Granny Death Quotes

Do you know how wizards like to be buried?" "Yes!" "Well, how?" Granny Weatherwax paused at the bottom of the stairs. "Reluctantly.

I still loved Granny. It flowed out of my chest. With Granny gone, where would my love go?

Peabody, you never cease to amaze me." "One day I'll tell you about my granny and her five lovers." "Five lovers isn't abnormal for a woman's lifetime." "Not in her lifetime; last month. All at the same time." Peabody glanced up, deadpan. "She's ninety-eight. I hope to take after her.

We are as gods to beasts of the field. We order the time of their birth and the time of their death. Between times, we have a duty.

Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world. “Where am I?” INSIDE THE MIRROR. “Am I dead?” THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES. Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her. “When can I get out?” WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL. “Is this a trick question?” NO. Granny looked down at herself. “This one,” she said.

The end of times?" said Nanny. "Look, Tiff, Esme tol' me to say, if you want to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don't mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories - they're there to be cherished.

The strangest sight was the old giant Thoon, who was getting bludgeoned to death by three old ladies with brass clubs—the Fates, armed for war. Jason decided there was nothing in the world scarier than a gang of bat-wielding grannies.

It wasn’t dying that she feared, it was dying bad: leaving her grandboy alone in the world, unprotected, his wounds unhealed. Death, which walked ever through these mountains, knew she would not go down easy.

And now the birds were singing overhead, and there was a soft rustling in the undergrowth, and all the sounds of the forest that showed that life was still being lived blended with the souls of the dead in a woodland requiem. The whole forest now sang for Granny Weatherwax.

To Tiffany's surprise, Nanny Ogg was weeping gently. Nanny took another swig from her flagon and wiped her eyes. 'Cryin' helps sometimes,' she said. 'No shame in tears for them as you've loved. Sometimes I remember one of my husbands and shed a tear or two. The memories're there to be treasured, and it's no good to get morbid-like about it.

We look to… the edges,' said Mistress Weatherwax. 'There’s a lot of edges, more than people know. Between life and death, this world and the next, night and day, right and wrong… an’ they need watchin’. We watch ‘em, we guard the sum of things. And we never ask for any reward. That’s important.

To make sure I learned the etiquette of grieving, Granny took me with her to the many funerals she attended. O Death, where is thy sting? Search me. I grew up looking at so many corpses that I still feel a faint touch of surprise whenever I see people move.

.” the Noween bellows with furious force: “Nooo! IT HAS TO BE DONE NOOOW!” The Noween hates children, because children refuse to accept the Noween’s lie that time is linear. Children know that time is just an emotion, so “now” is a meaningless word to them, just as it was for Granny. George used to say that Granny wasn’t a time-optimist, she was a time-atheist, and the only religion she believed in was Do-It-Later-Buddhism. The Noween brought the fears to the Land-of-Almost-Awake to catch children, because when a Noween gets hold of a child it engulfs the child’s future, leaving the victim helpless where it is, facing an entire life of eating now and sleeping now and tidying up right away. Never again can the child postpone something boring till later and do something fun in the meantime. All that’s left is now. A fate far worse than death,

What's the use of crying, and retching, and belching, all day long, like your lady downstairs? Life has its sad side, and we must take the rough with the smooth. Why, maids have died on their marriage eve, or, what's worse, bringing their first baby into the world, and the world's wagged on all the same. Life's sad enough, in all conscience, but there's nothing to be frightened about in it or to turn one's stomach. I was country-bred, and as my old granny used to say, "There's no clock like the sun and no calendar like the stars." And why? Because it gets one used to the look of Time. There's no bogey from over the hills that scares one like Time. But when one's been used all one's life to seeing him naked, as it were, instead of shut up in a clock, like he is in Lud, one learns that he is as quiet and peaceful as an old ox dragging the plough. And to watch Time teaches one to sing. They say the fruit from over the hills makes one sing. I've never tasted so much as a sherd of it, but for all that I can sing.

I often resorted: buckets, brooms, garden rakes, Granny Smith apples, cats that when thrown will reliably take out their fury not on the thrower but instead on the person at whom they’re thrown. I didn’t like throwing cats or animals of any kind, as far as that goes, but every once in a while, in a life-and-death situation, there was nothing to be done but grab a cat and throw it, or an angry ferret.

Granny Weatherwax looked out at the multi-layered, silvery world. ‘Where am I?’ INSIDE THE MIRROR. ‘Am I dead?’ THE ANSWER TO THAT, said Death, IS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN NO AND YES. Esme turned, and a billion figures turned with her. ‘When can I get out?’ WHEN YOU FIND THE ONE THAT’S REAL. ‘Is this a trick question?’ No. Granny looked down at herself. ‘This one,’ she said.

One of the most oft-quoted records of the siege, scribbled in pencil over the pages of a pocket address book, is that kept by twelve-year-old Tanya Savicheva: 28 December 1941 at 12.30 a.m. – Zhenya died. 25 January 1942 at 3 p.m. – Granny died. 17 March at 5 a.m. – Lyoka died. 13 April at 2 a.m. – Uncle Vasya died. 10 May at 4 p.m. – Uncle Lyosha died. 13 May at 7.30 a.m. – Mama died. The Savichevs are dead. Everyone is dead. Only Tanya is left.

Granny had finished with dying, had died and was now dead – all very clear and distinct concepts in their minds. They were at ease with the finality. They know that the best memorial is a boxful of happy memories inside your head, and they know what a good death looks like.

Why was it that when she heard Granny ramble on about witchcraft she longed for the cutting magic of wizardry, but whenever she heard Treatle speak in his high-pitched voice she would fight to the death for witchcraft? She’d be both, or none at all. And the more they intended to stop her, the more she wanted it.

So what’s fatherhood like, anyway?” Froggy asked Jack. “Is it as wonderful as it seems?” “Do you remember sailing through the clouds aboard the Granny?” Jack asked. “How could I forget?” Froggy said, delighted to recall the fond memories. “The wind blowing across our faces, the birds soaring by our side, the sunrise peeking over the frosty mountains—it was a breathtaking experience.” “Right,” Jack said. “Well, do you remember the part when we got shot out of the sky? Do you remember that feeling in the pit of your stomach as the ship plummeted toward the earth at hundreds of miles per hour toward a most certain death? That’s what fatherhood is like.

Granny sat down on the step and stared off into the trees. "That girl right there, she was my only child. I have lost two husbands, one by death, the other by divorce, and I have lost my parents and my brothers and sisters. But nothing ever pierced me to the core like that little girl's dying. I know it wasn't your daddy's fault. I know I messed up by filling a report to Social Services. Is that what you want to here? Is that what it takes for you not to be mad at me?

When one has lived a long time alone, one wants to live again among men and women, to return to that place where one's ties with the human broke, where the disquiet of death and now also of history glimmers its firelight on faces, where the gaze of the new baby looks past the gaze of the great granny, and where lovers speak, on lips blowsy from kissing, that language the same in each mouth, and like birds at daybreak blether the song that is both earth's and heaven's, until the sun has risen, and they stand in the daylight of being made one: kingdom come, when one has lived a long time alone.

Once Elsa asked why so many not-shits had to die everywhere, and why so many shits didn’t. And why anyone at all had to die, whether a shit or not. Granny tried to distract Elsa with ice cream and change the subject, because Granny preferred ice cream to death. But Elsa was capable of being a bewilderingly obstinate kid, so Granny gave up in the end and admitted that she supposed something always had to give up its own space so that something else could take its place. “Like when we’re on the bus and some old people get on?” asked Elsa. And then Granny asked Elsa if she’d agree to more ice cream and another topic of conversation if Granny answered “Yes.” Elsa said she could go for that.

deathly quiet. Every muscle in McCallum’s body tensed, but he forced his face to remain calm, emotionless. The jurors wouldn’t look his direction, not even the little granny with the kinky white hair and the weathered face. He’d counted on her, but she avoided eye contact with him, as did all the others. Not a good sign. Was it possible? Had they really decided to convict him on the flimsy, circumstantial evidence that the prosecution had thrown at them? No murder weapon had been found and nothing linked Ross McCallum to the crime except the flimsy testimony of an old geezer known for his love of whiskey. And yet, he felt his guts clench with a new desperation. “Has the jury reached a verdict?

At once, Raj set about finding some dry clothes for Ben and the Queen. However, all he had were his unsold costumes from Halloween. “This is your size, Your Majesty,” said Raj, handing her a lobster costume. “One has never dressed as a lobster before. What fun!” she said, taking the costume behind the card carousel to change. Next, Raj picked up one of his princess outfits. Before he could say a thing, Ben snapped, “NO!” “What do you mean, no?” asked Raj. “No means no! I am never, ever, ever dressing up as a princess!” “But you would look so pretty!” Raj implored. “NO!” “Well, the lobster outfits are too big for you.” The Queen reappeared with hers on. “Red is so your colour!” remarked Raj. “Oh, why thank you, Mr Raj. Now come on, Ben. You can’t stay in those wet things – you will catch your death of cold!” “But—” “No buts, Benjamin! Put it on! That’s an order from your Queen!” Ben harumphed and disappeared behind the card carousel. Moments later, he reappeared awkwardly. He was dressed as a princess with the grumpiest look on his face. “You know I said how pretty you would look as a princess?” began Raj. “Yep.” “I was wrong.” Then,

You’re the first people we ever saw without a death,” said the man, whose name, they’d learned, was Peter. “Since we come here, that is. We’re like you, we come here before we was dead, by some chance or accident. We got to wait till our death tells us it’s time.” “Your death tells you?” said Lyra. “Yes. What we found out when we come here, oh, long ago for most of us, we found we all brought our deaths with us. This is where we found out. We had ’em all the time, and we never knew. See, everyone has a death. It goes everywhere with ’em, all their life long, right close by. Our deaths, they’re outside, taking the air; they’ll come in by and by. Granny’s death, he’s there with her, he’s close to her, very close.” “Doesn’t it scare you, having your death close by all the time?” said Lyra. “Why ever would it? If he’s there, you can keep an eye on him. I’d be a lot more nervous not knowing where he was.” “And everyone has their own death?” said Will, marveling. “Why, yes, the moment you’re born, your death comes into the world with you, and it’s your death that takes you out.” “Ah,” said Lyra, “that’s what we need to know, because we’re trying to find the land of the dead, and we don’t know how to get there. Where do we go then, when we die?” “Your death taps you on the shoulder, or takes your hand, and says, ‘Come along o’ me, it’s time.’ It might happen when you’re sick with a fever, or when you choke on a piece of dry bread, or when you fall off a high building; in the middle of your pain and travail, your death comes to you kindly and says, ‘Easy now, easy, child, you come along o’ me,’ and you go with them in a boat out across the lake into the mist. What happens there, no one knows. No one’s ever come back.” The woman told a child to call the deaths in, and he scampered to the door and spoke to them. Will and Lyra watched in wonder, and the Gallivespians drew closer together, as the deaths—one for each of the family—came in through the door: pale, unremarkable figures in shabby clothes, just drab and quiet and dull. “These are your deaths?” said Tialys. “Indeed, sir,” said Peter. “Do you know when they’ll tell you it’s time to go?” “No. But you know they’re close by, and that’s a comfort.

It makes me more than sad, it makes my heart burn within me, to see that folk can make a jest of earnest men; of chaps who comed to ask for a bit o' fire for th' old granny, as shivers in th' cold; for a bit o' bedding, and some warm clothing to the poor wife as lies in labour on th' damp flags; and for victuals for the childer, whose little voices are getting too faint and weak to cry aloud wi' hunger. For, brothers, is not them the things we ask for when we ask for more wage? We donnot want dainties, we want bellyfuls; we donnot want gimcrack coats and waistcoats, we want warm clothes, and so that we get 'em we'd not quarrel wi' what they're made on. We donnot want their grand houses, we want a roof to cover us from the rain, and the snow, and the storm; ay, and not alone to cover us, but the helpless ones that cling to us in the keen wind, and ask us with their eyes why we brought 'em into th' world to suffer?" He lowered his deep voice almost to a whisper. "I've seen a father who had killed his child rather than let it clem before his eyes; and he were a tender-hearted man." He began again in his usual tone. "We come to th' masters wi' full hearts, to ask for them things I named afore. We know that they've gotten money, as we've earned for 'em; we know trade is mending, and that they've large orders, for which they'll be well paid; we ask for our share o' th' payment; for, say we, if th' masters get our share of payment it will only go to keep servants and horses, to more dress and pomp. Well and good, if yo choose to be fools we'll not hinder you, so long as you're just; but our share we must and will have; we'll not be cheated. We want it for daily bread, for life itself; and not for our own lives neither (for there's many a one here, I know by mysel, as would be glad and thankful to lie down and die out o' this weary world), but for the lives of them little ones, who don't yet know what life is, and are afeard of death. Well, we come before th' masters to state what we want, and what we must have, afore we'll set shoulder to their work; and they say, 'No.' One would think that would be enough of hard-heartedness, but it isn't. They go and make jesting pictures of us! I could laugh at mysel, as well as poor John Slater there; but then I must be easy in my mind to laugh. Now I only know that I would give the last drop o' my blood to avenge us on yon chap, who had so little feeling in him as to make game on earnest, suffering men!

Sex and the City 2 makes Phyllis Schlafly look like Andrea Dworkin. Or that super-masculine version of Cynthia Nixon that Cynthia Nixon dates. Or, like, Ralph Nader (wait, bad example—Schlafly totally does look like Ralph Nader in a granny wig). SATC2 takes everything that I hold dear as a woman and as a human—working hard, contributing to society, not being an entitled cunt like it's my job—and rapes it to death with a stiletto that costs more than my car. It is 146 minutes long, which means that I entered the theater in the bloom of youth and emerged with a family of field mice living in my long, white mustache.

Why was it that when she heard Granny ramble on about witchcraft she longed for the cutting magic of wizardry, but whenever she heard Treatle speak in his high-pitched voice she would fight to the death for witchcraft? She’d be both, or none at all. And the more they intended to stop her, the more she wanted it. She’d be a witch and a wizard too. And she would show them.

His granny taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind.

Granny’s custard,

Helpful. Handsome. Humble. A dangerous combination bound to attract envy and spite. Charles’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts. He was on the phone with 9-1-1, informing them of the death, identifying himself to the woman on the phone, who apparently knew him, and giving the details. After he hung up, he gently led Gretchen back into the living room. I followed, wiping a tear from my eye. That tear reassured me. I had seen a lot of death in my time, and had caused a fair amount of it, too, but I had never become any more hardened than what the job absolutely demanded. Once out in the living room, I hardened again. One of these five senior citizens was a murderer, and I was the woman who could discover the culprit. Gretchen? The odds suggested that it was her. Most of the time when a married person gets bumped off, it’s the spouse. The motive was usually one of three things: money, abuse, or an affair. Lucien didn’t have much money and shared it all with Gretchen anyway, plus he wasn’t the abusing kind. People have surprised me before in that department, but that was well beyond the realm of possibility. An affair? Lucien didn’t seem the sort of person to cheat. From what I’d heard, he had refused many offers. In fact, he had refused someone in this very room.

Least likely was Pearl, who at ninety-six was by far the oldest and feeblest in the group. I couldn’t think of a motive, but that didn’t mean a motive didn’t exist. She had a sick sense of humor, and she was the only one whose eyes weren’t wet. Perhaps she had seen so many friends die that she had come to accept death as a regular occurrence. Or perhaps she didn’t mind that Lucien had keeled over. I’d have to check that out.

The strangest sight was the old giant Thoon, who was getting bludgeoned to death by three old ladies with brass clubs—the Fates, armed for war. Jason decided there was nothing in the world scarier than a gang of bat-wielding grannies. He

I think about the Old Ones, that they have a past but no history. I think about the inevitability of death, and whether it’s not that very inevitability that inspires us to take photographs and make scrapbooks and tell stories. That that’s how we humans find our way to immortality. This is not a new thought; I’ve had such thoughts before. But I have a new thought now. That that’s how we find our way toward meaning. Meaning. If you’re going to die, you want to find meaning in life. You want to connect the dots. The Old Ones are born immortal. They’ve lived hundreds upon hundreds of years. But they’re going to die. Someday soon—in five days, or five months, or five years—we humans will come up with a cure for the swamp cough. Then Mr. Clayborne will light the illuminating gas and set the machines going and drain the water from the swamp. I look about the Flats, I try to imagine it. Men will dig up the ancient trees. They’ll shrivel the Flats into a toothless granny. They’ll drain the swamp into a scab. The Old Ones will have nowhere to live. And if that doesn’t kill them, industry will. The factories and hospitals and shipyards that are sure to come. The Old Ones can’t survive a world filled with metal. They can’t survive the clatter and growl of machinery. I leave the Flats. The fields are not too far now. Just down the road. But the road looks long and I feel the prickle of tears again. It’s because I’ve been ill, I know. That’s all it is. And when the bog-holes are puckered shut, where will the Boggy Mun go? Will he go to the sea? And if he does, what then? Is the sea too big to drain? Probably not. Look what mankind can create. Now you can photograph a person moving, and when you look at the photograph, you’ll actually see him moving, which is why it’s called a moving picture. This is hard to believe, I know, but still, we humans are inventing such astonishing things. I shouldn’t be surprised if, in time, we’ll be able to drain the sea. And what of the Old Ones? Only the stories will remain

old giant Thoon, who was getting bludgeoned to death by three old ladies with brass clubs—the Fates, armed for war. Jason decided there was nothing in the world scarier than a gang of bat-wielding grannies.

puff of wind brought the mist inside and filled the shack. It should have been cold and damp. Instead, it cloaked Lily like a warm blanket and surrounded her, so soft she felt cocooned in new cotton. She knew no fear, even if this proved to be her death-mist. She accepted this presence without Kee Granny or Ena having to give her notice. “Let me see your face.” Lily spoke to the mist. “Arise. The time has come.” Lily did not raise her head until the last reverberation faded. “I will,” she said quietly. “Are you Great Spirit or my mama’s God?” “Lily, I say get up.” “You know I have killed.

Sometimes he starts thinking so hard you has to hit him round the head to get his attention. His granny taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind.

One Day Eight Years Ago - Poem by Jibanananda Das It was heard: to the post-mortem cell he had been taken; last night—in the darkness of Falgoon-night When the five-night-old moon went down— he was longing for death. His wife lay beside—the child therewith; hope and love abundant__in the moonlight—what ghost did he see? Why his sleep broke? Or having no sleep at all since long—he now has fallen asleep in the post-mortem cell. Is this the sleep he’d longed for! Like a plagued rat, mouth filled with crimson froth now asleep in the nook of darkness; And will not ever awake anymore. ‘Never again will wake up, never again will bear the endless—endless burden of painful waking—’ It was told to him when the moon sank down—in the strange darkness by a silence like the neck of a camel that might have shown up at his window side. Nevertheless, the owl stays wide awake; The rotten still frog begs two more moments in the hope for another dawn in conceivable warmth. We feel in the deep tracelessness of flocking darkness The unforgiving enmity of the mosquito-net all around; The mosquito loves the stream of life awake in its monastery of darkness. From sitting in blood and filth, flies fly back into the sun; How often we watched moths and flies hovering in the waves of golden sun. The close-knit sky, as if—as it were, some scattered lives, possessed their hearts; The wavering dragonflies in the grasp of wanton kids Fought for life; As the moon went down, in the impending gloom With a noose in hand you approached the aswattha, alone, by yourself, For you’d learnt a human would ne’er live the life of a locust or a robin The branch of aswattha Had it not raged in protest? And the flock of fireflies Hadn’t they come and mingled with the comely bunch of daffodils? Hadn’t the senile blind owl come over and said: ‘the age-old moon seems to have been washed away by the surging waters? Splendid that! Let’s catch now rats and mouse! ’ Hadn’t the owl hooted out this cherished affair? Taste of life—the fragrance of golden corn of winter evening— seemed intolerable to you; — Content now in the morgue In the morgue—sultry with the bloodied mouth of a battered rat! Listen yet, tale of this dead; — Was not refused by the girl of love, Didn’t miss any joy of conjugal life, the bride went ahead of time and let him know honey and the honey of reflection; His life ne’er shivered in demeaning hunger or painful cold; So now in the morgue he lies flat on the dissection table. Know—I know woman’s heart—love—offspring—home—not all there is to things; Wealth, achievement, affluence apart there is some other baffling surprise that whirls in our veins; It tires and tires, and tires us out; but there is no tiring in the post mortem cell and so, there he rests, in the post mortem cell flat on the dissection table. Still I see the age-old owl, ah, Nightly sat on the aswattha bough Winks and echoes: ‘The olden moon seems to be carried away by the flooding waters? That’s splendid! Let’s catch now rats and mouse—’ Hi, granny dear, splendid even today? Let me age like you—and see off the olden moon in the whirlpool at the Kalidaha; Then the two of us will desert life’s abundant reserve.

Describe them in the order in which they appear, granny." "This is a phallus, my child." "Linga, you mean? Siva stone?" "A phallus is just a phallus. No Siva or any one else. This would not have been there all by itself. There should have been something besides. I can see a dark cave before me and behind it stands a smaller cave. In that small cave this stone was kept on a hollowed out slab." "A panipitha or pedestal, you mean?" "Not necessarily. Probably you are carried away by their resemblance to a pestle and mortar. This, you see, is a symbol of the male principle. In fact, a penis. What was left in the smaller cave would be its counterpart, a vagina-like piece. People used to worship these two objects together." "As Siva?" "Nothing of the sort. As phallus and vagina, pure and simple. I feel like laughing. But no- on second thoughts it seems to me there is nothing to laugh at. Creation became possible with male and female principles. Human beings thought God created all things in the same fashion. Birds and animals are all born in the same way. Whenever I went to any Siva temple, at the sight of the linga and its pedestal surprise used to seize me, and l never felt inclined to salute those symbols. When I visit temples what i feel is not devotion but utter wonder. I have never felt like begging God to give me this and that. Begging seems to me the most foolish thing to do. Extending your palms for some thing before one who created water, air, fire, the earth and the sky, in fact one who gave us life itself, betrays total lack of intelligence. Suppose the creator Brahma hits back saying, 'What did you do with the things I have already given?' what would you say?" Her philosophy was beyond me and so I said "Granny... How did they worship this? Did they bathe it? Did they offer flowers and fruits as we do now...?" "That I didn't think of. Probably I would have got at it, had I intensely thought of it" She thought for a while and burst out laughing. "Why the laughter?" "My guess was right. What I saw earlier was right." "What was it?" "I told you it was a phallus, and left behind in the cave is its counterpart. Quite a number of people are gathered around it. In a way, the whole scene is obscene. Of course, there are no children around. Young men and women are copulating there. For a while it looked obscene. That is because of a false sense of values. These people are playing the game, which God had desired them to play here. In a sense, I can read a sort of reverence for the thing they are doing. These people are not begging God to give them anything, unlike the priest I came across the other day...But when I hold this object, I feel no hesitation or shyness. Others may feel so. But why should I? To be born is no ugly thing; to live is not ugly; death too, is not ugly. Should creation alone be deemed ugly? "How can the spirit that unites man and woman for good or bad, sorrow or joy, seem dirty?

Why was it that when she heard Granny ramble on about witchcraft she longed for the cutting magic of wizardry, but whenever she heard Treatle speak in his high-pitched voice she would fight to the death for witchcraft? She’d be both, or none at all. And the more they intended to stop her, the more she wanted it. She’d be a witch and a wizard too. And she would show them.