Axe Forgets Quotes

The axe forgets; the tree remembers

It was muskets that won the Revolution. And don't forget it was axes, and plows that made this country.- Father Wilder

Alice in Darkness Forget tears. Chasing white animals with timepieces in this drug-trip landscape can only lead to more of same. Hedgehogs, playing cards, paintbrushes: full of undisclosed danger. Didn't your mother tell you not to kiss strangers? That Cheshire smile shouldn't fool you. Pull your skirt down. Your nails are growing so fast you're hardly human. Alice, fight your version of Bedlam as long as you can. Sleep the sweet dream away from that gooey looking glass, or mushrooms, or the fear of your own body. Forget what the night tastes like. Stop wondering through the shadows, holding your neck out for the slice of the axe.

Griff held his breath, waiting for it, knowing the axe would fall and he‘d start dying as soon as he walked out the fucking door, and Dante would just grin and joke and try to forget what they had done together in this room.

But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers.

That's the noise that made the Redcoats run!" Mr. Paddock said to Father. "Maybe," Father said, tugging his beard. "But it was muskets that won the Revolution. And don't forget it was axes and plows that made this country." "That's so, come to think of it," Mr. Paddock said.

The tree remembers what the axe forgets...

Most people font like holding on to anger. They feel it crushing and consuming them, so they let it go. They try to forget the ways they’ve been wronged. But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers. They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry. Good thing we’re extra strong.

Pick the axe; chop off the anger; burn the pieces and bury the ashes. Anger kills before it is noticed. It travels faster to the destination to destroy long before conscience arrives to regret it!

The cannons leaped backward, the air was full of flying grass and weeds. Almanzo ran with all the other boys to feel the warm muzzles of the cannons. Everybody was exclaiming about what a loud noise they had made. “That’s the noise that made the Redcoats run!” Mr. Paddock said to Father. “Maybe,” Father said, tugging his beard. “But it was muskets that won the Revolution. And don’t forget it was axes and plows that made this country.

All those years of remembering, carrying, and suffering over this person, and he probably hadn't thought about me at all since I'd moved away. I was willing to bet all my tormentors were also suffering from this kind of amnesia-- they didn't think about, care about, or remember what they'd done to me. The axe forgets; the tree remembers.

I also got into difficulties by first calling Eurycleia “Eurynome” and then forgetting and using her real name; so that later on I had to pretend that there were two of her. And I forgot, in my account of the massacre, that Penelope’s lovers—whom I make her suitors because the legend, as Phemius used to tell it, disgusts any decent audience—could have armed themselves with the twelve long axes through which Odysseus shot, and used them as maces to hack him and his men in little pieces. But Homer, I am sure, went equally wrong at times, and I flatter myself that my story is interesting enough to blind Phemius’s listeners to its faults, even if he has a cold, or the banquet is badly cooked, or the good dark wine runs short.

Hatred is a poison served in three cups. The first is when people despise those they desire—because they want to have them in their possession. It’s all out of hubris! The second is when people loathe those they do not understand. It’s all out of fear! Then there is the third kind—when people hate those they have hurt.” “But why?” “Because the tree remembers what the axe forgets.” “What does that mean?” “It means it’s not the harmer who bears the scars, but the one who has been harmed.

Victor said, ‘I’m going to take this axe and I’m going to hack off one of your hands. The blade is dull and I couldn’t find a whetstone so it might take a couple of blows to do the job, so you’ll need to be patient. The pain and the fear will be like nothing you’ve ever experienced, but the horror of watching the stump where your wrist used to be spray blood everywhere is going to be like nothing you can even imagine. At that point you won’t be worried by what your employers might do to you. You’ll bleed to death in about two minutes. Which is why I’m telling you now: don’t forget the stove. When I sever your hand, you’re going to be free of that post. It’s only 20 feet to that stove, but it’s going to feel like a mile. Focus on it now, because you’re going to be in shock. When you cauterise the wound against the cast iron, you’re probably going to pass out, but I’ll wake you up again. If your heart stops, I’ll use the epinephrine you brought to bring you back. If you don’t talk to me then, if you don’t give what I want to know about your employers, I’ll take your other hand. After that, I’ll start improvising. Are you ready?’ Niven’s gaze flicked between the axe and Victor’s eyes. ‘You… you can’t be serious.’ Victor raised the axe.

That afternoon, Fremantle turned the football world on its head. Mark Harvey had been axed, to be replaced by Ross Lyon, a coach who had taken the Saints to four successive finals campaigns and three Grand Finals, and who was walking out of the final year of his contract. Forget the AFL finals were happening - this was the news of the week, if not the year!

Ever heard the proverb: The axe forgets, but the tree remembers

All those years of remembering, carrying, and suffering over this person, and he probably hadn’t thought about me at all since I’d moved away. I was willing to bet all my tormentors were also suffering from this kind of amnesia—they didn’t think about, care about, or remember what they’d done to me. The axe forgets; the tree remembers.

He took a table in a dark corner and tried to forget the suit, the dismissive look in the girl’s eyes.

(...) pick up your axe, start at the roots don't miss the trunk, never forget: to end life truly and finally start at the roots or end there.

You are carrying Luis Philippe's child," he stated without preamble. The name did not sound strange on this man's tongue, but it took Lily a moment to respond to it. She merely nodded her head in reply. She had a feeling she would need to save her voice for what would follow. "I had hoped my grandson would find a wife among his own people." Antonio took a bedroom chair but continued to hold himself stiffly upright. Lily lifted an inquiring brow. His own people? Had the man forgotten that Cade was equally Indian? Antonio scowled at her response. "Among my people. It would be easier to show that he is a de Suela if he had married appropriately." This man had come here with an axe to grind, and nothing she could say would stop him. Why waste her voice in trying? She reached for the shawl on her bedside stand and wrapped it around her. Her silence forced de Suela to realize he left her no room for comment. "He tells me you are a wealthy lady in your own right. I should not complain. I apologize. I am an old man and have come to realize that many of my dreams will never come true. For many years I have wished for a child to carry on my name, but I thought it was not to be. Now that I have found my grandson, I wish him to be everything that I would have made of him. I forget that he is already a man of his own." "Very much so," Lily whispered, finally hearing something with which she could agree. Antonio nodded. "I think you are a good woman. We will make the family see that you are one of us, as they must come to see that Luis is mine. It is good that he takes my name. The child you carry will be a de Suela. Luis has done the right thing by bringing you here. I am not so old that there is not time to see my destiny passed on to my grandson and his child." Lily felt a flicker of alarm, but the old man was already rising, and the shakiness of his hand on the stick prevented her from protesting aloud.

So how are things otherwise? Are Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee behaving themselves?” Kat shook her head. “I just don’t know. Lock is a sweetheart, as always. But Deep…well, Deep is Deep. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.” Sophie frowned. “Meaning what—that you two are still fighting?” “We have what you could call an uneasy truce right now,” Kat said. She looked behind her and then leaned closer to the viewscreen and lowered her voice. “But I found something out about him. Something he did—” “Kat,” a deep male voice said from somewhere off screen. “The ship leaves very soon. You need to hurry.” “Just a minute!” Kat looked harassed. “We have to leave on the flower hunt tonight and the guys are waiting outside the shuttle so I can talk to you two privately. But I guess they’re getting impatient.” “Forget about them,” Liv said. “Tell us what you found out. Is he an axe murderer? A gigolo?” “No,” Sophie cut in. “She said it was something he did. What did he do, Kat? Was it awful?” “Kat!” said the deep male voice again. “We have to go now.” Kat sighed. “Sorry, I guess I’ll have to tell you later. But believe me, you will never guess in a million years. Love you both.” She blew kisses at the viewscreen and Liv and Sophie did the same. “Kat,

The House of Fantasy is built of stone and wood and furnished in High Medieval. Its people travel by horse and galley, fight with sword and spell and battle-axe, communicate by palantir or raven, and break bread with elves and dragons. The House of Science Fiction is built of duralloy and plastic and furnished in Faux Future. Its people travel by starship and aircar, fight with nukes and tailored germs, communicate by ansible and laser, and break protein bars with aliens. The House of Horror is built of bone and cobwebs and furnished in Ghastly Gothick. Its people travel only by night, fight with anything that will kill messily, communicate in screams and shrieks and gibbers, and sip blood with vampires and werewolves. The Furniture Rule, I call it. Forget the definitions. Furniture Rules.

He never bothered any one to learn dates — but the dates stuck in the memory just the same. If, as Mary Queen of Scots, you were beheaded by the school axe, kneeling blindfolded at the doorstep, with Perry Miller, wearing a mask made out of a piece of Aunt Laura’s old black silk, for executioner, wondering what would happen if he brought the axe down too hard, you did not forget the year it happened; and if you fought the battle of Waterloo all over the school playground, and heard Teddy Kent shouting, “Up, Guards and at ‘em!” as he led the last furious charge you remembered 1815 without half trying to.

But some of us cannot forget and will never forgive. We keep our axes sharp, ready to grind. We hold pleas for mercy between our teeth like jawbreakers. They say a grudge is a heavy thing to carry. Good thing we’re extra strong.

All she loves is her people and power. He should have learned by now to forget about soft things. The world is harsh, and he is a leader of warriors.

Just when I thought to move forward And accept where I’m in life Just when I thought to forget what’s gone And appreciate what still remains Just when I was about to take the first step towards you, You retreated in a shell of silence, rupturing and axing The root sheath of our nuptial sapling

We will never forget those sombre valleys where the mist never lifts. The sudden ambuscade, arrows whipping like a swarm of hornets from the trees. Silent assassins crawling on their bellies, axe in one hand, knife in the other.

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the tree remembers what the axe forgets.