Quotes About Village

Good works? About the village, sir. Reading to the bedridden - chatting with the sick - that sort of thing, sir. We can but trust that good results will ensue. Yes, I suppose so, I said doubtfully. But, by gosh, if I were a sick man I'd hate to have a looney like young Bingo coming and gibbering at my bedside.

From one hell to another, what difference? In the howling of your legions, in the holy milk of the mothers of Spain, in the milk and the bosoms trampled along the roads, there is one more village, one more silence, a broken door. Here

The corporate approach to agriculture or manufacturing or medicine or war increasingly undertakes to help at the risk of harm, sometimes of great harm. And once the risk of harm is appraised as "acceptable," the result often is absurdity: We destroy a village in order to save it; we destroy freedom in order to save it; we destroy the world in order to live in it.

Shall they return to beating of great bells In wild train-loads? A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to village wells, Up half-known roads.

Surely heaven must have something of the color and shape of whatever village or hill or cottage of which the believer says, This is my own.

The train could be stopped with a red flag, but by ordinary it appeared out of the devastated hills with apparitionlike suddenness and wailing like a banshee, athward and past that little less-than-village like a forgotten bead from a broken string.

A word? the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His mile was more angelic than his face Buttercup halted. Speak. We are but poor circus performers, the Sicilian explained, It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills. You were misinformed, Buttercup told him, There is no one, not for many miles. Then there will be no one to hear you scream.

We are but poor circus performers. the Sicilian explained. It is dark and we are lost. We were told that there is a village nearby that might enjoy our skills. You were misinformed, Buttercup said. There is no one not for many miles. Then no one will be able to hear you scream. the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward her face.

The village boys. The beef-witted featherbrained rattleskulled clodpated dim-domed noodle-noggined sapheaded lunk-knobbed boys.

We did not have hurry. We did not have electricity or fresh water or sadness either, because none of these had been connected to our village yet.

We never tasted tea in my village, even though they grow it in the east of my country, where the land rises up into the clouds and the trees grow long soft beards of moss from the wet air. There in the east, the plantations stretch up the green hillsides and vanish into the mist. The tea they grow, that vanishes too. I think all of it is exported. Myself I never tasted tea until I was exported with it.

There are no goats. That is why you have all these beautiful flowers." "There were goats, in your village?" "Yes, and they ate all the flowers." "I'm sorry." "Do not be sorry. We ate all the goats.

For me and the girls from my village, horror is a disease and we are sick with it. It is not an illness you can cure yourself of by standing up and letting the big red cinema seat fold itself up behind you.

Known collectively as Paracuellos, for the village outside Madrid where the shootings took place, this was the clearest equivalent in the history of the Republic at war to the prison sacas

There was an uncanny mixture of terror and fiesta – executions followed by village fêtes and dances, both of which the local population was obliged to attend.64

As it is he hears voices without form; they sing and sing, as they have from the beginning and will continue until the end. Chad borrows their melodies: That's the music part of the songs he wrotes.For words Ched uses rhymes from our village, the kind that nobody pays attention to anymore because they advocate living by a code that will surely make you one of life's losers.

The only thing that disturbs us here in the village is the foreign soldiers. Soldiers, soldiers, soldiers, patrolling. They fight us and they try to tell us, in our own language, that they're freeing us.

In this sense, a vacation home, a highway, a supermarket in the countryside are all part of the urban fabric. Of varying density, thickness, and activity, the only regions untouched by it are those that are stagnant or dying, those that are given over to "nature." With the decline of the village life of days gone by, agricultural producers, "farmers," are confronted with the agricultural town.

But the town was Shelltown and Shelltown is now Ellisdale, a crossroads village near by with old houses of its own. Close by, too, is Arneytown, sinking among memories of the past, its Quaker meeting-house taken down and its red brick smithy closed. But Waln's Mill was apart from even these.

Under the spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands;The smith a mighty man is heWith large and sinewy hands.And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strong as iron bands.

The shades of night were falling fast,As though an Alpine village passedA youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,A banner with the strange device,ExcelsiorHis brow was sad his eye beneath,Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,And like a silver clarion rungThe accents of that unknown tongue,Excelsior

The morning of the funeral an honor guard from Albuquerque fired the salute; two big flags covered the coffins completely, and it looked as if the people from the village had gathered only to bury the flags.

Only now that village ways are rapidly disappearing throughout the world can we estimate all that the city owes to them for the vital energy and loving nature that made possible man's further development.

That need for police and laws and moral commandments to be nice to strangers doesn't arise in tiny societies, in which everyone knows everyone else.