Quotes About Ernest

Oh, don't cough, Ernest. When one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. Besides, I don't know how to spell a cough.

Ernest Goss fell backward into the piano again, fortissmo. He regained his balance with an E-flat chord and lunged at Teddy.

There is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. I pity any poor woman whose husband is not called Ernest.

The fact that I am interrupting serious work to answer these questions proves that I am so stupid that I should be penalized severely. I will be. Don't worry.

Ernest Hemingway once wrote that "There is no hunting like the hunting of man and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else thereafter." Let

A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists, all powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death.

Before Ernest could start walking back the cat, Melrose put in, "But isn't it rather we who have come here, Mrs. Attaboy?" At her uncomprehending look, he plowed on. "It is their country." "What? Africa?" "If Africa were a country, the answer would be yes.

Perhaps Ernest's marriage meant, as I'd said, that there was no cliff to fling myself from. But what did that matter when love itself was an ocean, and you could drown in even a teacup of it?

It was the end of Ernest's struggle with apprenticeship, and an end to other things as well. He would never again be unknown. We would never again be this unhappy.

I met the devil,' Ernest said, finishing his glass of wine, 'and he doesn't give a damn about art.

It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should—a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds. I held my reel and felt the line list, and was back in Cologne with Ernest and Chink. Back at my first fish, knowing there wouldn't be any fish without this one, and no love without this first one either.

I did finally make it to Paris, in June of 2010. And though most tourists go straight to the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre, or to Notre-Dame Cathedral, I headed for the chipped blue door of 74 rue du Cardinal Lemoine, Hadley and Ernest's first apartment in the Latin Quarter. The

Memory couldn't be counted on. Time was unreliable and everything dissolved and died—even or especially when it looked like life. Like spring. All around us, the grass grew. Birds made a living racket in the trees. The sun beat down with promise. From that moment forward, Ernest would always hate the spring.

Knowing that he should impress Bob meant that Ernest was ineluctably drawn to offend him.