King Of Spades Quotes

A joker is a little fool who is different from everyone else. He's not a club, diamond, heart, or spade. He's not an eight or a nine, a king or a jack. He is an outsider. He is placed in the same pack as the other cards, but he doesn't belong there. Therefore, he can be removed without anybody missing him.

I looked at the cards in my hand, the queen of hearts nestled between the king of clubs and the king of spades. No wonder she was smiling.

When shall I be dead and rid Of all the wrong my father did? How long, how long 'till spade and hearse Put to sleep my mother's curse?

I don't belong anywhere. I am neither a heart, a diamond, a club, nor a spade. I am neither a King, a Jack, an Eight, nor an Ace. As I am here - I am merely the Joker, and who that is I have had to find out for myself. Every time I toss my head, the jingling bells remind me that I have no family. I have no number - and no trade either. I have gone around observing your activities from the outside. Because of this I have also been able to see things to which you have been blind. Every morning you have gone to work, but you have never been fully awake. It is different for the Joker, because he was put into this world with a flaw: he sees too deeply and too much. Truth is a lonely thing.

I don't belong anywhere. I am neither a heart, a diamond, a club, nor a spade. I am neither a King, a Jack, an Eight, nor an Ace. As I am here - I am merely the Joker, and who that is I have had to find out for myself.

Yes!" He says. "Fear is an excellent motivator. I find that it really brings out the true ingenuity of a creature.

You hunt... Your fellow creatures?" I ask, still in disbelief. "Of course. A hunt is only as interesting as the prey is clever!

She was as black as spades and as beautiful as the sin you never had enough nerve to commit.

I want to be the best chapter of his book.

...and at the foot of my parents' bedroom door, myself moonwalking with Einstein (four of spades, king of hearts, three of diamonds)

Even her worst enemy was forced to admit that Fräulein Ann wielded a very pretty spade.

She was black as the ace of spades and as beautiful as the sin you never had nerve enough to commit.

The country isn’t half worked out because they that governs it won’t let you touch it. They spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can’t lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that without all the Government saying — ‘Leave it alone and let us govern.’ Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn’t crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, we are going away to be Kings.

But Mr Tibbs didn’t hesitate for long. ‘Tell the head gardener,’ he whispered, ‘that I require immediately a brand new unused garden fork and also a spade. And for a knife we shall use the great sword hanging on the wall in the morning-room. But clean the sword well first. It was last used to cut off the head of King Charles the First and there may still be a little dried blood on the blade.

the way, when I showed this to Leslie, I used real cards, not a bridge diagram. If you find it difficult to follow the diagrams, try using a real deck. For the first hand, you can also try dealing East the king of spades instead of West, and you will see why the finesse won't work. A finesse is a cool play that allows you to win two tricks with the ace and queen of a suit, even though one of your opponents holds the king. It has a 50 percent chance of success, depending on which one of your opponents holds that king.

The advisors, on the other hand, were like older brothers and sisters. My favorite was Bill Symes, who'd been a founding member of Fellowship in 1967. He was in his early twenties now and studying religion at Webster University. He had shoulders like a two-oxen yoke, a ponytail as thick as a pony's tail, and feet requiring the largest size of Earth Shoes. He was a good musician, a passionate attacker of steel acoustical guitar strings. He liked to walk into Burger King and loudly order two Whoppers with no meat. If he was losing a Spades game, he would take a card out of his hand, tell the other players, "Play this suit!" and then lick the card and stick it to his forehead facing out. In discussions, he liked to lean into other people's space and bark at them. He said, "You better deal with that!" He said, "Sounds to me like you've got a problem that you're not talking about!" He said, "You know what? I don't think you believe one word of what you just said to me!" He said, "Any resistance will be met with an aggressive response!" If you hesitated when he moved to hug you, he backed away and spread his arms wide and goggled at you with raised eyebrows, as if to say, "Hello? Are you going to hug me, or what?" If he wasn't playing guitar he was reading Jung, and if he wasn't reading Jung he was birdwatching, and if he wasn't birdwatching he was practicing tai chi, and if you came up to him during his practice and asked him how he would defend himself if you tried to mug him with a gun, he would demonstrate, in dreamy Eastern motion, how to remove a wallet from a back pocket and hand it over. Listening to the radio in his VW Bug, he might suddenly cry out, "I want to hear... 'La Grange' by ZZ Top!" and slap the dashboard. The radio would then play "La Grange.

Have you ever played Killer Bunnies?” she asked. “Killer Bunnies?” he repeated, blinking the way people always did when they didn’t follow her brain’s train. “It’s a card game. Not spades and clubs, kings and jacks cards. It’s like a board game, with cards instead of a board. Here. I’ll show you.” She stretched up to the top shelf beside her TV and pulled down a bright blue box. “But I have to warn you, I never hesitate to use the nuclear warheads or the anti-matter raisins. Your bunnies are going down.

He told how the light moved, he told of shadows, he told how the air was white and bright and pale; he told how for a little while Earth began to grow like Elfland, with a kinder light and the beginning of colours, and then just as one thought of home the light would blink away and the colours be gone. He told of stars. He told of cows and goats and the moon, three horned creatures that he found curious. He had found more wonder in Earth than we remember, though we also saw these things once for the first time; and out of the wonder he felt at the ways of the fields we know, he made many a tale that held the inquisitive trolls and gripped them silent upon the floor of the forest, as though they were indeed a fall of brown leaves in October that a frost had suddenly bound. They heard of chimneys and carts for the first time: with a thrill they heard of windmills. They listened spell-bound to the ways of men; and every now and then, as when he told of hats, there ran through the forest a wave of little yelps of laughter. Then he said that they should see hats and spades and dog-kennels, and look through casements and get to know the windmill; and a curiosity arose in the forest amongst that brown mass of trolls, for their race is profoundly inquisitive.

Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history. Spades - King David, Clubs - Alexander the Great, Hearts - Charlemagne, and Diamonds - Julius Caesar.

Both villains and angels will mix together with one thing in common. They all have the power to do whatever they want, whenever they want to. They just need the gathering spot to do so. Wonderland.

Yes, our rules. They’re simple, black and white, and nonnegotiable: No business can be conducted. No VIP status since Wonderland is an equal playground for the most powerful, rich, famous, and connected. No violence, regardless of whether your enemy is drinking beside you. No bashfulness—feel free to fuck for all to see. And the final rule—the most important one—Nick Hudson can break any of his rules.

I’m so enthralled by Nick, that I’m willing to be his prey for what he has planned to come. I want to be at the mercy of this man for tonight and beyond.

Protective? Possessive? Controlling? Generous? Caring? Sexy as hell? Punishing? Loving?

nothing about what I’ll expect from you will be simple. Nothing about me or our situation is ordinary. I hate simple. I detest ordinary.

But my self-control wins over as I know there are steps to my plan. I can’t win if I rush to the finish line. A marathon of lust and debauchery is ahead of me. Not a sprint of quick fucking.

I also love being the cat that plays with the mouse. And I’ve just begun to play.

I detest ordinary. And in my kingdom, we are extraordinary.

Flip religion, it was so far out, you couldn’t blame anybody for believing anything…Guys stuck the ace of spades in their helmet bands, they picked relics off of an enemy they’d killed, a little transfer of power; they carried around five-pound Bibles from home, crosses, St. Christophers, mezuzahs, locks of hair, girlfriends’ underwear, snaps of their families, their wives, their dogs, their cows, their cars, pictures of John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Martin Luther King, Huey Newton, the Pope, Che Guevara, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, wiggier than cargo cultists. One man was carrying an oatmeal cookie through his tour, wrapped up in foil and plastic and three pair of socks. He took a lot of shit about it. (“When you go to sleep we’re gonna eat your fucking cookie’), but his wife had baked it and mailed it to him, he wasn’t kidding.

There is a fine line between obsession and addiction. If you ask me which one I suffer from, I can’t give you a clear answer. I’ve been obsessing over a man. The constant thoughts of him are addicting and I don’t try to fight them off. Obsession or addiction or both?

I hate violence. I believe that people are inherently good. That showing mercy is stronger than wielding a knife.

Go ahead. I love a little fight. Makes winning all the better,” he says, licking a line from my collarbone up to a spot behind my ear. “And know this—I always win.

This isn’t a kiss. This is a claiming, a man marking what is his.

Did you know that each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history? Spades is King David, Clubs is Alexander the Great, Hearts is Charlemagne, and Diamonds is Julius Caesar.

We were a deck of cards, a club, a heart, a diamond and a spade, all of us made for dealing in death. I had my Joker, my Jack, my King, and my scruffy little pooch of an Ace. Somehow, I’d become the Queen of all that, and together we made a full house, even if it didn’t look like anyone else’s version, even if it was a jumble of suits and colours. It didn’t make us any less real.

Friends take care of each other, Alice. - Claude (King of Spades)

Things are much more entertaining with friends. - Claude (King of Spades)

the eighth widow taught me how to play blackjack; the eighth widow taught me the suits and what they meant: King means husband, queen means wife, spade is the shovel she buries him with.

Tell me we can make this work,” Colton breathed. “Please, when this is over, tell me you’ll come back to me.” “I will. I promise, Colt. I need you. I need you more than you know.

Can I have my sandwich?” “I ate it.” “You ate my sandwich? What the hell? That is so not cool!” “Neither is your agenda of driving me crazy. Tell me something—do you put it on your calendar? When you come into the office, do you sit at your desk, check your calendar, and say, ‘Oh, look at that. Today is Drive-King-Batshit-Crazy Day.’ Is that what you do?

I don't belong anywhere. I am neither a heart, a diamond, a club, nor a spade. I am neither a King, a Jack, an Eight, nor an Ace. As I am here - I am merely the Joker, and who that is I have had to find out for myself. Every time I toss my head, the jingling bells remind me that I have no family. I have no number - and no trade either. I have gone around observing your activities from the outside. Because of this I have also been able to see things to which you have been blind. Every morning you have gone to work, but you have never been fully awake. It is different for the Joker, because he was put into this world with a flaw: he sees too deeply and too much.

We’re cursed,” an old man wailed. “I don’t believe in curses,” said Tom’s uncle firmly. “But our village needs help. One of us must go to the king and request his aid.” Tom stepped forward. “I’ll go to the palace.” The villagers laughed. “Send a boy on such a mission? Ha!” “The king would laugh at us for sending a child.” Tom’s uncle spoke quietly. “No, Tom. You’re too young. I’m head of the village. I’ll go.” Suddenly a small boy, smeared in soot, pushed through the crowd. “Help!” he gasped. “Please help! Our barn is on fire!” “Men! Bring your pails to the river now!” Tom’s uncle roared to the crowd. “The rest of you bring spades to the barn – if we can’t quench the fire we’ll bury it. Quickly!” Tom looked at his uncle as the men rushed to obey. “The village needs you here as its leader, Uncle Henry,” he said. “Please let me go instead.” Tom’s uncle turned to face him, his face serious. “I suppose I have to let you out into the world sooner or later,” he said. He stared into the distance. “Perhaps it’s meant to be…” He shook himself and turned back to Tom. “Yes, you must go to the king. And there is no time to waste – you will have to leave first thing tomorrow!

All implements of war or industry known to the early Hawaiians were made either of wood, stone, or bone, as the islands are destitute of metals; but with these rude helps they laid up hewn-stone walls, felled trees, made canoes and barges, manufactured cloths and cordage, fashioned weapons, constructed dwellings and temples, roads and fish-ponds, and tilled the soil. They had axes, adzes and hammers of stone, spades of wood, knives of flint and ivory, needles of thorn and bone, and spears and daggers of hardened wood. They wove mats for sails and other purposes, and from the inner bark of the paper mulberry-tree beat out a fine, thin cloth called kapa, which they ornamented with colors and figures.

St Cuthbert was called to be a hermit on Lindis­farne. This was more than a thousand years ago. There were only small wooden huts there then, and the wind and the wild sea and everything that lived in the wild sea. Cuthbert went out there to the mon­astery, but the monastery was not far enough and he was called out further. He rowed to an empty island, where he ate onions and the eggs of seabirds and stood in the sea and prayed while sea otters played around his ankles. He lived there alone for years, but then he was called back. The King of Northumbria came to him with some churchmen, and they told him he had been elected Bishop of Lindisfarne and they asked him to come back and serve. There’s a Victorian painting of the king and the her­mit. Cuthbert wears a dirty brown robe and has one calloused hand on a spade. The king is offering him a bishop’s crosier. Behind him, monks kneel on the sands and pray he will accept it. Behind them are the beached sailboats that brought them to the island. The air is filled with swallows. Cuthbert’s head is turned away from the king, he looks down at the ground and his left hand is held up in a gesture of refusal. But he didn’t refuse, in the end. He didn’t refuse the call. He went back. We head out because the emptiness negates us. We leave the cities and we go to the wild high places to be dissolved and to be small. We live and die at once, the topsoil is washed away and the rock is exposed and it is not possible to play the games anymore. Now I am exposed rock. Like Cuthbert, I have been washed clean. What do I see?

Richmond's newspaper questioned how a senior general could not even get two of his own generals to cooperate with him. They nicknamed him "Granny" Lee or "The King Of Spades," because he insisted that his men dig trenches on Sewell Mountain.

are you a Fool for love? aren't we all Fools for something? don't you wish we could be Kings and Queens be the Jack of All, but the Joker to None reign over foreign territories of diamonds, clubs, and spades but forever elusive; the heart a territory no one can claim

He had been shuffled out so quickly he didn’t even realize what he was wearing, like a King of Spades who wanted to file a complaint to the playing card company manufacturer for not drawing him a garden tool like he specifically asked for.

Scholarship especially runs scared of fervent quests for glory. If we acknowledge the existence of such feelings, we tend to diminish them: the fearless knight becomes illiterate and ignorant, the passionate lady becomes a woman frustrated by male-dominated society. We cynically explain the motives of the man who goes on campaign, or fights to the death for his lord. Perhaps only the anonymous men at the bottom of the social spectrum-the landless laborers, who lifted their spades in the years following the Black Death and started to conform to the modern stereotype of the downtrodden peasant, resentful of his servitude-gain widespread and genuine modern sympathy.