Bury The Hatchet Quotes

And just as she was about to leave the microphone, she said, “And to anyone tempted to kiss the TV tonight, please don’t chip your tooth.” “Mom, why are you crying?” Connor asked. I put my hand to my face and realized that I had teared up. Harry smiled at me and rubbed my back. “You should call her,” he said. “It’s never a bad idea to bury hatchets.” Instead, I wrote a letter. My Dearest Celia, Congratulations! You absolutely deserve it. There is no doubt you are the most talented actress of our generation. I wish for nothing more than your complete and total happiness. I did not kiss the TV this time, but I did cheer just as loudly as I did the other times. All my love, Edward Evelyn

And that was like twenty years ago and you still hate him.” “So?” He pops up a cucumber slice into his mouth. “So don’t you think maybe it’s time to bury the hatchet?” “Can I bury it in his skull?

But who buries the hatchet and who buries the bodies? And who says they’re not the same thing these days?

I must go down to the seas again to find where I buried the hatchet with Yesterday.

We are the centuries... We have your eoliths and your mesoliths and your neoliths. We have your Babylons and your Pompeiis, your Caesars and your chromium-plated (vital-ingredient impregnated) artifacts. We have your bloody hatchets and your Hiroshimas. We march in spite of Hell, we do – Atrophy, Entropy, and Proteus vulgaris, telling bawdy jokes about a farm girl name of Eve and a traveling salesman called Lucifer. We bury your dead and their reputations. We bury you. We are the centuries. Be born then, gasp wind, screech at the surgeon’s slap, seek manhood, taste a little godhood, feel pain, give birth, struggle a little while, succumb: (Dying, leave quietly by the rear exit, please.) Generation, regeneration, again, again, as in a ritual, with blood-stained vestments and nail-torn hands, children of Merlin, chasing a gleam. Children, too, of Eve, forever building Edens – and kicking them apart in berserk fury because somehow it isn’t the same. (AGH! AGH! AGH! – an idiot screams his mindless anguish amid the rubble. But quickly! let it be inundated by the choir, chanting Alleluias at ninety decibels.)

Bury the hatchet. Hatchets don't work on ghosts. They cannot hear you. You only end up hatcheting yourself.

The kitchen table is where we mark milestones, divulge dreams, bury hatchets, make deals, give thanks, plan vacations, and tell jokes. It's also where children learn the lessons that families teach: manners, cooperation, communication, self-control, values.

I've buried all the hatchets. But I know where I've buried them and I can dig them up again if necessary.

No one ever forgets where he buried the hatchet.

Whenever you can, bury the hatchet with an enemy, and make a point of putting him in your service.

When reading a book, one hopes it doesn’t turn into a painful process. Predictable is bad enough. Laborious is acceptable if the labor produces fruit. But with painfully bad writing, all one can do is grab a hatchet, slice off its head, and bury it.

I would almost forget about Ida Durbin. But a sin of omission, if indeed that's what it was, can be like the rusty head of a hatchet buried in the heartwood of a tree -- it eventually finds the teeth of a whirling saw blade.

Was he coming to bury the hatchet? Was there a hatchet to even be buried? For some reason I started thinking of how weird it was that I would always be his son and he would always be my father, that there was nothing that could ever change. I didn't know whether this permanence was comforting or terrifying.

Swallowing hard, I shuffle over to him. “Listen…I’m sorry I’ve been such a dick lately. I was…distracted.” “Distracted,” he echoes skeptically. I nod. He keeps staring at me. “My head’s on straight now. Honest.” Garrett peers past me, and although I can’t see Hannah’s face, whatever passes between them causes his broad shoulders to relax. Then he grins and slaps me on the arm. “Well, thank God. Because I was seriously considering promoting Tuck to the number one best friend slot.” “Are you kidding? Big mistake, G. He’s a terrible wingman. Have you seen his beard?” “I know, right?” And just like that, we’re good again. Seriously, chicks need to take a lesson from dudes when it comes to burying the hatchet. We know our shit.

There is no point in burying the hatchet if you're going to put up a marker on the site.

when we buried the hatchet we always remembered where we’d put it.

Big Jim used to tell me that "money talks," but this stash was mighty silent. I suspect this is one of those MoFo expressions meant to confuse, like when I wasted an entire afternoon searching the yard for an ax and a body because Big Jim said he's buried the hatchet with his friend Mike.

Akward, like when a mad aunt starts up about Jesus at the dinner table. As Septimus showed him to the door, the sergeant replaced his hat and said quietly, “A cruel piece of mischief-making, looks like. I reckon it’s about time to bury the hatchet against Fritz. All a filthy business, but there’s no need for pranks like this. I’d keep it under your hat, the note. Don’t want to encourage copycats.” He shook hands with Septimus and made his way up the long, gum-lined drive. Back in his study, Septimus put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “Come on, girlie, chin up. Mustn’t let this get the better of you.

When we get back, maybe we can all sit down and have a meal together, and you two can bury the hatchet or something. Or, you know, do what men do when they’ve been bumping chests so much their backs are starting to get sore. Like yoga.

Temple.” She says the name so low silence eats the end. “That’s a good name,” I say. “Temples is places for spirits.” “Ain’t no gods here,” she says, her words a hatchet buried in the tree trunk of her wound.

He could hear the horse step in its hobbles and hear the grass rip softly in the horse's mouth and hear it breathing or the toss of its tail and he saw far to the south beyond the Hatchet Mountains the flare of lightning over Mexico and he knew that he would not be buried in this valley but in some distant place among strangers and he looked out to where the grass was running in the wind under cold starlight as if it were the earth itself hurtling headlong and he said softly before he slept again that the one thing he knew of all things claimed to be known was that there was no certainty to any of it. Not just the coming of war. Anything at all.

This agreement predates our marriage," Elara said into the sudden silence, pronouncing each word clearly. "According to the contract you signed, it is exempt from your input. I don't need your permission. This exchange will go forward. And you will remember that you are a married adult responsible for the welfare of four thousand people. You'll reach deep down, find a pair of big-boy pants, and put them on. If I can pretend not to cringe every time you touch me in public, you can pretend to be civil. Bury that hatchet, and if you can't, hide in your room while they're here.

Senseless people name evil good, call good evil. As you are doing. You accuse Us of passing false judgement: you do Us injustice. We shall prove this to you. You ask who We are: We are God’s handle, Master Death, a truly effective reaper. Our scythe works its way. It cuts down white, black, red, brown, green, blue, grey, yellow, and all kinds of lustrous flowers in its path, irrespective of their splendour, their strength, their virtue. And the violet’s beautiful colour, rich perfume, and palatable sap, avail it nought. See: that is justice. Our justification was acknowledged by the Romans and the poets, for they knew Us better than you do. You ask what We are: We are nothing, and yet something. Nothing, because We have neither life, nor being, nor form, and We are no spirit, not visible, not tangible; something, because We are the end of life, the end of existence, the beginning of nullity, a cross between the two. We are a happening that fells all people. Huge giants must fall before Us; all living beings must be transformed by Us. You ask where We are: We are not ascertainable. But Our form was found in a temple in Rome*, painted on a wall, as a hoodwinked man sitting on an ox; this man wielded a hatchet in his right hand and a shovel in his left hand, with which he was beating the ox. A great crowd of all kinds of people was hitting him, fighting him, and making casts at him, each one with the tools of his trade: even the nun with her psalter was there. They struck and made casts at the man on the ox, he who signified Us; yet Death contested and buried them all. Pythagoras likens Us to a man’s form with the eyes of a basilisk: they wandered to the ends of the Earth, and every living creature had to die at their glance. You ask where We are: We are from the Earthly Paradise. God created Us there and gave Us Our true name, when he said: «The day that ye bite of this fruit, ye shall die the death.» And for that reason We call ourself: «We, Death, mighty ruler and master on Earth, in the air, and in the rivers of the sea.» You ask what good We do: you have already heard that We bring the world more advantage than harm. Now cease, rest content, and thank Us for the kindness we have done you!

Reconciliation means you bury the hatchet, not necessarily the issue.

I supposed we could just ring the doorbell and say, ‘Look, let’s bury the hatchet and be friends,’” Beth suggested. The girls looked at each other and smiled a little. “Naw,” said Caroline. “This is a lot more fun.

Forgiveness, like life itself, doesn’t have our name scrawled on it. It isn’t our property, much less our tool or weapon. Those who sin against us don’t owe us an apology. They don’t owe us repentance, tears, promises of improvement, vows never to repeat what they’ve done. Nothing is what they owe. When we forgive, we are pressing into the palm of a fellow transgressor the coin of freedom with which Christ has enriched us. We give only what we first received. When the Spirit reveals this to us, we discover what a joy it is to bury the hatchet in an unmarked grave.

Think of it as an opportunity to bury the hatchet—” “In his head?

Nobody ever forgets where he buried a hatchet.

That was years ago, and we’ve all long since buried the hatchet.” Seems someone is ready to chop wood again. He releases a heavy sigh. “I’m not mad, I’m just clueing him in a little.” “Thanks for that.” My sarcasm is thick.

For those of you who do not want to bury the hatchet, have you thought about cremating it?

If you're burying a hatchet, I hope it's not a bloody one. - The Malwatch

We buried the hatchet! We turned to more deadly weapons.

Piper and I have buried the hatchet, but revenge never dies. It just doesn’t. If we have a wedding, she will poison me. I’m certain of it.” “You didn’t poison her.” Levi adjusted his blue tie. “I’m pretty sure when she was buckled over in pain, vomiting in the toilet while shitting down her dress, she felt like someone had poisoned her.

I’ve found that the best way to live one’s life Is above the fog of negative thought, With gossiping lips outside of earshot, Keeping harsh criticism far less rife. I’ve found that the best way to avoid strife Is by sharing with others who have not, Seeing the good, speaking kindness a lot, Burying hatchets as well as sharp knives. Every compassionate deed we have sown Lifts a heavy burden from a brother. Each positive thought and comment we own Extends joy and love to one another. Life was not meant to be traveled alone. It is where we learn we need each other.

It was six years ago, Michael. How about we bury the hatchet." "I think you already did. In my back." I wince. "Soooo dramatic. Looks like your Shakespearean background is coming in handy. Et tu, Brute?

On top of tomorrow’s itinerary is a torn piece of paper, slipped beneath the clip. A note. I’m willing to bury the hatchet if you are.