Hardy Cross Quotes

I thought about the future, the oceans and continents he would cross, far away from everyone who knew and loved him. Far outside the sphere of his mothers prayers. Among the women of the future, there was one who would know his secrets and bear his children, and witness the changes the years worked on him. And it wouldnt be me. -Liberty Jones

This question of a woman telling her story—the heaviest of crosses to herself—seemed but amusement to others. It was as if people should laugh at martyrdom.

The next morning, when Thomasin withdrew the curtains of her bedroom window, there stood the Maypole in the middle of the greek, its top cutting into the sky. It had sprung up in the night. or rather early morning, like Jack's bean-stalk. She opened the casement to get a better view of the garlands and posies that adored it. The sweet perfume of the flowers had already spread into the surrounding air, which being free from every taint, conducted to her lips a full measure of the fragrance received from the spire of blossom in its midst. At the top of the pole were crossed hoops decked with small flowers; beneath these came a milk-white zone of Maybloom;then a zone of bluebells, then of cowslips, then of lilacs, then of ragged-rosins, daffodils and so on, till the lowest stage was reached.Thomasin noticed all these, and was delighted that the May revel was to be so near.

This question of a woman telling her story—the heaviest of crosses to herself—seemed but amusement to others. It was as if people should laugh at martyrdom.

While they sipped Sue went to the window and thoughtfully said, "It is such a beautiful sunset, Richard." "They are mostly beautiful from here, owing to the rays crossing the mist of the vale. But I lose them all, as they don't shine into this gloomy corner where I lie." "Wouldn't you like to see this particular one? It is like heaven opened." "Ah yes! But I can't.

Michael Palin : "I am sorry to interrupt you there Dennis, but he's crossed it out. Thomas Hardy here on the first day of his new novel has crossed out the only word he has written so far and he is gazing off into space. Ohh! Oh dear he's signed his name again." Graham Chapman: "It looks like Tess of the D'Urbervilles all over again." - Matching Tie and Handkerchief, "Novel Writing

Did I call them Laurel and Hardy? I meant sodding Romeo and Juliet. This is flirting, á la Gestapo underlings: She: Oh, you are so strong and manly, M'sieur Thibaut. These knots you tie are so secure. He: That is nothing. Look, I pull them so tight you cannot undo them. Try. She: It is true, I cannot! Oh, pull them tighter! He: Chérie, your wish is my command. It is my ankles, not hers, which he is binding so tightly and with such masculine charm. She: I shall have to call you in tomorrow morning as well, to do this task for me. He: You must cross the cords, so, and knot them behind - Me: Squeak! Squeak! She: Shut up and write, ya wee skrikin' Scots piece o' shite. Well, no, she did not use those exact words. But you get the idea.

A few minutes later the Hardys and Chet were heading for Larchmont. The car crossed a crystal-clear brook winding through a shady stand of pines set back on a knoll. “Stop!” ordered Chet. “Here’s the place for our submarine sandwiches.” Laughing, the boys parked off the road and got out. Soon they were sprawled on the soft pine needle carpet of the grove, where they could just see the sunlight flashing on the front of the convertible.

He crossed over towards Bathsheba, who turned to greet him with a carriage of perfect ease. He spoke to her in low tones, and she instinctively modulated her own to the same pitch, and her voice ultimately even caught the inflection of his. She was far from having a wish to appear mysteriously connected with him; but woman at the impressionable age gravitates to the larger body not only in her choice of words, which is apparent every day, but even in her shades of tone and humour, when the influence is great.

When did pursuing your ambitions cross the line from brave into full hardy? How did you know when to stop? In earlier, more rigid, less encouraging (and ultimately, more helpful) decades things would be much clearer. You would stop when you turned forty, or when you got married, or when you had kids, or after five years, or ten years or fifteen. And then you would go get a real job, and acting and your dreams for a career in it would recede into the evening, a melting into the story as quiet as a briquette of ice sliding into a warm bath.

In every classic comedy duo, from Laurel and Hardy to Abbott and Costello to Martin and Lewis, in order for the exchange to work, the quality of the straight man had to be as dynamic as that of the funny guy. Carl was the best at this. I could use a single question as a springboard to unplanned exposition and tangents that would be as much of a surprise to Carl as they were to the audience. Carl was a gifted partner: While he deferred the punch lines to me, he knew me well enough to follow along and cross paths enough to set me up for more opportunities. He also knew he could throw me a complete curveball and I’d swing for the fences. We were a great ad-libbed high-wire act, and like the best high-wire acts, ours was dependent upon complete trust and respect for each other. Carl once said, “A brilliant mind in panic is a wonderful thing to behold.

What happened was that when they brought me in this morning, poor Fräulein Engel was sitting at the table with her back to the door, busily numbering my countless recipe cards, and I frightened the living daylights out of her by braying in a deep, stentorian voice of command and discipline, ‘Achtung, Anna Engel! Heil Hitler!’ She catapulted to her feet and threw herself into a salute that must have nearly dislocated her shoulder. I’ve never seen her look so white around the gills. She recovered almost immediately and smacked me so hard she knocked me over. When Thibaut picked me up, she smacked me again just for the sheer hell of it. Wow wow wow is my jaw sore. I suppose they are not planning another phoney interview. I can never decide if it is worth it. It was a truly hilarious moment, but all I seem to have achieved this time is a totally unexpected collusion between Engel and Thibaut. Did I call them Laurel and Hardy? I meant sodding Romeo and Juliet. This is flirting, à la Gestapo underlings: She: Oh, you are so strong and manly, M’sieur Thibaut. Those knots you tie are so secure. He: That is nothing. Look, I pull them so tight you cannot undo them. Try. She: It is true, I cannot! Oh, pull them tighter! He: Chérie, your wish is my command. It is my ankles, not hers, which he is binding so tightly and with such masculine charm. She: I shall have to call you in tomorrow morning as well, to do this task for me. He: You must cross the cords, so, and knot them behind – Me: Squeak! Squeak! She: Shut up and write, ya wee skrikin’ Scots piece o’ shite. Well, no, she did not use those exact words. But you get the idea.

Andy smiled. “How many guns does an Alaskan need?” Vic made an I-don’t-know face. “Just one more,” I told him. Andy laughed.

Another half hour went by. Chet sighted a clear stream, flashing in the sun, pouring through a green meadow. “There!” he exclaimed in triumph. “Uh-uh!” said Joe, poker-faced. “No shade. I can’t eat in the blazing sun. Hurts my digestion.” “Oh-h,” the stout boy moaned, but proceeded doggedly ahead. Presently the woods closed in on both sides, and the road crossed a small creek. “Now?” Chet sighed hopefully. “No.” Frank shook his head. “Oh-h! Now why?” “Too many trees. No sun. Can’t eat without a little sun.

astern of them. They could see the big ships in their piers, and over on the right, the wide mouth of Willow River, with the bridge crossing it.

The Piper farm was difficult to locate. A man cutting grass in a small country cemetery finally put the boys on the right track. He pointed out an abandoned property next to the cemetery. “John Piper died last year,” he informed them. “No one has lived there since.” Frank and Joe got out of the car and crossed the unkempt fields. The whole place was in a state of neglect. Weeds grew high in the yard. Parts of farm machinery lay rusting by a tumble-down fence. The farmhouse windows were boarded.

By learning to let go and to allow the world and fellow human beings to be who and what they truly are, a disciple frees her or himself to love—to the death.

Ross was known for his methodical cross-examinations—“Well, why did you do that?” he loved to ask—and he stressed the need to treat everyone equally, a trait he had learned under Robert Hardie at the Visalia migrant labor camp.

Over the years and throughout the decades of his adult life, Pap Hardy had made such a number of enemies that the local watering hole had kept a tally, crossing off each name as they moved, died, or inexplicably disappeared from the town in demonstration of Pap’s endurance and will to outlive and outstay any and all who’d opposed him. A self-will strung with desiccated cat gut. An iron mind riveted to justice. A heart enlarged by duty. e last of his kind.

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