John Maclean Quotes

In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were left to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.

Jack looked at the paper. Devonsgate had listed all twelve footmen: John, Mark, Luke, Thomas…Bloody hell, his butler had hired the entire New Testament.

Lord Nicholas St. John was their only hope, and she had been on the roof when he arrived, for heaven's sake. Ladies did not go traipsing about on rooftops. And certainly gentlemen did not frequent the homes of those ladies who did traipse about on roortops. It did not matter if the rooftop in question was in dire need of repair. Or that the lady in question had no choice.

The anti-government rhetoric that continues to saturate our political life is rooted in [support for] slavery rather than liberty. The paralyzing suspicion of government so much on display today, that is to say, came originally not from average people but from elite extremists such as [John C.] Calhoun who saw federal power as a menace to their system of racial slavery.

Memory can and should be more than a bridge to the past. It’s also a way to see yourself as a thread in a broad fabric long in the making.

Democracy,” the towering African American historian John Hope Franklin observed in the midst of World War II, “is essentially an act of faith.”96 When that faith is willfully exterminated, we should not be surprised that we reap the whirlwind. The public choice way of thinking, one sage critic warned at the time James Buchanan was awarded the Nobel Prize in Economic Sciences, is not simply “descriptively inaccurate”—indeed, “a terrible caricature” of how the political process works.

But the worst that the wind did was to be the primary cause of a huge, vicious, boat-flipping, morale-shattering seaway. The helicopter pilots, who, while hovering, had to dodge them, said the waves were as high as fifty feet. If that estimate were true, it still misses the point, for the danger of the waves lay not in their height but in their shape. “At daybreak the seas were spectacular,” remembered Peter Bruce, a commander in the Royal Navy who was navigator in Eclipse. “They had become very large, very steep, and broke awkwardly, but the boat was handling well.” George Tinley, who had been so badly beaten around in his Windswept, later said, “There were seas coming at one angle with breakers on them, but there were seas coming at another angle also with breakers, and then there were the most fearsome things where the two met in the middle.” After the gale, Major Maclean vividly described the appearance of the waves at night: “All around were white horses with their spray flurrying horizontally and slashing against us with the added impetus of the occasional rain squalls. But these white horses were just the top of some monster waves which hunched up, their tops flaring with spume, and marched on leaving us high at one minute so we could glimpse around, and then bringing us some fifty feet down into their troughs so we could appreciate the enormity of the next wave following. Some waves had boiling foam all over them where they were moving through the break of a previous wave, or, when the foam had fizzled away, they were deep green from the disturbance of the water. Otherwise the sea was black.

Callie se volvió hacia la puerta, dispuesta a salir cuando él habló de nuevo. - ¿Es él uno de los puntos de tu lista? -¿Perdón? -preguntó ella con rigidez, dándose la vuelta con regio desdén. - Nicholas, Callie. Mi hermano -Le aclaró él, como si estuviera hablndo con alguien corto de entendederas-. ¿Es él uno de los puntos de tu lista? Ya sabes: "Número tres: pescar a St. John". Callie agrandó los ojos. - ¿Piensas que he incluido a tu hermano en mi lista? - Es exactamente lo que pienso. -En los ojos de Gabriel llameó una emoción apenas contenida que ella no fue capaz de identificar- ¿Lo has hecho? Ella no pudo contener la risa ante aquella pregunta tan ridícula. - No, Ralston. No lo he hecho. Te aseguro que si quisiera incluir una conquista a mi lista, no sería a tu hermano. - ¿A quién incluirías? "Encontra de mi buen juicio, a ti. A ti, inbécil.

Our family rejected materialism and popular culture and yet we also produced it. The show, which by then had been called many things but was currently airing with the title Six for Hicks, paid for the SUVs Mother and Daddy drove, the lake house, the “spiritual retreat” that was actually a villa in Saint John. It paid for the car seat I rode home in from the hospital, the muslin blankets I was swaddled in when I slept. It paid for my first backpack when it came time for me to go to school, Mother having by then completely abandoned giving lessons in the living room, not just because her time and energy were better spent promoting our brand but also because marketing said that what our audience wanted at that point was a character who was “normal.

Her hair was up, tucked into a horrid lace cap, but a few auburn curls had escaped and were brushing against the nape of her neck, drawing his attention to the lovely, straight column, flushed with excitement. For a fleeting moment, he considered what it would be like to kiss the skin there. The scene at the Allendale ball earlier in the evening had confirmed his suspicions that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell was an eager and passionate woman. Her responses were irresistibly uninhibited- so different from those of the women he usually partnered- he couldn't help but wonder how she would react to his touch in other, more scandalous places.

You forget one of the most important tenets of London society." "Which is?" "Wealthy, unmarried marquesses are always welcome back into the light." He paused, letting one finger stroke slowly across her knuckles as he spoke softly in her ear. "And if I am not sure I want to exit the darkness?" A shiver pulsed down her spine at the words, more breath than sound. She cleared her throat delicately. "I am afraid it is too late.

Era um vestido projetado para realçar, encorajar e levar os homens à loucura. Um vestido que só servia a um propósito: tentar os homens a removê-lo.

– E se eu disser que quero que você fique? Nick não respondeu de imediato, e ela ficou mortificada ao pensar que podia ter falado a coisa errada. Então ele deu um único passo largo e a apoiou na mesa perto da porta. Tomou seu rosto entre as mãos grandes e fortes e colou os lábios aos dela novamente em um beijo longo e adorável, roubando-lhe o ar e a capacidade de pensar. Quando ele afastou a cabeça, ambos estavam ofegantes. – Se você quer que eu fique, seria preciso um exército para me fazer ir embora. Isabel ergueu as mãos e mergulhou os dedos nas mechas negras do cabelo dele, puxando-o para outro beijo. Antes de seus lábios se tocarem novamente, ela sussurrou a palavra definitiva: – Fique.

Could you really be expected to..." she paused, searching for the word. "Pleasure?" He offered, amiably. "Entertain. All three of them?" He began dealing the cards again. "Yes." "How?" He looked up at her, and offered her a wolfish grin. "Would you really like me to answer that?" Her eyes widened. "Uhm... no." He laughed then, a deep, rumbling laugh unlike anything she'd ever heard from him, and she was stunned by the way it transformed him. His face was immediately lighter, his eyes brighter, his frame more relaxed. She couldn't help but smile back at him, even as she admonished, "You're enjoying my discomfort." "Indeed I am, Empress." She blushed. "You shouldn't call me that." "Why not? You were named for an empress, were you not?" She closed her eyes and gave a mock shudder. "I prefer not to be reminded of the hideous name." "You should embrace it," he said, forthrightly. "You're one of the few women I've met who could live up to such a name." "You've said that before," she said. He turned a curious look on her. "I have?" She met his eyes and immediately regretted bringing up the decade-old memory, so insignificant to him- so very meaningful to her.

Viscount St. John? He’s got the intelligence of a goat. If this is an indication of the kind of suitors I’ve got simpering after me, it speaks to a significant problem with my perceived quality.” “Alexandra, there are some forty bouquets in this room alone, and I’ve had several posies sent to the upstairs parlor because of space constraints here. I feel confident that there are several notes from gentlemen who are not dull-witted.

The ruler of each clan was called a chief, who was really the chief man of his family. Each clan was divided into branches who had chieftains over them. The members of the clan claimed consanguinity to the chief. The idea never entered into the mind of a Highlander that the chief was anything more than the head of the clan. The relation he sustained was subordinate to the will of the people. Sometimes his sway was unlimited, but necessarily paternal. The tribesmen were strongly attached to the person of their chief. He stood in the light of a protector, who must defend them and right their wrongs. They rallied to his support, and in defense they had a contempt for danger. The sway of the chief was of such a nature as to cultivate an imperishable love of independence, which was probably strengthened by an exceptional hardiness of character.

In their school of life it was taught to consider courage an honorable virtue and cowardice the most disgraceful failing. Loving their native glen, they were ever ready to defend it to the last extremity. Their own good name and devotion to the clan emulated and held them to deeds of daring.

They were strict in not offending those with whom they were in amity. They had high notions of the duty of observing faith to allies and hospitality to guests.

The true condition of a people may be known by the regard held for woman. The beauty of their women was extolled in song. Small eye-brows was considered as a mark of beauty, and names were bestowed upon the owners from this feature. No country in Europe held woman in so great esteem as in the Highlands of Scotland. An unfaithful, unkind, or even careless husband was looked upon as a monster.

Honesty and fair dealing were enforced by custom, which had a more powerful influence, in their mutual transactions, than the legal enactments of later periods.

I believe she is Selene, goddess of the moon." "She looks so content." "You sound surprised." "Well," Callie said tentatively, "Selene is not the happiest of stories. After all, she is doomed to love a mortal in eternal sleep." St. John turned at her words, obviously impressed. "Her own fault. She should have known better than to ask favors of Zeus. That particular course of action never ends well." "A truth of which Selene was likely acutely aware upon receiving her favor. I assume that this statue depicts a happy Selene before Zeus meddled." "You forget," St. John said, a teasing gleam in his eye, "she and Endymion did have twenty children despite his somnolence, so she couldn't have been so very unhappy with her situation." "With due respect, my lord," Callie said, "bearing and raising twenty children alone does not sound like the happiest of circumstances. I hardly think she would appear so very rested were this a statue depicting her maternal bliss.

It has always seemed extraordinary to me how the name of the island, Colonsay, seems to hang suspended in the minds not only of my immediate relatives but also of collateral clansmen in scattered parts of the United States and Canada, whose stories—from island to mainland to emigration—are essentially the same, and whose historical remoteness from Colonsay is comparable. Just the name of the island seems to set off in virtually all these people, who now live anywhere between the oceans, some sort of atavistic vibration, and all they really have in common is the panoptic glaze that will appear in their eyes at the mention of the word “Colonsay.” Given the combined efforts of the MacLeans, the MacDonalds, and the sheep farmers of Lochaber, it is hard to imagine a clan more broken and rebroken and dispersed than this

The only way to end all the trouble is by the establishment of socialism (Christ having failed).

When we contemplate the whole globe as one great dew drop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty. —John Muir, Travels in Alaska

My life is the norm to me, your life is the norm to you

...it was a ruling-class myth and imposition, to pretend that MacDonald was a dangerous man. It obscured the fact that John MacLean was the dangerous man. The pretence was a safety valve against revolutionary explosion.

Norman Maclean called A River Runs Through It fiction, and the word “fiction” appeared in the book’s front matter. A River Runs Through It was autobiographical fact in nearly all aspects but one. For private reasons, the author had shifted the site of his brother’s murder and, being Norman Maclean, considered that change and others quite enough fabrication to disqualify the text as nonfiction.