I don't want him growing up with a whisper about him, I don't want anybody saying, 'Jem Finch… his daddy paid a mint to get him out of that.

Miss Maudie settled her bridgework. "You know old Mr. Radley was a foot-washing Baptist—" "That's what you are, ain't it?" "My shell's not that hard, child. I'm just a Baptist.

That is three-fourths colored folks and one-fourth Stephanie Crawford

Cecil Jacobs, who lived at the far end of our street next door to the post office, walked a total of one mile per school day to avoid the Radley Place and old Mrs. Henry Lafayette Dubose. Mrs. Dubose lived two doors up the street from us; neighborhood opinion was unanimous that Mrs. Dubose was the meanest old woman who ever lived. Jem wouldn't go by her place without Atticus beside him.

The Radley Place was inhabited by an unknown entity the mere description of whom was enough to make us behave for days on end; Mrs. Dubose was plain hell.

Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight...

To all parties present and participating in the life of the county, however, Alexandra was the last of her kind: she had river-boat, boarding-school manners; let any moral come along and she would uphold it; she was a disapprover; she was an incurable gossip.

Didn't you know? Hasn't Atticus gotten around to telling you that? Why, I'm amazed at Zandra not . . . good heavens, I thought all of Maycomb knew that." "Knew what?" "I was in love with your mother." "My mother?

From the day Mr Radley took Arthur home, people said the house died.

Mary Webster was on the blower. Her advance agents saw Hank and me swimming in the middle of the river last night with no clothes on. H'rm, said Atticus. He touched his glasses. I hope you weren't doing the backstroke.

Dead men tell no tales, says the proverb. One wishes they could. We should miss some spicy contributions to magazine and newspaper literature; and a sudden silence would fall upon some loud-mouthed living.

There are two good rules which ought to be written on every heart - never to believe anything bad about anybody unless you positively know it to be true; never to tell even that unless you feel that it is absolutely necessary, and that God is listening.

There have been a lot of stories written about me, some of them fantastically distorted.

A lot of stuff written about me is rubbish. I don't know where they get it from, sometimes.

A lot of the tabloid stories are written so well, they're very clever and very funny. But you have to focus on what's really important and not read them - don't dive into it and don't get caught up in it.

So I have been careful about where I go and who I hang out with because if you tell someone the wrong thing, then it's everywhere.

Many of us will be obsessed with one or another kind of secret or revelation, be it gossip about friends or ourselves, a fantasy about spies, or a worry about the most personal information now stored in data banks. But few of us think about secrets in general, or about the moral rights and wrongs of hiding or exposing them.

I like James Franco. I think he's really cute. I remember a while ago there was a rumor going around that he was getting married and all my friends and I were freaking out. Yeah, I think he's cute!

People really feed on someone else's tragedies or problems.

I don't buy the tabloids, but you're surrounded by it all and people tell you things they've read. I'd be sitting on a train looking over someone's shoulder and thinking: That's familiar... oh my God, it's me.

'Anna Karenina' is just a story about a woman falling in love with a bloke who is not her husband. It's gossip, rubbish - on the other hand, it's the deepest story there could be about social transgression, about love, betrayal, duty, children.

Try hard not to create too much hope and fear," for they only engender more mental gossip.

A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

A small town has as many eyes as a fly