Du Plessis Quotes

Deception is the knowledge of kings.

If you give me six sentences written by the most innocent of men, I will find something in them with which to hang them.

Judge character by behavior.

Every hole is a new beginning and that is what you should focus on (by Golf Champion, Sally Little)

Draw draft of "milk" these words are milk the point of this is drink.

Abyss is not an absence Though presence be destroyed.

Had Luther and Calvin been confined before they had begun to dogmatize, the states would have been spared many troubles.

Secrecy is the first essential in affairs of state.

A vow is a heavenly created obligation in motion that only ends when fully completed.

Oorlog gaan nooit verby nie, Mieta, al hou die mans op met skiet.

Even in the darkest night, hope glints on the iris like a distant fire.

I believe values are best understood and internalised when they are expressed as behaviours.

It was a place of dreams and fortunes. So coveted were the treasures of the City that the masters of old encircled it in a wall. As high as the clouds. As thick as ignorance. The wall was the first thing you noticed about the City and the first thing you wanted to forget.

Another cloud bank drew across the moon. In the darkness, she ate. She ate as the ravenous hunger spurred her on. She stripped flesh from bone and savoured the metallic warmth of blood on her tongue. She kept eating and ripping and chewing. Soon she would be full. Soon. Almost.

Do you for one moment think that a professional plier of the trade of conversation would fail to probe beak-deep into your family’s sordid liaison with the pan-Canadian Resistance’s notorious M. DuPlessis and his malevolent but allegedly irresistible amanuensis-cum-operative, Luria P______?

Strange how his entire life could fit on a table, for he was that most despicable of creatures, a serial novelist. A battlefield of failures in the form of crumpled paper littered the ground around the chair. He stared at them forlornly. It was not that they were empty, just that they were full of poison. Ink in the shape of ghosts and curses. Beauty corrupted by darkness.

Every hole is a new beginning and that is what you should focus on (said by gold champion Sally Little - Janie du Plessis - 'n keuse vir die lewe)

kelder

grootgeword

Wes-Transvaal, daar waar dit blom tussen die bantoms, waar dit wyd is en ’n mens nog in ’n droom kan glo. God het geen berge of bosse oorgehad toe Hy dié land moes maak. Toe het Hy net die vrede en ’n duisend duiwe hier gelaat.

Eintlik, tot vandag toe, is ons delwerye niks meer as ’n ryk gerug in donker kimberliet nie.

Onaanvaarbaar vir ’n deel van die gemeenskap met ’n skuldige gewete, dié deel wat ná meer as twee dekades steeds met hulleself ’n Boereoorlog voer op soek na ’n vyand en ’n geskikte slagveld.

Bernie reached over and pressed the pause button. ‘Is that a South African accent?’ Matt nodded. ‘Sounds like it and I think Du Plessis is an Afrikaans name.

There was something enchanting about the monsters that were captured in the pigments and linseed oil. An intimidating danger ebbed from them; but, in some more than others, there was also an intriguing awe like fascination of wonder and mystery that leaked forth

I am a tough cricketer, and I play my best under pressure.

Time moved too slowly. The steady march of the hours tormented me so that I felt myself falling to an illness. A fire was burning within me. Such was the heat that my thoughts scattered like a broken string of pearls.

Choose your company with care,” he said. “In life, careful casting is essential. Be sure to find someone who knows the full measure of your stupidity. They will keep you anchored amid a torrent of praise. They will remember you when everyone else turns away — just as this person said they would. It is then when you lift yourself out of whatever gutter you’re floating in and try to prove them wrong. You would do well to remember that illusions are cheap. Honesty is rare.

I had been seen for a moment. Now the moment was gone.

Perhaps I am writing only for an audience of one — a merciless critic that knows the hollowness of my talentless lettering: me.

Time moved too slowly. The steady march of the hours tormented me so that I felt myself falling to an illness. A fire was burning within me. Such was the heat that my thoughts scattered like a broken string of pearls.

Solitude is a thing that creeps in under the cover of night. One does not pay enough attention as time strips away people and things. Some part believes that it will all restore itself one day, only a matter of time.

You are an ass,” said Bianca. “A swine,” added Helga. “Yes, yes, I am a veritable petting zoo of unpleasantness,” he said. “But I am also your director. Now, back to work.

I managed to get her to sip two spoonfuls. I think that is more than enough, don’t you, Mother? Poor Primrose is already sick, she does not have to suffer through soup. Particularly this concoction of grey wateriness Miss Brook is so proud of. It looks like old laundry water and smells like socks. Besides, Primrose keeps dozing off. What was I supposed to do? Drown her in it?

A place of learning felt dead in the hours of darkness. Full of departed pupils and ended conversations. Their abandoned slates still held the ghosts of words and figures of lessons forgotten. Chairs, like rows of scarred and battered soldiers, stood loyally behind their assigned tables, as was the school master’s orders. Not a thing was amiss.

This was the sound of strength. The sound of men shaping the land and cutting down pagan idols. Soon the trees would be gone, and the bare hills would be crawling with civilization. Avram was the sharp point of that progress. The blade that felled. The arm that moved.

Truth?” said Helga. “I thought this was fiction.” Gramméll rubbed his hands together. “My dear, my dear. Fiction — like all good lies — is rooted in the truth. Yes, there is truth in fiction. Hidden truth? Perhaps. Diluted truth? Most certainly. The mind has to be fed the truth a little bit at a time, otherwise it simply won’t understand.

Anything would be better than these blotches coloured with self-pity and self-importance. Plagued scribbles that sink the heart and darken the soul. Rereading it is akin to eating shards of glass.

In a place where unexplained deaths and ill-judged executions were an everyday occurrence, one eventually acquainted oneself with the man who dressed the dead.

If you don't want vows to materialize in your next life; don't take them!

our actions in the physical realm determine our spiritual position in the afterlife

Sex is Not Love

Sex is not love and love is not sex

What stands out for me from that time is just how narrow the line between self-destruction and self-actualisation can be.

Agreeing to a value is the easy part. Living it is something altogether different.

That inferior minds confine their thoughts within the bounds of the country where they are born; but those to whom God has given a greater degree of light, omit nothing that may be of defence to them from afar.

He saw the hiding people, their whispers sounded like the turning of a thousand pages – pages filled with stories he yearned to read.

Neon signs flashed the word “NEWS” in ironic yellow.

Within these walls, That keep us in; We muffle calls, We don’t begin. Here dancing is fighting, And serpents speak truth, Forever denying, A voice of youth. And so, we’re trapped in silence, Never to kick free from the viscous prison, Awaiting the talons of the next tyrant, Never to recall heroes once risen. Never to speak, Never to see.

Just outside the walls of the City, trouble was brewing. They came in boats from a land far across the sea. Many boats crammed with many hopefuls washed up on the shores in the shadow of the great cliffs. Like driftwood. These flotsam people were dazed, broken – perhaps at an extreme – optimistic. Surely there would be salvation within the thick city walls? They appeared in a whisper – like the hissing of the surf. No citizen came to welcome them. No delegates. No photo-ops for ambitious politicians. Instead, only the City’s military – soldiers and officers with faces as hard and blank as the cliff the City teetered upon – were waiting. They were herded in silence. Those without papers were left on the stony beach. There would be tents, bunks, and prefab houses in time. The lucky ones were escorted up the great lifts and transported along the subway system – out of sight. A Downtown station would process them. See this crowd of Driftwood people, Eva. See them huddle together in the dark, the glint of hope in their eyes. The color of their skin, how the women covered their hair, and how the men wore their beards – these were the superficial differences that would mark them so starkly here. The label of ‘other’ already hung around their necks without them even knowing.

Cassius Wortham was possessive of his notebook. He believed that his ideas – however big or small – were fragile things that could melt away under the condemnatory gaze of a stranger.

The keys started clicking the moment the light of dawn touched the windows. Cas sat on his knees and typed. He stopped. A paragraph. An unbalanced, meandering, paragraph. He ripped it out and turned it over. Fingers rested on the letters. Beginnings gave him the most trouble.

My eyes opened to a bright room, decked with ornament and trinket. Beyond my canvas, draped over a chase langue, was the ivory form of a naked woman. Shapely. Curvaceous. Exciting. Her face was soft. Her auburn hair was shinny and straight – a bugger to paint. Not quite the countenance of an angel. This was a face made ordinary by the slight departure of youth. But I will fix this.

Zaqar Publishing House, a beast of red brick and chipped plaster, protruded from the surrounding buildings like a broken branch in swamp muck. You could hear the whirring of the massive printing presses from the street. Soot and smoke coated the walls, making it look like a smudge. This was, of course, in the days before the paper’s façade had to yellow for it to survive.

Cas sighed. ‘I guess,’ he shrugged. ‘Ever heard of the academic voice?’ The door opened. Jasper was dressed in stained clothes – day clothes. Gone was the robe and crusty night shirt. His bushy eyebrows shaded his milky eyes. ‘The academic voice?’ Jasper seemed to chew the bitter words. He squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. He raised his hand in front of him, moving it as he spoke as if he was conducting some invisible orchestra. ‘Hear my voice from on-high and tremble all ye oppressors of good sense and intellectual advancement. Heed my words, students: relinquish thine will and let me oppress thee instead, for he who is not under my heel cannot learn.’ His arm dropped to his side, and he seem to shrink slightly, as if elocution was the air in his lungs. ‘This voice you are looking for,’ he said quietly, ‘sounds like the slap of mortar on brick. It builds walls between those who think they know and those who thirst to know.

Wie sou die ware swerwer wees / die een wat reis, die een wat lees?

The brighter the light, the sharper the shadows.

They buried her deep, but not deep enough.

Balar, a black mass of buildings with steeply pitched slate roofs and ornate gables of dark wood reaching into the cold air like the legs of a dead spider. It is a town with a history that reached back into the mists of history — a history won by the sword and the pike and paid for in blood.

Nights were unbearable. Every night. Everywhere. There was no escaping it, no matter how many times he changed rooms. It was here. The thing was in the room again.

His hands stopped shaking once she placed them on the piano keys. His fingers moved, finding the right places, starting the melody. The tears stopped and the senseless mumble was replaced by a low, droning hum. His eyes focused on something right above the piano — a focus they did not have a moment before. She watched him as he found the music again.

Monsters on the roof kept me occupied for some time. Dragons and drakes. Werewolves and hags. Stories of love and blood — the kind of stories mother used to read to us. Stories full of dark mysteries and horrid creatures. Oh, how I miss them.

Once upon a time, in the strange town of Balar, there were two handsome brothers, Pierre and Mathéo.

Irini nodded again as she gazed off into the trees. “Strange times,” she said. “Times of change.” “Good or bad?” he asked. “Change is neither good nor bad, my champion.” She smiled her wolfish smile. “It is a matter of who takes advantage of the chaos. Idle hunters starve, as you know.

Superstitions are just the stories we tell ourselves to help us sleep. This is not god. God is kindness. It is that simple, boy. Every worthwhile sage will tell you the same thing.

The offending canvas stood in the middle of the room under another stained tarp — like an apparition.

That makes them actionable. In the boardroom

At Seabury House, headquarters of the Episcopal church, David was asked the touchiest question of all--the one that in the past had led to more ill-will toward the Pentecostals than any other. He'd been talking to a group of clergymen for thirty minutes or so about the Pentecostal experience when one of the priests stood up suddenly and said with some asperity, "Mr. du Plessis, are you telling us that you Pentecostals have the truth, and we other churches do not?" David admits he prayed fast. "No," he said. "That is not what I mean." He cast about for a way to express the difference Pentecostals feel exists between their church and others--a feeling so often misunderstood--and suddenly he found himself thinking about an appliance he and his wife had bought when they moved to their Dallas home. "We both have the truth," he said. "You know, when my wife and I moved to America, we bought a marvelous device called a Deepfreeze, and there we keep some rather fine Texas beef. "Now, my wife can take one of those steaks out and lay it, frozen solid, on the table. It's steak all right, no question of that. You and I can sit around and analyze it: we can discuss its lineage, its age, what part of the steer it comes from. We can weigh it and list its nutritive values. "But if my wife puts that steak on the fire, something different begins to happen. My little boy smells it from way out in the yard and comes shouting: 'Gee, Mom, that smells good! I want some!' "Gentlemen," said David, "that is the difference between our ways of handling the same truth. You have yours on ice; we have ours on fire.

eekhorings.

That was when the hallucination knocked on the door.

The pre-meal ritual involved flashing the plate with your rectangle. It is not entirely clear why this is done. At first, I assumed that they flashed everything they were unsure about. In this case, having your meal prepared entirely by a neighboring tribe can have its risks. My working theory is that, by chronicling his every meal, a tribesman can identify what exactly did him in – should illness arise.

..., I understood that this island – Hearin Island – was home to a tribe of people who communicated solely via pre-recorded messages. Their customary greeting – which chilled the blood of even the most fearsome islander – went something like “Sorry for the voice note”.

In the realm of supercars, the moment of turning the ignition ignites a passion in even the most frigid petrol head. Words like ‘purr’ or ‘roar’ are often placed upon the sound of the engine spinning into life. With the Lethe, words like ‘splutter’ or ‘cough’ over did it – it was more like Bessy’s final breath before she was loaded into the abattoir van.

...Dah I look like I ‘ave all day?” Honestly, the man looked as if he was between cardiac arrests, so he probably did not have all hour.

You can never go back into the past, so use your time in the present, to benefit your children's time in the future. Sheila du Plessis

Secure children/teenagers know their parents are there to assist them. They know they can give explanations without the fear of criticism. If the truth is told, there should be no come-back unless the same wrong action is repeated. My youngest son told me the truth about an issue and as I said I was going to discipline him he said: "Do you want to make a liar out of me because in future I shall not tell you the truth!?

Female literary characters, in contrast, indicate the condition of being a woman. They are condemned to a universe that revolves around sex and family and domesticity. Their stories circle questions of love and obligation - love being, as the critic Rachel Blau DuPlessis writes, the concept "our culture uses [for women] to absorb all possible Bildung, success/failure, learning, education, and transition to adulthood.

The weekend taste of cut grass and hint of Sunday gravy pours like gossip into the working week, whispering names like – Smith, Visagie or Du Plessis. Somewhere a rugby commentary has been playing for days, but it could be an argument.

Viola is medicine for my soul