Harriet The Spy Quotes

Women have always been spies.

Don't mess with anybody on a Monday. It's a bad, bad day.

[Harriet] hated math. She hated math with every bone in her body. She spent so much time hating it that she never had time to do it.

Sometimes you have to lie. But to yourself you must always tell the truth.

People who love work, love life.

WHEN SOMEBODY GOES AWAY THERE'S THINGS YOU WANT TO TELL THEM. WHEN SOMEBODY DIES MAYBE THAT'S THE WORST THING. YOU WANT TO TELL THEM THINGS THAT HAPPEN AFTER.

YOU CAN'T BE TOO OLD TO SPY EXCEPT IF YOU WERE FIFTY YOU MIGHT FALL OFF A FIRE ESCAPE, BUT YOU COULD SPY AROUND ON THE GROUND A LOT.

Life is a struggle and a good spy goes in there and fights.

LIFE IS A GREAT MYSTERY. IS EVERYBODY A DIFFERENT PERSON WHEN THEY ARE WITH SOMEBODY ELSE?

I WONDER IF WHEN YOU DREAM ABOUT SOMEBODY THEY DREAM ABOUT YOU.

This was too much. "I refuse. I absolutely REFUSE to be an onion.

When people don't do anything they don't think anything, and when people don't think anything there's nothing to think about them.- Harriet the Spy

Little lies that make people feel better are not bad, like thanking someone for a meal they made even if you hated it, or telling a sick person they look better when they don't, or someone with a hideous new hat that it's lovely. But to yourself you must tell the truth

Harriet: Is it fun being married? Ole Golly: How should I know? I've never been married. However, I doubt it's all fun. Nothing ever is, you know.

Life is very strange.

I had

Ole Golly: The time has come, the walrus said... Harriet M. Welsch: To talk of many things... Ole Golly: Of shoes and ships and ceiling wax... Harriet M. Welsch: Of cabbages and kings... Ole Golly: And why the sea is boiling hot... Harriet M. Welsch: And whether pigs have wings!

IF YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HEAD WHEN ALL ABOUT YOU ARE LOSING THEIRS AND BLAMING IT ON YOU

Harriet: How do you practice being an onion?

JANIE GETS STRANGER EVERY YEAR.

Miss Elson came into the room and they all stood up and said, “Good morning, Miss Elson.” Miss Elson bowed and said, “Good morning, children.” Then they all sat down and punched each other.

But more than anything, as a little girl, I wanted to be exactly like Miss Piggy. She was ma heroine. I was a plucky little girl, but I never related to the rough-and-tumble icons of children's lit, like Pippi Longstocking or Harriet the Spy. Even Ramona Quimby, who seemed cool, wasn't somebody I could super-relate to. She was scrawny and scrappy and I was soft and sarcastic. I connected instead to Miss - never 'Ms.' - Piggy; the comedienne extraordinaire who'd alternate eye bats with karate chops, swoon over girly stuff like chocolate, perfume, feather boas or random words pronounced in French, then, on a dmie, lower her voice to 'Don't fuck with me, fellas' decibel when slighted. She was hugely feminine, boldly ambitious, and hilariously violent when she didn't get way, whether it was in work, love, or life. And even though she was a pig puppet voiced by a man with a hand up her ass, she was the fiercest feminist I'd ever seen.

Writing is to put love into the world.

Well, I’m going to be a writer. And when I say that’s a mountain, that’s a mountain.

She never minded admitting she didn't know something. So what, she thought; I could always learn.

SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN. I KNOW IT. EVERY TIME I HAD A BAD DREAM I FEEL LIKE LEAVING TOWN. THEN I FEEL THAT SOMETHING TERRIBLE IS GOING TO HAPPEN. AND THIS IS THE WORST DREAM I'VE EVER HAD IN MY WHOLE LIFE.

I feel all the same things when I do things alone as when Ole Golly was here. The bath feels hot, the bed feels soft, but I feel there's a funny little hole in me that wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger, but this is somewhere above my stomach.

If Marion Hawthorne doesn't watch out, she's going to grow up into a lady Hitler.

The world went on the same after all. The same things happened every morning. So what if they did not like her? She would go on the same.

Some people are one way and some people are another and that's that.

I'M GLAD I'M NOT PERFECT—I'D BE BORED TO DEATH.

There's as many ways to live as people.

Well,” Mrs. Plumber was saying decisively into the telephone, “I have discovered the secret of life.” Wow, thought Harriet. “My dear, it’s very simple, you just take to your bed. You just refuse to leave it for anything or anybody.

THERE IS MORE TO THIS THING OF LOVE THAN MEETS THE EYE. I AM GOING TO HAVE TO THINK ABOUT THIS A GREAT DEAL BUT I DON'T THINK IT WILL GET ME ANYWHERE. I THINK MAYBE THEY'RE ALL RIGHT WHEN THEY SAY THERE ARE DOME THINGS I WON'T KNOW ABOUT UNTIL I'M OLDER.

Harriet never minded admitting when she didn't know something. 'So what,' she thought, 'I can always learn.

Always say exactly what you feel. People are hurt more by misunderstanding than anything else.

looka

It feels ... as though doors were opening all over the world... It's bigger, somehow, the world.

valley

How I love to read, she thought. The whole world gets bigger.

People who try to control people and change people's habits are the ones that make all the trouble. If you don't like somebody, walk away... But don't try and make them like you.

Shy people are angry people,

She didn't care anymore... and she got no pleasure from the work she did, but she did it. Everything bored her. She found that when she didn't have a notebook it was hard for her to think. The thoughts came slowly, as though they had to squeeze through a tiny door to get to her, whereas when she wrote, they flowed out faster than she could put them down. She sat very stupidly with a blank mind until finall 'I feel different' came slowly to her mind. Yes, she thought, after a long pause. And then, after more time, 'Mean, I feel mean.

I FEEL ALL THE SAME THINGS WHEN I DO THINGS ALONE AS WHEN OLE GOLLY WAS HERE. THE BATH FEELS HOT, THE BED FEELS SOFT, BUT I FEEL THERE’S A FUNNY LITTLE HOLE IN ME THAT WASN’T THERE BEFORE, LIKE A SPLINTER IN YOUR FINGER, BUT THIS IS SOMEWHERE ABOVE MY STOMACH.

Apakah setiap orang akan menjadi orang yang berbeda ketika mereka bersama orang lain?

bulging

darling,

Her fingers itched at the thought of a notebook, of a pen flying over the pages, of her thoughts, finally free to move, flowing out.

JUST

At first she didn't listen to it and then she heard what she was feeling. She said it several times to hear it better.

Harriet pushed her hair back and looked at him seriously. 'Sport, what are you going to be when you grow up?' 'You know what. You know I'm going to be a ball player.' 'Well, I'm going to be a writer. And when I say that's a mountain, that's a mountain.' Satisfied, she turned back to her town.

WHEN I GROW UP I’M GOING TO FIND OUT EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYBODY AND PUT IT ALL IN A BOOK. THE BOOK IS GOING TO BE CALLED SECRETS BY HARRIET M. WELSCH. I WILL ALSO HAVE PHOTOGRAPHS IN IT AND MAYBE SOME MEDICAL CHARTS IF I CAN GET THEM.

I want to know everything, everything," screeched Harriet suddenly, lying back and bouncing up and down on the bed. "Everything in the world, everything, everything. I will be a spy and know everything." "It won't do you a bit of good to know everything if you don't do anything with it.

all God’s creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of God’s light. Love the animals, love the plants, love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things. Once you perceive it, you will begin to comprehend it better every day. And you will come at last to love the whole world with an all-embracing love.’ 

I wanted to be Emma Goldman. I wanted to digest Doris Lessing’s Golden Notebooks like biscuits. I felt like Harriet the Spy, looking for a dumbwaiter to hide in, scribbling down all I witnessed.

The apartment was entirely, was only, for her: a wall of books, both read and unread, all of them dear to her not only in themselves, their tender spines, but in the moments or periods they evoked. She had kept some books since college that she had acquired for courses and never read—Fredric Jameson, for example, and Kant’s Critique of Judgment—but which suggested to her that she was, or might be, a person of seriousness, a thinker in some seeping, ubiquitous way; and she had kept, too, a handful of children’s books taken fro her now-dismantled girlhood room, like Charlotte’s Web and the Harriet the Spy novels, that conjured for her an earlier, passionately earnest self, the sober child who read constantly in the back of her parents’ Buick, oblivious to her brother punching her knee, oblivious to her parents’ squabbling, oblivious to the traffic and landscapes pressing upon her from outside the window. She had, in addition to her books, a modest shelf of tapes and CDs that served a similar, though narrower, function…she was aware that her collection was comprised largely of mainstream choices that reflected—whether popular or classical—not so much an individual spirit as the generic tastes of her times: Madonna, the Eurythmics, Tracy Chapman from her adolescence; Cecilia Bartoli, Anne-Sophie Mutter, Mitsuko Uchida; more recently Moby and the posthumously celebrated folk-singing woman from Washington, DC, who had died of a melanoma in her early thirties, and whose tragic tale attracted Danielle more than her familiar songs. Her self, then, was represented in her books; her times in her records; and the rest of the room she thought of as a pure, blank slate.

books: Nancy Drew, Harriet the Spy, Encyclopedia Brown, and later, anything with even a passing mention of sex in it: Judy Blume’s Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret, and those Clan of the Cave Bear books, the whole Flowers in the Attic series. But mostly we were obsessed with a book called The Chrysalids. We

hopscotch, jump rope, charm bracelets, buried treasure, Harriet the Spying, blood sisters, crank calls, pot, coke, quaaludes.

Jocelyn and I have done everything together since fourth grade: hopscotch, jump rope, charm bracelets, buried treasure, Harriet the Spying, blood sisters, crank calls, pot, coke, quaaludes.

This was too much. “Yes,” she shouted, “but I’m eleven.” “Oh.” He looked somewhat taken aback, standing there with the Monopoly board in his hand. Harriet began to feel sorry for him. “Well,” she said, “shall we play one game?” He looked relieved. He set up the board carefully on the coffee table. Then he went to the desk drawer and got out a notebook and a pen. Then he sat down across from her. Harriet stared at the notebook. “What’s that?” “A notebook.” “I KNOW that,” she shouted. “I just take a few notes now and then. You don’t mind, do you?” “Depends on what they are.” “What do you mean?” “Are they mean, nasty notes, or just ordinary notes?” “Why?” “Well, I just thought I’d warn you. Nasty ones are pretty hard to get by with these days.” “Oh, I see what you mean. Thank you for the advice. No, they’re quite ordinary notes.” “Nobody ever takes it away from you, I bet, do they?” “What do you mean?

One of the lesser-known contributions of the great Harriet Tubman was the devotion of her life after the war to a similar project. The woman who personally led three hundred slaves to freedom, who was a spy and “general” for the Union, spent her final years trying to establish the John Brown Home for the Aged. When the government refused to give her a full veteran’s pension, the former general sold fruit and had a biography published to raise money for the institution.

In the bottom of the desk drawer I found an old composition notebook from my Harriet the Spy days. It was colored in pink and green and yellow highlighter. I'd followed the boys around for days, taking notes in it until I drove Steven crazy and he told Mom on me.

Oh, and next time you wanna play Harriet the Spy and watch me mess around, let me know. I’ll give you a better view.

Harriet, a spy, nurse, and leader during the Civil War, fought with everything she had to end slavery in the United States,

Louise, who at twenty-three could easily look like a sixteen-year-old boy, wore trousers, a vest, and a tie. Joan wore a chic dress with a nipped-in waist and wide skirt, her red hair in a wavy, shoulder-length pageboy. The juke box in the bar was a good one, with Ray Charles singing “Hey Now” and new records by B. B. King, whose performances on Beale Street were a Memphis sensation. The most popular song of the night, hands down, was Kitty Wells strumming “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honky Tonk Angels.” Wells was from Nashville, and the burgeoning country music industry in their home state was a subject of fascination for both women. Louise, intrigued by the fashion for cowboy costumes and yodeling, could do a fair imitation of Hank Williams. Louise had a new swagger that Joan hadn’t seen in her before. She was more assertive and suffered fools even less. When a pretty young woman stopped by their table to compliment Joan’s hair and flirtatiously ask, “Why don’t you cut it short?” Louise sent her on her way with a proprietary growl, saying, “Leave her alone. She’s not gay.

France went to a Dr. Nancy Peters, and as part of her therapy she kept a notebook in which she grappled with her own various family dynamics. She also wrote about Louise, whom she described as “the firebrand, the disturber, the quicksilver, ranting or magnificent, at my side.” In the same entry, she wrote, “I have to learn to fight, because I want to keep Louise.

In October, Louise showed several new paintings at the Panoras Gallery on Fifty-Sixth Street. During this period, she painted nudes, interiors, several versions of MacDuff, many portraits, at least two paintings set in public buses, and other New York street-life subjects. Her stylized figures were often inspired by random encounters and eavesdropping. Observing underdogs and outsiders in action, she was drawn to faces and to cityscapes and to a style that incorporated storytelling and allegory. Louise’s new work was influenced by the scene painting of the Works Progress Administration and Mexican muralists; by Käthe Kollwitz and German expressionists like Max Beckmann, Oskar Kokoschka, and Egon Schiele; by Alice Neel, Francis Bacon, and other portraitists—and, to an increasing extent, by medieval tapestries and frescoes by Bolognese Renaissance artists such as Pellegrino Tibaldi. Louise kept working to reveal the lives behind the faces she portrayed—their backstory—and began to introduce some southern imagery from her own memories. She was fascinated by the story beneath the surface and whatever metaphysical qualities she could draw from the depths of her subject.

I’m feeling a little sauvage

Harriet Tubman was a spy for the United States of America Union Army during the Civil War.   9.