Frog And Toad Are Friends Quotes

I am happy. I am very happy. This morning when I woke up I felt good because the sun was shining. I felt good because I was a frog. And I felt good because I have you as a friend. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think about how fine everything is.

After I put on my bathing suit, you must not look at me until I get into the water.' 'Why not?' asked Frog. 'Because I look funny in my bathing suit. That is why.' said Toad.

They sat there, feeling happy together.

What did you write in the letter?" Frog said, "I wrote 'Dear Toad, I am glad that you are my best friend. Your best friend, Frog.' "Oh, said Toad, "that makes a very good letter.

Oh, drat,' said Toad. 'Not only do my feet hurt, but I have lost one of the buttons on my jacket.

They left too many questions unanswered, too many ramifications unexplored. My parents told me that I was expecting too much from Frog and Toad Are Friends: it wasn’t a novel. In that way, I understood that a novel would explain all the things I still wanted to know,

At the time I was revisiting books from my childhood, and when I got to this part in Frog and Toad Are Friends, I started crying like a little baby: 'I am happy. I am very happy. This morning when I woke up I felt good because the sun was shining. I felt good because I was a frog. And I felt good because I have you for a friend. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think about how fine everything is.' It’s the most perfect example of love and friendship I think I’ve ever read, and I immediately picked up my paintbrush and got to it.

I had wanted to be become a novelist before I even knew how to read, back when I could only consume books by having them read to me, and none of them seemed long enough. They left too many questions unanswered, too many ramifications unexplored. My parents told me I was expecting too much from Frog and Toad are Friends: it wasn't a novel. In that way, I understood that a novel would explain all the things I still wanted to know, like why Toad was the way he was--why Toad is essentially unwell, and why Frog helped Toad, whether he really wanted Toad to get better, or whether he benefited in some way from Toad's unwellness.

I cannot see anything.” “Don’t be silly,” said Frog. “What you see is the clear warm light of April. And it means that we can begin a whole new year together, Toad. Think of it,” said Frog. “We will skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim in the river. In the evenings we will sit right here on this front porch and count the stars

I had wanted to become a novelist before I even knew how to read, back when I could only consume books by having them read to me, and none of them seemed long enough. They left too many questions unanswered, too many ramifications unexplored. My parents told me that I was expecting too much from Frog and Toad Are Friends: it wasn’t a novel. In that way, I understood that a novel would explain all the things I still wanted to know, like why Toad was the way he was—why Toad was essentially unwell, and why Frog helped Toad, whether he really wanted Toad to get better, or whether he benefited in some way from Toad’s unwellness. I understood that novels, unlike children’s books, were serious and important and that, just as my parents’ job was to treat patients in a hospital, so, too, was it someone’s job to write novels.

There is one story about letters. A perpetually cheerful Frog pays a visit to Toad but finds Toad glum, sitting on his front porch. "This is my sad time of day," says Toad, "when I wait for the mail to come." "Why is that?" says Frog. "No one has ever sent me a letter. My mailbox is always empty. That is why waiting for the mail is a sad time for me." Then Frog and Toad sit "on the porch, feeling sad together." Frog rescues the situation by running home, writing a letter to Toad, and sending it literally by snail mail. The little snail brings it four days later. Even though Toad saw Frog every day, he longed for the strangeness, the otherness of a letter, for something to come from out there and address him, "Dear Toad." Is that the thrill I feel finding a letter from you in my box? The address of a friend is made into a physical fact and every letter an artifact of the otherwise invisible communion of friendship.

Drat. Daisy pulled back with a frown. She felt guilty that she had enjoyed the kiss so little. And it made her feel even worse when it appeared Llandrindon had enjoyed it quite a lot. “My dear Miss Bowman,” Llandrindon murmured flirtatiously. “You didn’t tell me you tasted so sweet.” He reached for her again, and Daisy danced backward with a little yelp. “My lord, control yourself!” “I cannot.” He pursued her slowly around the fountain until they resembled a pair of circling cats. Suddenly he made a dash for her, catching at the sleeve of her gown. Daisy pushed hard at him and twisted away, feeling the soft white muslin rip an inch or two at the shoulder seam. There was a loud splash and a splatter of water drops. Daisy stood blinking at the empty spot where Llandrindon had been, and then covered her eyes with her hands as if that would somehow make the entire situation go away. “My lord?” she asked gingerly. “Did you… did you just fall into the fountain?” “No,” came his sour reply. “You pushed me into the fountain.” “It was entirely unintentional, I assure you.” Daisy forced herself to look at him. Llandrindon rose to his feet, water streaming from his hair and clothes, his coat pockets filled to the brim. It appeared the dip in the fountain had cooled his passions considerably. He glowered at her in affronted silence. Suddenly his eyes widened, and he reached into one of his water-laden coat pockets. A tiny frog leaped from the pocket and returned to the fountain with a quiet plunk. Daisy tried to choke back her amusement, but the harder she tried the worse it became, until she finally burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth, while irrepressible giggles slipped out. “I’m so— oh dear—” And she bent over laughing until tears came to her eyes. The tension between them disappeared as Llandrin don began to smile reluctantly. He stepped from the fountain, dripping from every surface. “I believe when you kiss the toad,” he said dryly, “he is supposed to turn into a prince. Unfortunately in my case it doesn’t seem to have worked.” Daisy felt a rush of sympathy and kindness, even as she snorted with a few last giggles. Approaching him carefully, she placed her small hands on either side of his wet face and pressed a friendly, fleeting kiss on his lips. His eyes widened at the gesture. “You are someone’s handsome prince,” Daisy said, smiling at him apologetically. “Just not mine. But when the right woman finds you… how lucky she’ll be.

These Claudines, then…they want to know because they believe they already do know, the way one who loves fruit knows, when offered a mango from the moon, what to expect; and they expect the loyal tender teasing affection of the schoolgirl crush to continue: the close and confiding companionship, the pleasure of the undemanding caress, the cuddle which consummates only closeness; yet in addition they want motherly putting right, fatherly forgiveness and almost papal indulgence; they expect that the sights and sounds, the glorious affairs of the world which their husbands will now bring before them gleaming like bolts of silk, will belong to the same happy activities as catching toads, peeling back tree bark, or powdering the cheeks with dandelions and oranging the nose; that music will ravish the ear the way the trill of the blackbird does; that literature will hold the mind in sweet suspense the way fairy tales once did; that paintings will crowd the eye with the delights of a colorful garden, and the city streets will be filled with the same cool dew-moist country morning air they fed on as children. But they shall not receive what they expect; the tongue will be about other business; one will hear in masterpieces only pride and bitter contention; buildings will have grandeur but no flowerpots or chickens; and these Claudines will exchange the flushed cheek for the swollen vein, and instead of companionship, they will get sex and absurd games composed of pinch, leer, and giggle—that’s what will happen to “let’s pretend.” 'The great male will disappear into the jungle like the back of an elusive ape, and Claudine shall see little of his strength again, his intelligence or industry, his heroics on the Bourse like Horatio at the bridge (didn’t Colette see Henri de Jouvenel, editor and diplomat and duelist and hero of the war, away to work each day, and didn’t he often bring his mistress home with him, as Willy had when he was husband number one?); the great affairs of the world will turn into tawdry liaisons, important meetings into assignations, deals into vulgar dealings, and the en famille hero will be weary and whining and weak, reminding her of all those dumb boys she knew as a child, selfish, full of fat and vanity like patrons waiting to be served and humored, admired and not observed. 'Is the occasional orgasm sufficient compensation? Is it the prize of pure surrender, what’s gained from all that giving up? There’ll be silk stockings and velvet sofas maybe, the customary caviar, tasting at first of frog water but later of money and the secretions of sex, then divine champagne, the supreme soda, and rubber-tired rides through the Bois de Boulogne; perhaps there’ll be rich ugly friends, ritzy at homes, a few young men with whom one may flirt, a homosexual confidant with long fingers, soft skin, and a beautiful cravat, perfumes and powders of an unimaginable subtlety with which to dust and wet the body, many deep baths, bonbons filled with sweet liqueurs, a procession of mildly salacious and sentimental books by Paul de Kock and company—good heavens, what’s the problem?—new uses for the limbs, a tantalizing glimpse of the abyss, the latest sins, envy certainly, a little spite, jealousy like a vaginal itch, and perfect boredom. 'And the mirror, like justice, is your aid but never your friend.' -- From "Three Photos of Colette," The World Within the Word, reprinted from NYRB April 1977

Her defeat did not stop Mrs Fish exercising her sharp and often cruel wit even against those she counted as friends. She even stood up to the formidable Alva, a close confidante, when Alva accused her of telling all their friends that she, Alva, looked like a frog. ‘No, no!’ cried Mamie, ‘not a frog! A toad, my pet, a toad.

Blah," said Toad.

Pen had another thing on his mind besides the chance to see the castle however, and needing to discuss it, he interrupted Pae’s in depth explanation as to why frogs were cooler than toads. “Petrias” Pen started suddenly cutting his friend off. Pae looked sidelong at his friend because he hadn’t been called his real name in a very long time. “Yes Penaryn?” Pae asked with abundant confusion.

Rick smiled as he grabbed the fat round toad from her back. “Got it.” Amelia breathed a sigh of relief when she saw what it was. “Oh. Just a frog.” “Correction. Toad,” said Mr. Witherbee. “There’s a difference. I guess Herman was just taking a swim and you were in his way.” Rick raised his brow. “You named him?” “You bet.” When Amelia looked at the toad, she smiled. “He’s cute. Can I keep him?” She was just joking around, but it made Rick laugh. “Sorry, missy,” said Mr. Witherbee. “No can do! He eats all the gnats and mosquitoes on this here pond, not to mention all the flies that can really get on a person’s nerves. He’s been my friend here for at least ten years.” Amelia raised her brow. “They can live that long?” “Hey, they can live up to fifteen years if taken good care of.” He smiled. “And I take very good care of Herman.”… Rick placed the toad on a rock. He then warned the little fellow, “Now you better watch out because some girl just might give you a kiss and you’ll turn into a prince.” Amelia laughed. “You’ve got that all wrong. It’s a frog that turns into a prince. Not a toad.

I have had my homes razed, raided and burned to the ground, my towers gutted, marauded, and blasted, and my castles pillaged, defiled, and demolished. I have been imprisoned in the Astral Plane, entombed in stone, had my spirit bound within a phylactery, and had my mind trapped within a crystal prism. I have been held for ransom by bandits, robbed by nobility, and dispossessed by extradimensional thieves. I have been threatened, cajoled, berated, cursed (both literally and actually), abused, and blackmailed. I have been stabbed, bludgeoned, whipped, tortured, burned, shocked, flayed, and worse.1 I have been possessed, mind-controlled, robbed of my body and volition, and rendered incorporeal. I have been turned into a newt, transmogrified into a frog, changed into a toad, and transformed into creatures slimier still.2 I have been charmed, bewitched, hexed, ensorcelled, enchanted, mesmerized, spellbound, and let’s not even talk about what happened while I was under the influence of hostile supernatural entities and agents. I have been abandoned by friends, forgotten by allies, scorned by compatriots, and turned upon by companions. I have had intimates taken, comrades killed, family members persecuted, and kith imprisoned. I have fought with incomprehensible daemons face to face, been engulfed by dragons’ raging hellfires, clashed with greater Powers, and been laid low by alien intelligences. I have been trapped within the bowels of forgotten ruins, lost within haunted crypts, striven through extradimensional labyrinths, delved over and through the hearts of uncharted planets, and foundered within the darkest and deepest wilds. I have had my identity erased, my memories taken, my will sapped, and my spirit broken. And these were on some of my better days. I am a wizard.

There is one story about letters. A perpetually cheerful Frog pays a visit to Toad but finds Toad glum, sitting on his front porch. "This is my sad time of day," says Toad, "when I wait for the mail to come." "Why is that?" says Frog. "No one has ever sent me a letter. My mailbox is always empty. That is why waiting for the mail is a sad time for me." Then Frog and Toad sit "on the porch, feeling sad together." Frog rescues the situation by running home, writing a letter to Toad, and sending it literally by snail mail. The little snail brings it four days later. Even though Toad saw Frog every day, he longed for the strangeness, the otherness of a letter, for something to come from out there and address him, "Dear Toad." Is that the thrill I feel finding a letter from you in my box? The address of a friend is made into a physical fact and every letter an artifact of the otherwise invisible communion of friendship.