Buck Henry Quotes

Oh, there’s no toll,” noticed Henry. “It costs twelve bucks coming into Manhattan, but I guess it’s free going back to New Jersey.” “That should tell you something,” said Villy crestfallen.

Miss Taverner took the whip and reins in her hands, and mounted into the driving-seat, scorning assistance. "Take your orders from Miss Taverner, Henry," said the Earl, getting up beside his ward. "Me Lord, you are never going to let a female drive us?" said Henry almost tearfully. "What about my pride?" "Swallow it, Henry," replied the Earl amicably.

Deacon grinned and raised his hand. There was a moment’s hesitation, a few seconds where Deacon wasn’t sure whether he could really do it. Then he brought his hand down, smacking the center of Mark’s ass. Mark’s breath hitched, but other than that, nothing much happened. The spot Deacon had slapped was barely pink. “Was that okay?” Deacon asked. “Was what okay?” Mark asked, lifting his head. “Uh, the way I did that?” “Did you do something?” “What do you mean?” “I might be wrong, mate, but isn’t a spanking supposed to hurt a bit? You’ve got arm muscles; why don’t you use th—” The crack of Deacon’s palm against Mark’s flesh made Deacon cringe—not out of sympathy for Mark so much as fear that the entire house had heard it. Mark bucked, and the pink patch that appeared on his right cheek was quite satisfying. “Better?” Deacon asked. “God. Fuck. Yes. Better,” Mark said into the pillow.

Our water taxi driver is named Buck, and he’s not much older than us, with a tangle of sun-bleached yellow hair sticking out from under his mesh-backed hat. He’s handsome in an utterly filthy way, with that specifically beachy kind of body odor mixed with patchouli. It should be repulsive, but he makes it work.

Here, you! The boss wants you. Buck up!' Mr Stafford was talking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as Henry entered. 'Oh, Rice, here's a woman wants her husband shadowed while he's on the road. He's an actor. I'm sending you. Go to this address, and get photographs and all particulars. You'll have to catch the eleven o'clock train on Friday.' 'Yes, sir.' 'He's in "The Girl

And this love between Henry and Fora . . . at first, it was a small, uncertain thing, like the glow of the morning sunos the horizon. And then it was its own wild animal, bucking against the world and anything that threatened it, so hot it could burn and sometimes did. And then it was quiet, as quiet as a snowfall, covering everything, certain of its place, even as it was certain it could not last forever.

How very like Zen is this from Whitman: “Is it lucky to be born? It is just as lucky to die.” In summarizing his pages on Whitman, Bucke makes, among others, the following statements: In no man who ever lived was the sense of eternal life so absolute. Fear of death was absent. Neither in health nor in sickness did he show any sign of it, and there is every reason to believe he did not feel it. He had no sense of sin.

relationships. We always have some responsibility in choosing love or isolation, life or death, light or darkness, and truth or deception. The older we are, the more responsibility we bear. We need to embrace that responsibility and not be afraid of the task. How we conduct our lives is our affair. The buck truly does stop with us. We must stop denying our issues and blaming mom, God, circumstances, or others. We must begin the long journey of repair for ourselves.

Titles in business have been greatly overdone and business has suffered. One of the bad features is the division of responsibility according to titles, which goes so far as to amount to a removal altogether of responsibility. Where responsibility is broken up into many small bits and divided among many departments, each department under its own titular head, who in turn is surrounded by a group bearing their nice sub-titles, it is difficult to find any one who really feels responsible. Everyone knows what "passing the buck" means. The

But somehow, I don't wind up on a tour of this soggy house. I wind up sitting in a cracked plastic Adirondack chair by the fire with Buck and -I think?- Chip and Lita-the-soon-to-be-rafting-guide, ranking Nicholas Cage movies by various criteria as the deep blues and purples of twilight melt into the deeper blues and blacks of night, the starry sky seeming to unfurl over us like a great, light-pricked blanket.

Wendy had been a great source of strength for me, bucking me up through the long string of crises, but the lengthy workdays and nonstop stress had robbed us of any quality time together.

Even in these cramped, almost intolerable conditions, there was still the awareness of rank that permeated English society as a whole and that made Gates and Somers unwilling to cede any preference to the other. Gentlemen, even those like Strachey and Henry Paine whose purses were empty, whose shoes were worn, and whose clothing was threadbare, hardly would have mixed with those they thought of as “the lesser sort.” At meals, Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe and the Reverend Mr. Bucke and Mistress Horton would have dined with Strachey and other gentry, at a safe remove from the scruffier passengers who had obtained passage only by pledging their lives and labors for the next seven years.

He is wearing an old overcoat from the Salvation Army in Easton, Pennsylvania. It cost five bucks ten years ago, Louise remembers. Henry is not interested so much in the bargain, he wants ghosts in his clothes. He likes wondering what another man kept in those deep pockets. He writes poems about it.

BUCK HENRY: I had no feeling. I never have a feeling. I have a slight feeling of doom every time.

Frank Buck had considerable experience in dealing with the red ape, as he was one of most prolific animal collectors of the modern era. It is with a combination of amazement and horror that one reads his travel journals. The sheer numbers of animals that he killed and captured is staggering. Indeed, after scrolling through the writings of Buck, Carl Hagenbeck, Alfred Wallace, Henry Ward, and the rest of the 19th and 20th century collectors, one can argue with strong confidence that the natural history museum and zoological park have been a driving force in the diminution and extinction of animal species on our planet.

Pizza?' he asks. 'Obviously. Your shout, though.' We start walking back to the car. 'How d'you figure that?' 'For services rendered. Plus, you're the only one with a job, and I spent my last ten bucks on coffee today.' 'Did you also drop it and then say "fuck" in front of a small child?' 'Are you ever going to stop bringing that up?' 'Nope.' 'Prick.' 'Dickhead.' 'Knob.' 'Drama queen.' 'Man-whore.' 'Spinster.' He unlocks the car. 'Pepperoni, then?' 'Yeah.

have to kill whoever’s chasing you. Can you do that?” Corman hesitated. “I—I never kilt nobody before,” Corman said. Slocum weighed the man’s words. Corman was obviously frightened, scared of losing his life. But was he also afraid of killing someone, even in self-defense? That was what separated the men from the boys. Corman had years on him, but perhaps not much wisdom. “Ever shoot a Winchester? Or a Henry?” Corman nodded. “Both,” he said. “I have a Yellow Boy.” He paused. “Back at my digs.” “That’s a heavy rifle,” Slocum said. “The Winchester is lighter.” “I know.” “Well, if push comes to shove, you can have my Winchester. It’s loaded. Just jack a shell into the chamber and start shooting.” “Do you think it will come to that?” “You’re the one being chased, Corman. What do you think?” Corman went silent. But he listened to the wind, and wisps of fog, or cloud, were beginning to seep into the cracks of the boulders around them and creep along the ground like thin cotton batting, ever so slowly. Slocum checked the Winchester and handed it to Corman. He went to his bedroll and took out the sawed-off Greener shotgun that he kept rolled up in it. He grabbed some shells from his saddlebag and put two in the shotgun, and snapped the barrel back into the receiver, where it locked. The shotshells were all double-ought buck and, at close range, would tear a man to pieces. Besides the Colt .45 six-gun on his

You may recall that we raised the question, Whose idea was it that it would not rain: God’s or Elijah’s? The answer? The buck stops with God. Further evidence of this is the verse we study in this chapter. Elijah did not go to Ahab to say it would rain; he waited to hear from God. He waited a long time—three and a half years. Then one day the word of the Lord came to Elijah to present himself to Ahab. And from that moment things started happening. You and I cannot make things happen. Elijah could not make things happen. We are fools if we try to make things happen in our own strength. I once asked the late Carl F. H. Henry, called “the dean of American theologians,” what he would do differently if he had his life to live over. After a moment he replied, “I would remember that only God can turn the water into wine.” The greatest folly

Necesitamos un presidente que maneje con fluidez al menos un idioma