Hoes Will Always Be Hoes Quotes

How will you know the difficulties of being human, if you are always flying off to blue perfection? Where will you plant your grief seeds? Workers need ground to scrape and hoe, not the sky of unspecified desire.

She hates the way the people part to let them past and then, behind them, regroup, erasing their passage, as if it were nothing, as if it never were. She wishes to scratch the ground, perhaps with a hoe, to score the streets beneath her, so that there will forever be a mark, for it always to be known that this way Hamnet came. He was here.

I love you, too... I did, I do, I always have. I realized that then. I love him too, but what I have what you and I have is different. If I'd never met you, maybe he would be enough. But I've taken a bite of the forbidden fruit. I've eaten from the tree of knowledge. I've seen hoe much more there is.

I find it wholesome to be alone in the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. i never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men then when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervis in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can "see the folks," and recreate, and as he thinks remunerate, himself for his day's solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and "the blues;" but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.

That's why you look down on me, because you know I lie. At wakes, at funerals, at weddings - yes, I lie. I lie at wakes and funerals to relieve pain. 'Cause reading, writing, and 'rithmetic is not enough. You think that's all the sent you to school for? They send you to school to relieve pain, to relieve hurt - and if you have to lie to do it, then you lie. You lie and you lie and you lie. When you tell yourself you feeling good when you sick, you lying. When you tell other people you feeling well when you feeling sick, you lying. You tell them that 'cause they have pain too, and you don't want to add yours - and you lie. She been lying every day of her life, your aunt in there. That's how you got through that university - cheating herself here, cheating herself there, but always telling you she's all right. I've seen her hands bleed from picking cotton. I've seen the blisters from the hoe and the cane knife. At that church, crying on her knees. You ever looked at the scabs on her knees, boy? Course you never. 'Cause she never wanted you to see it. And that's the difference between me and you, boy; that make me the educated one, and you the gump. I know my people. I know what they gone through. I know they done cheated themself, lied to themself - hoping that one they all love and trust can come back and help relieve the pain.

Hoes are always tryna cut hoes down, u kno.

It’s always ‘girl-bros before man-hoes.’ Sorry, dude.

If it all blows up in my face, you’ll help me pick up the bits and pieces of my heart, right?” She jumped down from the bed and gave me a big hug. “Hoes over bros. Always.

Not that either he or Kaden was lazy. They were both always eager to pitch in, Kaden fixing the wheel on Berdi’s wagon without any prompting, and Rafe proving himself as an experienced farmhand, clearing the trenches in Berdi’s vegetable garden and repairing its sticky sluice gate. Gwyneth and I both watched with more than a little interest as he swung the hoe and lifted heavy rocks to reinforce the channel. Perhaps,

How solemn and beautiful is the thought, that the earliest pioneer of civilization, the van-leader of civilization, is never the steamboat, never the railroad, never the newspaper, never the Sabbath-school, never the missionary—but always whiskey! Such is the case. Look history over; you will see. The missionary comes after the whiskey—I mean he arrives after the whiskey has arrived; next comes the poor immigrant, with ax and hoe and rifle; next, the trader; next, the miscellaneous rush; next, the gambler, the desperado, the highwayman, and all their kindred in sin of both sexes; and next, the smart chap who has bought up an old grant that covers all the land; this brings the lawyer tribe; the vigilance committee brings the undertaker. All these interests bring the newspaper; the newspaper starts up politics and a railroad; all hands turn to and build a church and a jail—and

Want to know what else I heard you did at the bar?” “I don’t think I do.” “You used your red lipstick to scribble ‘Alethea is a skanky hoe’ on the bathroom mirror.” In her opinion, truer words had never been spoken – well, scribbled. Her demon agreed. “You almost yacked in the Bentley.” Oh, God. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “Stop.” “We had to pull over so you could vomit in a bush.” “Stop.” “Then you got back in the car and said, ‘Taco Bell, anyone?’” “Stop.”  Knox chuckled. “But I haven’t told you what you did when you got home yet.” She buried her face deeper into the pillow. “I don’t want to hear it.” He spoke into her ear. “You told me you love me, you’d always love me, and that you even love my demon… which would have been really sweet if you weren’t bent over the toilet with vomit in your hair.

Full of the usual blights, mistakes, ruinous beetles and parasites, glorious for one week, bedraggled the next, my actual garden is always a mixed bag. As usual, it will fall far short of the imagined perfection. It is a chore. Hard work. I'll by turns aggressively weed and ignore it. The ground I tend sustains me in early summer, but the garden of the spirit is the place I go when the wind howls. This lush and fragrant expectation has a longer growing season than the plot of earth I'll hoe for the rest of the year. Raised in the mind's eye, nurtured by the faithful composting of orange rinds and tea leaves and ideas, it is finally the wintergarden that produces the true flowering, the saving vision.

the streets. So now everyone is afraid of it. Petr GINZ Today it’s clear to everyone who is a Jew and who’s an Aryan, because you’ll know Jews near and far by their black and yellow star. And Jews who are so demarcated must live according to the rules dictated: Always, after eight o’clock, be at home and click the lock; work only labouring with pick or hoe, and do not listen to the radio. You’re not allowed to own a mutt; barbers can’t give your hair a cut; a female Jew who once was rich can’t have a dog, even a bitch, she cannot send her kids to school must shop from three to five since that’s the rule. She can’t have bracelets, garlic, wine, or go to the theatre, out to dine; she can’t have cars or a gramophone, fur coats or skis or a telephone; she can’t eat onions, pork, or cheese, have instruments, or matrices; she cannot own a clarinet or keep a canary for a pet, rent bicycles or barometers, have woollen socks or warm sweaters. And especially the outcast Jew must give up all habits he knew: he can’t buy clothes, can’t buy a shoe, since dressing well is not his due; he can’t have poultry, shaving soap, or jam or anything to smoke; can’t get a license, buy some gin, read magazines, a news bulletin, buy sweets or a machine to sew; to fields or shops he cannot go even to buy a single pair of winter woollen underwear, or a sardine or a ripe pear. And if this list is not complete there’s more, so you should be discreet; don’t buy a thing; accept defeat. Walk everywhere you want to go in rain or sleet or hail or snow. Don’t leave your house, don’t push a pram, don’t take a bus or train or tram; you’re not allowed on a fast train; don’t hail a taxi, or complain; no matter how thirsty you are you must not enter any bar; the riverbank is not for you, or a museum or park or zoo or swimming pool or stadium or post office or department store, or church, casino, or cathedral or any public urinal. And you be careful not to use main streets, and keep off avenues! And if you want to breathe some air go to God’s garden and walk there among the graves in the cemetery because no park to you is free. And if you are a clever Jew you’ll close off bank accounts and you will give up other habits too like meeting Aryans you knew. He used to be allowed a swag, suitcase, rucksack, or carpetbag. Now he has lost even those rights but every Jew lowers his sights and follows all the rules he’s got and doesn’t care one little jot.

His great-aunt had been born on this land, lived on it eight decades, and knew it as well as she knew her husband and children. That was what she’d always claimed, and could tell you to the week when the first dogwood blossom would brighten the ridge, the first blackberry darken and swell enough to harvest. Then her mind had wandered into a place she could not follow, taking with it all the people she knew, their names and connections, whether they still lived or whether they’d died. But her body lingered, shed of an inner being, empty as a cicada husk. Knowledge of the land was the one memory that refused to dissolve. During her last year, Jesse would step off the school bus and see his great-aunt hoeing a field behind her farmhouse, breaking ground for a crop she never sowed, but the rows were always straight, right-depthed. Her nephew, Jesse’s father, worked in an adjoining field. The first few times, he had taken the hoe from her hands and led her back to her house, but she’d soon be back in the field. After a while neighbors and kin just let her hoe.

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. To be in company, even with the best, is soon wearisome and dissipating. I love to be alone. I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude. We are for the most part more lonely when we go abroad among men than when we stay in our chambers. A man thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervish in the desert. The farmer can work alone in the field or the woods all day, hoeing or chopping, and not feel lonesome, because he is employed; but when he comes home at night he cannot sit down in a room alone, at the mercy of his thoughts, but must be where he can “see the folks,” and recreate, and, as he thinks, remunerate himself for his day’s solitude; and hence he wonders how the student can sit alone in the house all night and most of the day without ennui and “the blues”; but he does not realize that the student, though in the house, is still at work in his field, and chopping in his woods, as the farmer in his, and in turn seeks the same recreation and society that the latter does, though it may be a more condensed form of it.

The land around Ankh-Morpork is fertile and largely given over to the cabbage fields that help to give the city its distinctive odor. The gray light of pre-dawn unrolled over the blue-green expanse, and around a couple of farmers who were making an early start on the spinach harvest. They looked up, not at a sound, but at a travelling point of silence where sound ought to have been. It was a man and a woman and something like a size five man in a size twelve fur coat, all in a chariot that flickered as it moved. It bowled along the road toward Holy Wood and was soon out of sight. A minute or two later it was followed by a wheelchair. Its axle glowed red-hot. It was full of people screaming at one another. One of them was turning a handle on a box. It was so overburdened that wizards occasionally fell off and ran along after it, shouting, until they had a chance to jump on again and start screaming. Whoever was attempting to steer was not succeeding, and it weaved back and forth across the road and eventually hurtled off it completely and through the side of a barn. One of the farmers nudged the other. "Oi've seen this on the clicks," he said. "It's always the same. They crash into a barn and they allus comes out the other side covered in squawking chickens." His companion leaned reflectively on his hoe. "It'd be a sight worth seeing that," he said. "Sure would." "'Cos all there is in there, boy, is twenty ton of cabbage." There was a crash, and the chair erupted from the barn in a shower of chickens and headed madly toward the road. The farmers looked at one another. "Well, dang me," said one of them.

I can’t be intelligent,’ Clarissa said miserably. ‘I must be stupid. Mother Ryan says that I’m stupid, and Bob says that I’m stupid, and even Mrs Talbot says that I’m stupid, and–’ She began to cry. She went to a mirror and dried her eyes. Baxter followed. He put his arms around her. ‘Don’t put your arms around me,’ she said, more in despair than in anger. ‘Nobody ever takes me seriously until they get their arms around me.’ She sat down again and Baxter sat near her. ‘But you’re not stupid, Clarissa,’ he said. ‘You have a wonderful intelligence, a wonderful mind. I’ve often thought so. I’ve often felt that you must have a lot of very interesting opinions.’ ‘ Well, that’s funny,’ she said, ‘because I do have a lot of opinions. Of course, I never dare say them to anyone, and Bob and Mother Ryan don’t ever let me speak. They always interrupt me, as if they were ashamed of me. But I do have these opinions. I mean, I think we’re like cogs in a wheel. I’ve concluded that we’re like cogs in a wheel. Do you think we’re like cogs in a wheel?’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Oh, yes, I do!’ ‘I think we’re like cogs in a wheel,’ she said. ‘For instance, do you think that women should work? I’ve given that a lot of thought. My opinion is that I don’t think married women should work. I mean, unless they have a lot of money, of course, but even then I think it’s a full-time job to take care of a man. Or do you think that women should work?’ ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘I’m terribly interested in knowing what you think.’ ‘Well, my opinion is,’ she said timidly, ‘that you just have to hoe your row. I don’t think that working or joining the church is going to change everything, or special diets, either. I don’t put much stock in fancy diets. We have a friend who eats a quarter of a pound of meat at every meal. He has a scales right on the table and he weighs the meat. It makes the table look awful and I don’t see what good it’s going to do him. I buy what’s reasonable. If ham is reasonable, I buy ham. If lamb is reasonable, I buy lamb. Don’t you think that’s intelligent?

Remarkably, we still have a ‘wild’ Indian’s account of his capture and incarceration. In 1878, when he was an old man, a Kamia called Janitin told an interviewer: I and two of my relatives went down ... to the beach ... we did no harm to anyone on the road, and ... we thought of nothing more than catching and drying clams in order to carry them to our village. While we were doing this, we saw two men on horseback coming rapidly towards us; my relatives were immediately afraid and they fled with all speed, hiding themselves in a very dense willow grove ... As soon as I saw myself alone, I also became afraid ... and ran to the forest ... but already it was too late, because in a moment they overtook me and lassoed and dragged me for a long distance, wounding me much with the branches over which they dragged me, pulling me lassoed as I was with their horses running; after this they roped me with my arms behind and carried me off to the Mission of San Miguel, making me travel almost at a run in order to keep up with their horses, and when I stopped a little to catch my wind, they lashed me with the lariats that they carried, making me understand by signs that I should hurry; after much travelling in this manner, they diminished the pace and lashed me in order that I would always travel at the pace of the horses. When we arrived at the mission, they locked me in a room for a week; the father [a Dominican priest] made me go to his habitation and he talked to me by means of an interpreter, telling me that he would make me a Christian, and he told me many things that I did not understand, and Cunnur, the interpreter, told me that I should do as the father told me, because now I was not going to be set free, and it would go very bad with me if I did not consent in it. They gave me atole de mayz[corn gruel] to eat which I did not like because I was not accustomed to that food; but there was nothing else to eat. One day they threw water on my head and gave me salt to eat, and with this the interpreter told me that I was now Christian and that I was called Jesús: I knew nothing of this, and I tolerated it all because in the end I was a poor Indian and did not have recourse but to conform myself and tolerate the things they did with me. The following day after my baptism, they took me to work with the other Indians, and they put me to cleaning a milpa [cornfield] of maize; since I did not know how to manage the hoe that they gave me, after hoeing a little, I cut my foot and could not continue working with it, but I was put to pulling out the weeds by hand, and in this manner I did not finish the task that they gave me. In the afternoon they lashed me for not finishing the job, and the following day the same thing happened as on the previous day. Every day they lashed me unjustly because I did not finish what I did not know how to do, and thus I existed for many days until I found a way to escape; but I was tracked and they caught me like a fox; there they seized me by lasso as on the first occasion, and they carried me off to the mission torturing me on the road. After we arrived, the father passed along the corridor of the house, and he ordered that they fasten me to the stake and castigate me; they lashed me until I lost consciousness, and I did not regain consciousness for many hours afterwards. For several days I could not raise myself from the floor where they had laid me, and I still have on my shoulders the marks of the lashes which they gave me then.

In the livid light of five-thirty in the morning Donnafugata was deserted and apparently despairing. In front of every house the refuse of squalid meals accumulated along leprous walls; trembling dogs were routing about with a greed that was always disappointed. An occasional door was already open and the smell of sleep spread out into the street; by glimmering wicks mothers scrutinized the eyelids of their children for trachoma; almost all were in mourning, and many had been the wives of those carcasses one stumbles over on the turns of mountain tracks. The men were coming out gripping their hoes to look for someone who might give them work, God willing; subdued silence alternated with exasperated screams of hysterical voices; away over toward the Convent of the Holy Spirit a tin-colored dawn was beginning to tinge leaden clouds.

You soon got pretty handy with the fire, if I remember rightly. And you can make a well-tempered hoe. We’ll send you off to Faversham where you’ll do your two years of improving, and then you’ll always be welcome back here as a master blacksmith, and maybe take over when my back’s given in and I can’t do no more.’ Len handed Stephen a copy of his indenture, releasing him from his apprenticeship. The crowd applauded as Stephen tucked it into his pocket. ‘Now show us how you handle that anvil,’ Len said. Stephen stepped forwards, cracking his knuckles. He bent down and put both forearms under the anvil. He took a deep breath and tensed the muscles and sinews in his neck before he straightened, slowly lifting the heavy weight off the ground. A roar of cheers went up as he held it steady. ‘His arms are very strong, very strong indeed. He’s handsome, don’t you think?’ Emily said as Stephen gently lowered it down again. ‘He’s

I’ve come to consider the principles of nature: It’s a quiet place, where you can observe the influences of the environment. Wild animals, for example, sleep differently from domesticated animals. This can be a good lesson. Or take the wild rooster: Its eyes are quick, its tail feathers sparse, its wings strong, and its call short. It can run fast and fly far. What do these characteristics come from? I’ve made this a lesson for myself. Domesticated roosters and wild roosters come from the same species, but the domesticated rooster’s wings are weak, its call long, its tail feathers lush and ungainly, its behavior different from that of the wild rooster. The wild rooster is the way it is because it can’t afford to let down its guard. It always has to be on the alert because danger is ever-present in the forest. If the wild rooster went around acting like a domestic rooster, the cobras and mongooses would make a meal of it in no time. So when it eats, sleeps, opens and closes its eyes, the wild rooster has to be strong and resilient in order to stay alive. So it is with us. If we spend all our time wallowing around in companionship, we’re like a knife or a hoe stuck down into the dirt: It’ll rust easily. But if it’s constantly sharpened on a stone or a file, rust won’t have a chance to take hold. Thus we should learn to be always on the alert. This is why I like to stay in the forest. I benefit from it and learn many lessons.

in this country you always spoke for me when the cashiers told me how much was owed you counted the money over I want to know hoe much you will forgive me for

I’d always heard it was hard as fuck for bitches to find somebody, but it was hard as hell for niggas too. If she genuinely liked you, she probably had low self-esteem or was ugly as fuck. If she was pretty, either she was a hoe or her pussy was weak, or she only liked you for what you could do for her ass. It was a fucking rarity that you found a woman who was beautiful, knew she was beautiful, had some good pussy, her own life and ambition, plus just wanted you for you.

Ain't you interested in bettering yourself?" "'Bettering yourself.' Now there's a phrase for you. You think your brother is a better man now than he was when he was hoeing corn?" "He's happier." "That ain't the same thing. He's happy at everybody's else's expense. Progress is always at somebody's expense. Hit means putting everything in order till they's no room to breathe. Progress means cleaning everything up. But I like things dirty.

Always cheating on us with basic bitches and getting mad because them hoes don't know how to play their position. It's not our fault we always out fighting trying to prove our love.

He had always explained to me that there were two types of women. There were those who were meant to be wifed up and then there were those who were meant to be the hoe on the side.

Twon was a hoe; he always had been and always would be. When

It's always gon’ be hoes no matter who the guy is. The only girls that matter are the ones you chase back.

...his methods of achieving his aim were a constant throughout his life: • No matter how verbose the orders, render them down to simple aims. • Know your enemy. • Plan every move from the point of departure to the point of return. Keep the element of surprise in mind at all times. Plan boldly and act boldly (but not foolishly). • Ask the question “What if . . . ” at every stage of the plan. Ask that question no matter how outlandish it may seem to be. • Give honest orders and honest answers to the troops’ questions. • Do not delegate a task unless prepared to do it yourself. • Select the right equipment, but always remember that it is the man who counts. • Rehearse, rehearse, and then rehearse again. • Hope for—but do not expect—good luck. If good luck does appear to be with you, exploit it—fast. No one will deny that the Meadows-detailed preparation and planning phases for any operation paid off. It is a technique still practiced throughout Special Forces.

Aht Aht… I know you bitches ain't start the party without me! See, this is why I'm always cussing y'all funny lookin hoes out! I hope y'all pussies fall out while you walking down 22nd St on a hundred degree hot muthafuckin’ day!” This nigga had me and Mesha damn near on the floor.

Sis, after the Reign it’s always sunshine, shine on these hoes baby!” China said to her and we fell out laughing.

Somewhere beyond the ridgetop, Col Oaks was plowing tobacco with a single mule, old Red, and a walking plow. The air smelled of vegetation and stirred earth. Beside me, R.T. was filing his hoe. Standing there in the brilliance with my ears sticking out under the brim of my straw hat and my mouth probably hanging open (somebody was always telling me, "Shut your mouth, Andy!"), I saw how beautiful the field was, how beautiful our work was. And it came to me all in a feeling how everything fitted together, the place and ourselves and the animals and the tools and how the sky held us.

We lived up to now in a solid universe whose generations had deposited stratifications, one after the other. All was clear: the father was the father; the law was the law; the foreigner was the foreigner. One had the right to say that the law was hard, but it was the law. Today these sure bases of political life are anathema: for these truths constitute the program of a racist party condemned at the court of humanity. In exchange, the foreigner recommends to us a universe according to his dreams. There are no more borders, there are no more cities. From one end to the other of the continent the laws are the same, and also the passports, and also the judges, and also the currencies. Only one police force and only one brain: the senator from Milwaukee inspects and decides. In return for which, trade is free; at last trade is free. We plant some carrots which by chance never sell well, and we buy some hoeing machines which always happen to be very expensive. And we are free to protest, free, infinitely free to write, to vote, to speak in public, provided that we never take measures which can change all that. We are free to get upset and to fight in a universe of wadding. One does not know very well where our freedom ends, where our nationality ends, one does not know very well where what is permitted ends. It is an elastic universe. One does not know any more where one’s feet are set; one does not even know any more if one has feet; one feels very light, as if one’s body had been lost. But for those who grant us this simple ablation what infinite rewards, what a multitude of tips! This universe which they polish up and try to make look good to us is similar to some palace in Atlantis. There are everywhere small glasswares, columns of false marble, inscriptions, magic fruits. By entering this palace you abdicate your power, in exchange you have the right to touch the golden apples and to read the inscriptions. You are nothing any more; you do not feel any more the weight of your body; you have ceased being a man: you are one of the faithful of the religion of Humanity. At the bottom of the sanctuary there sits a Negro god. You have all the rights, except to speak evil of the god.

They don’t make girls like that naturally no more! Course them hoes gon be sweating you. You don’t need them niggas because you’re gonna always have me. You can tell me yo girly ass secrets, girly problems, and we can watch romantic movies together. Eat ice cream and talk about how Jake dumped Sally. I don’t give a fuck mama

If I die in the war, please never give my gun to my son. Instead, give him his mother's hoe. Let him feed the rest of the family. Never expose my son to a war in the North if he belongs to the South. After I die, whoever uses the gun powder next, wins the battle. The dead has no property, no honour, no peace and no more chances. If my son has a bloodline of the South, he will never come to my grave yard to cry. Instead, he understands that if the guns truely belong to mankind we will never die in the war. Weapon is made for weapon. It does not have respect for the buyer. The heart of a fighter is filled with pains and undeserved hatred. If the hatred is not default, then there is no need for war. No matter how justified we are and win, we have committed a crime. Hatred will bleed on. War cannot determine who is superior, only who is foolish. No desire is worth blood of a mankind. People commit war crimes. The real trouble with war is that people really don't understand what they get after the war is over. Majority don't kill the right people, they also descend to kill the PEACEMAKERS. None of my son will die in a war. If I die they will bury my gun. Their love for PEN and PAPER is a passionate metal. Never will I accept war if I am not involve with mankind. My dear sons, never you trust a politician. Everything a politician says are lies. He does everything for himself and has no regard for your life. Government may change but their lies will remain the same. If I were a president, I am sure I'm a fatherless son. Mankind are always malfunctioning and can never recover. Never you go into a war. The battle is not between mankind. It is of PRINCIPALITIES