Quotes About Friendship

While shared values aren't sufficient for friendship, friendship is impossible without shared values. In fact, one reason people are hurt by those they had considered friends is that friends are too often chosen without attention to their values.

I have a simple rule that is of great value in identifying whom to trust: Do not choose friends on the basis of personality, 'chemistry,' or enjoyment alone. Know their character (i.e. their values and whether they act on those values) before you trust them.

If you really serious 'bout helpin' somebody, crawl down in the ditch with 'em, bandage up their wounds, and stick with 'em until they is strong enough to crawl up on your back and get out

There are a few people who tell me that they are so used to a solitary life that they will die alone, but even here I advise them that if they are thinking of self-deliverance the chances of the action not being botched are much better if a friend is present.

Much depends on your attitude. If you are filled with negative judgment and anger, then you will feel separate from other people. You will feel lonely. But if you have an open heart and are filled with trust and friendship, even if you are physically alone, even living a hermit's life, you will never feel lonely.

Thy life's journey lies along its own path, Ian," she said, "and I cannot share thy journey—but I can walk beside thee. And I will.

Is that you, Geordie?" he asked, not turning around. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, and had a small tool of some kind in his hand, with which he was doing something to the innards of the press. "Took ye long enough. Did ye get the—" "It isn't Geordie," I said. My voice was higher than usual. "It's me," I said.

I was convinced by now that his feelings for Laoghaire were only those of a chivalrous friendship, but I didn't know what he might do if he knew that his uncle had seduced the girl and got her with child.

Una dama novelista me dijo una vez, que escribir novelas era arte de caníbales, pues uno mezcla con frecuencia pequeñas porciones de sus amigos y sus enemigos, los sazona con imaginación y permite que todo eso se cocine en un sabroso guiso

I'm glad you're not dead. Wasn't sure for a bit." Hal went out before he could reply. Tears welled in John's eyes, and he dashed at them with the sleeve of his nightshirt, muttering irritably in a vain attempt to convince himself that he wasn't moved.

He could not help himself; whether it brought him comfort or misery, he felt he had no choice now but to speak of Fraser—and Quarry was the only man in London to whom he could so speak.

Did ye not mean to go to Confession yourself?" Jamie asked, stopping near the church's main door. There was a priest in the confessional; two or three people stood a discreet distance away from the carved wooden stall, out of earshot, waiting. "It'll bide," Ian said, with a shrug. "If ye're goin' to hell, I might as well go, too. God knows, ye'll never manage alone." Jamie

writing novels was a cannibal's art, in which one often mixed small portions of one's friends and one's enemies together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew together into a savory concoction.

I am deeply indebted to many people who have shared their love of and insights into these remarkable books with me over the years, none more than Jessica Matthews of George Mason University.

He set off toward Walnut Street, no longer numb. He felt once more himself, strong and determined. There was, after all, one more service he might perform for Jamie Fraser. "You must marry me," he repeated.

Mac had found him. A big hand had suddenly reached down and grabbed him, and the next minute he was lifted up, bruised and scraped and bleeding but clutched tight against the Scottish groom's rough shirt, strong arms holding him as though they'd never let him go.

Ian made a dissentient noise through his nose. Aye, and if I were to try bein' a Friend, who would there be to protect the lot of 'em? Rachel and her brother and Dottie, I mean. Ye ken that, don't ye? That they can only be what they are because you and I are what we are?

Don't you know any better, guava-head?" "Don't call me that!" the smaller boy shouted, face contorting in rage. "Shitface!" "Frog-guts!" "Caca-brains!

and in fact, he was, but…" He cleared his throat, and Ian reached into his pack and handed him a battered flask. Dark as it was, he felt the crude fleur-de-lis under his thumb. It was Ian Mòr's old soldier's flask, which his friend had kept from their time in France as young mercenaries, and the feel of it steadied him.

I wouldna tell ye if I did," he said, just as quietly. "But I don't." "Would you warn him—if you could?" Grey asked. He oughtn't, but was possessed by curiosity. "I would," Fraser replied without hesitation. He turned round now and looked down at Grey, expressionless. "He was once my friend." So was I, Grey thought, and took more brandy. Am I now again? But not even the most exigent curiosity would make him ask.

friend's face that something terrible had happened. The fact that he was seeing Jamie Fraser's face at all was evidence enough of that, never mind the look of the man.

Here's tae us. Wha's like us?" "Damned few," she replied in broad Scots, "and they're all deid.

Oh, God, John!" he said. I stopped dead, halted much more by the tone of that voice than by the words—it was broken with an emotion I had seldom heard from him. Walking very quietly, I drew closer. Framed in the half-open door was Jamie, head bowed as he pressed Lord John Grey tight in a fervent embrace. I stood still, completely incapable of movement or speech. As I watched, they broke apart.

I didn't want to pursue the history of John's eye any further. Other considerations aside, any discussion might lead a little too close to Wentworth Prison for comfort. However close a friend Jamie might have considered John during the last few years, I was positive that he'd never told John about Black Jack Randall and what had happened at Wentworth.