Lady Macbeth Quotes

If we should fail? Lady Macbeth: We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place, And we'll not fail.

Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? - Lady Macbeth

She came leaping towards me, like Lady Macbeth coming to get first-hand news from the guest-room.

You’re like Lady Macbeth without the murder.” “Thank you. You have no idea how much of a compliment that is to me.

But screw your courage to the sticking place, and we'll not fail.

Life repeats Shakespearian themes more often than we think. Did Lady Macbeth, Richard III, and King Claudius exist only in the Middle Ages? Shylock wanted to cut a pound of flesh from the body of the merchant of Venice. Is that a fairy tale?

Now and again in these parts you come across people so remarkable that, no matter how much time has passed since you met them, it is impossible to recall them without your heart trembling.

Everybody needs a career manager."- Lady Macbeth

And there is nothing more dangerous than a creature who pretends to be one thing and is in truth another.

Perhaps it is not cleverness that seeps through the generations but cruelty. One cold creature weaning another.

In that moment, Roscille slips out of herself and, like a specter, Lady Macbeth slips in.

I’m not— Lady Macbeth Lucrezia Borgia Catherine the Great. I am —a woman doing what she has to do. I am —the woman you made me. Elena is at war.

I’m the world’s lightest sleeper. On a bad day, I can make Lady Macbeth look like a raging narcoleptic.

My war brought me many things; let yours bring you as much. Life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself. No one will be much or little except in someone else's mind, so be careful of the minds you get into, and remember Lady Macbeth, who had her mind in her hand. We can't all be as safe as that.

When a crown falls, many arms reach out to catch it.

All is the fear, and nothing is the love, as little is the wisdom, where the flight so runs against all reason.

The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures. Lady Macbeth

Madness, of all things, is the most unforgivable in a woman.

This is a man's first, last, and greatest fear: a world that exists empty of him.

Nought’s had, all’s spent, where our desire is got without content.

We'll surely go to hell for this. Lady Macbeth: And when we do, we'll rule that too.

Katerina Lvovna lived a boring life in the rich house of her father-in-law during the five years of marriage to her unaffectionate husband; but, as often happens, no one paid the slightest attention to this boredom of hers.

It was sort of like Macbeth, thought Fat Charlie, an hour later; in fact, if the witches in Macbeth had been four little old ladies and if, instead of stirring cauldrons and intoning dread incantations, they had just welcomed Macbeth in and fed him turkey and rice and peas spread out on white china plates on a red-and-white patterned plastic tablecloth -- not to mention sweet potato pudding and spice cabbage -- and encouraged him to take second helpings, and thirds, and then, when Macbeth had declaimed that nay, he was stuffed nigh unto bursting and on his oath could truly eat no more, the witches had pressed upon him their own special island rice pudding and a large slice of Mrs. Bustamonte's famous pineapple upside-down cake, it would have been exactly like Macbeth.

Now she is a creature in a conch shell, everything spiraling out from around her.

Lady Macduff: [To her son] Sirrah, your father's dead: And What will you do now? How will you live? Son: As birds do, mother. Lady Macduff: What, with worms and flies? Son: With what I get, I mean. and so do they

When I need it, I can call bitterness around me like mail armor, every thought a knot of steel, shielding the tenderness I have learned to hide as a daughter, mother, wife, and queen among warriors.

She should not wear a white garment ever again. At least a dark linen will better hide the blood she sees dripping from her hands, soaking the hem of her dress, and pooling on the floor around her feet.

The truth is found in whispers, in sidelong glances, in twitching jaws and clenching fists. What is the need for a lie when no one is listening?

Sorrow and life go hand in hand.

only now was it starting to make sense why Lady Macbeth could never scrub the blood off her hands, why it was still there after she washed it away.

We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking place And we'll not fail. (Lady Macbeth)

Screw your courage to the sticking place." - Lady MacBeth

Roscille wonders how many women have stood precisely where she is standing, watching their husbands disappear. Roscille wonders how many of them have imagined the sword-thrust that will make them widows. She wonders how many smiled at the thought.

No," he says. "You have been made to fit a shape that confines you. That does not serve you,

Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts.

Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF: I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him.

If she were a man, he would not ask her this. For men there is no debt of blood which goes unpaid. If the world tips in another's favor, it must be made to tip back again. But the world is never in a woman's favor. She cannot tip the scale. The only choice is: live the same mute, unjust life you have always lived, or tear apart the world itself.

Look like th’ innocent flower, But be the serpent under‘t

It is this gesture of tenderness that nearly undoes her. How easy these metamorphoses are: men crawling backward to their boyhoods, cold masks slipping to reveal stricken faces beneath.

He is slippery like the cold side of a cliff. And layered, like striated bands of erosion, green and white and rust-colored lash-marks of the sea. Each time she thinks she knows him, the water level lowers, and another shade is revealed.

But it only takes a crack in the foundation of the world to bring careful architecture, strong with centuries, crumbling down. A small blade cuts the water and ripples outward like an echo. And then the world beneath shows itself, first as green shoots in the dirt. And then comes a woman, a witch, tearing her way through the green with her teeth.

What is a traitor? Lady Macduff: Why, one that swears and lies. Son: And be all traitors that do so? Lady Macduff: Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. Son: Who must hang them? Lady Macduff Why, the honest men. Son: Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men, and hang up them.

You are the Queen. See it done.

The night is still fighting the morning and so am I,

Who was it that thus cried? why? worthy thane, you do unbend your noble strength to think so brainsickly of things.Go get some water and wash this filthy witness from your hand.Why did you bring these daggers from the place?They must lie there. Go carry them and smear the sleepy grooms with blood." lady macbeth

So what did you want to talk to Wesley about?" he asked me. "Kelly likes him," I said. "So I figured while we were discussing Lady Macbeth's insanity and Duncan's murder, I could, you know, casually find out if he likes her too." Colton didn't blink. "He likes her." "He does? How do you know?" He shrugged like it was a silly question. "We talk sometimes. He told me on the drive over he hoped she would be here." "Then why hasn't he ever asked her out?" "He's shy. And we're in the middle of wrestling season, midterms, and Christmas." Colton picked up the liter of soda. "Have a little patience." I reached for the bowl of popcorn, but didn't start out of the kitchen yet. "Well can I hurry him along? Is there any chance he'll ask her out before this weekend?" Colton shook his head at me, then walked toward the living room. "You're not quite grasping the nature of patience, Charlotte.

The wickedness, growing long green tendrils through her veins.

If I have a witch to thank for my curse, she did not change me. She only revealed me.

Out! out! damned spot ..All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweaten this little hand

Dame los puñales; los que duermen y los muertos no son sino sombras; únicamente los ojos de los niños tiemblan ante una estampa del diablo.

¿Adónde huir? Yo no he hecho ningún daño. Aunque bien recuerdo que estoy en el mundo, donde suele alabarse el hacer daño y hacer bien se juzga locura temeraria

Lady Roscille. What they say is true. You are so beautiful the moon itself is shamed from rising.

Perhaps it is not cleverness that seeps through the generation but cruelty. One cold creature weaning another.

Macbeth: We’ll surely go to Hell for this. Lady Macbeth: And when do, we’ll rule that too.

You're like Lady MacBeth without the murder." "Thank you. You have no idea how much of a compliment that is to me.

Even if Lady Macbeth could have removed that damn spot, wouldn't her hands have been red from all of the scrubbing?

Sleeping was impossible, and we would often be found wandering the house, our white nightgowns gleaming in the darkness, a trio of Lady Macbeths, driven mad by the mercury.

Wear gloves when peeling a roasted beet unless you want more than a touch of the Lady Macbeths

Unatural Deeds do bread Unnatural Troubles"-Lady Macbeth

LADY MACBETH.

My dearest love, Duncan is coming here tonight. LADY MACBETH: And when goes hence?

Lady Macduff: Now God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? Son: If he were dead, you'd weep for him. If you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father.

How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me: I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this.

A woman keeps to home and family, and tends to matters inside the home. A man keeps to war games and tends to matters outside." A queen tends to both, I wanted to say, but did not. She would not understand.

Silver is the color of the spirit of this world and of the Crone. Black and gray are the colors of magic. Purple is the color of the soul. Red is the color of war. White has many meanings; it is the color of divination, visions, anything involving power and consciousness. This is why the moon is sacred to all aspects of the Goddess. Its light is all-powerful.

You know, we still have like, half an hour down here. Seems a shame to waste it.” I poked him in the ribs, and he gave an exaggerated wince. “No way, dude. My days of cellar, mill, and dungeon lovin’ are over. Go castle or go home.” “Fair enough,” he said as we interlaced our fingers and headed for the stairs. “But does it have to be a real castle, or would one of those inflatable bouncy things work?” I laughed. “Oh, inflatable castles are totally out of-“ I skidded to a stop on the first step, causing Archer to bump into me. “What the heck is that?” I asked, pointing to a dark stain in the nearest corner. “Okay, number one question you don’t want to hear in a creepy cellar,” Archer sad, but I ignored him and stepped off the staircase. The stain bled out from underneath the stone wall, covering maybe a foot of the dirt floor. It looked black and vaguely…sticky. I swallowed my disgust as I knelt down and gingerly touched the blob with one finger. Archer crouched down next to me and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a lighter, and after a few tries, a wavering flame sprung up. We studied my fingertip in the dim glow. “So that’s-“ “It’s blood, yeah,” I said, not taking my eyes off my hand. “Scary.” “I was gonna go with vile, but scary works.” Archer fished in his pockets again, and this time he produced a paper napkin. I took it from him and gave Lady Macbeth a run for her money in the hand-scrubbing department. But even as I attempted to remove a layer of skin from my finger, something was bugging me. I mean, something other than the fact that I’d just touched a puddle of blood. “Check the other corners,” I told Archer. He stood up and moved across the room. I stayed where I was, trying to remember that afternoon Dad and I had sat with the Thorne family grimoire. We’d looked at dozens of spells, but there had been one- “There’s blood in every corner,” Archer called from the other side of the cellar. “Or at least that’s what I’m guessing it is. Unlike some people, I don’t have the urge to go sticking my fingers in it.

At least it isn't Macbeth," Watson said, hugging a pillow to his chest. "I thought we did Macbeth last year, you and I." "What, starring Lucien Moriarty? In the Scottish access tunnels? Sherringscotland? What does that make you... MacHolmes?" "And you Lady MacHolmes?" I snorted. "I think those are the technical terms, yes.

He found himself reflecting on questions of honesty. Personal honesty, artistic honesty. How they were connected, if indeed they were. And how much of this virtue anyone had, and how long that store would last. He had told friends that if ever he repudiated Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk, they were to conclude that he had run out of honesty

Earth is the embodiment of fertility. Think of it; we put a seed in the ground, it grows, from it springs food that allows us to live. To me, that is magic.

I know that it is," she says, "to see men shrink from you.

You may succeed in convincing others of this, others who luxuriate in the idea that women have no power except that which men grant them.

She has arranged herself into a shape that pleases him.

In order to be seen as merciful, one must first be seen as powerful. There is no mercy that a sheep can show a wolf.

My hands are of your colour, but I shame To wear a heart so white.

They are two fish in a pool, circling each other, trapped by the same arrangement of stones. Their rhythms are identical, as they push their silver bodies through the water, in and out, like needles through black cloth. He’s the only one who may see her truly. And she does not know why, not yet, but her eyes are two mirrors, throwing his own reflection back at him.

Methought I heard a voice cry “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, 120 Chief nourisher in life’s feast,— LADY MACBETH What do you mean? MACBETH Still it cried “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!

As each blow lands, Roscille imagines that her body is not her body, that she is in fact a serpent-woman like the Melusina, and instead of legs she has a scale-patterned tail, thick with muscle and fat, impenetrable to the weak weapons of men.

Where's Pip? I want to see Pip. Produce Pip!"—"What's the row, my lord?"—"Shakspeare's an infernal humbug, Pip! What's the good of Shakspeare, Pip? I never read him. What the devil is it all about, Pip? There's a lot of feet in Shakspeare's verse, but there an't any legs worth mentioning in Shakspeare's plays, are there, Pip? Juliet, Desdemona, Lady Macbeth, and all the rest of 'em, whatever their names are, might as well have no legs at all, for anything the audience know about it, Pip. Why, in that respect they're all Miss Biffins to the audience, Pip. I'll tell you what it is. What the people call dramatic poetry is a collection of sermons. Do I go to the theatre to be lectured? No, Pip. If I wanted that, I'd go to church. What's the legitimate object of the drama, Pip? Human nature. What are legs? Human nature. Then let us have plenty of leg pieces, Pip, and I'll stand by you, my buck!" and I am proud to say,' added Pip, 'that he did stand by me, handsomely.

Grief is sometimes like a sharp-toothed demon that gets hold of our hearts. But its grip weakens with time, and one day you will be free of it.” “Then I will wait,” I said, and as Osgar nodded, I thought of the tongue-lashing I would have had from Anselm for the same.

The city loomed out of the landscape like a fortress. I saw what walls we build against the prairie, how timidly we huddle together, how effectively we close off its vastness of space and make for ourselves another space of more human proportions. Nearly every inch of land [along my 600 mile drive] had been painstakingly turn over, furrow by furrow. It seemed some unknowable comment on the human spirit that we should, despite our walls, have turned ourselves into an army of Lady Macbeths, rubbing out so relentlessly such a terrible space.

We human beings are a mystery to ourselves. We are rational and irrational, civilized and savage, capable of deep friendship and murderous hostility, free and in bondage, the pinnacle of creation and its greatest danger. We are Rembrandt and Hitler, Mozart and Stalin, Antigone and Lady Macbeth, Ruth and Jezebel. “What a work of art,” says Shakespeare of humanity. “We are very dangerous,” says Arthur Miller in After the Fall. “We meet . . . not in some garden of wax fruit and painted leaves that lies East of Eden, but after the Fall, after many, many deaths.

Three is a holy number, as well you know. Even the priests of the White Christ know this with their Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. It is interesting, no, that the Christians maintain a pantheon of gods, or a single god with three faces, but still call us heretical for having more than one god?

Mrs. Varden was a lady of what is commonly called an uncertain temper - a phrase which being interpreted signifies a temper tolerably certain to make everybody more or less uncomfortable. Thus it generally happened, that when other people were merry, Mrs. Varden was dull; and that when other people were dull, Mrs. Varden was disposed to be amazingly cheerful. Indeed the worthy housewife was of such a capricious nature, that she not only attained a higher pitch of genius than Macbeth, in respect of her ability to be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, loyal and neutral in an instant, but would sometimes ring the changes backwards and forwards on all possible moods and flights in one short quarter of an hour; performing, as it were, a kind of triple bob major on the peal of instruments in the female belfry, with a skilfulness and rapidity of execution that astonished all who heard her.

When the choice lies between the ultra-feminine and the virago, Shakespeare’s sympathy lies with the virago. The women of the tragedies are all feminine—even Lady Macbeth (who is so often misinterpreted as a termagant), especially Gertrude, morally unconscious, helpless, voluptuous, and her younger version, infantile Ophelia, the lustful sisters, Goneril and Regan opposed by the warrior princess Cordelia who refuses to simper and pander to her father’s irrational desire. Desdemona is fatally feminine, but realizes it and dies understanding how she has failed Othello. Only Cleopatra has enough initiative and desire to qualify for the status of female hero.

I’m haunted every day by what I did as an economic hit man (EHM). I’m haunted by the lies I told back then about the World Bank. I’m haunted by the ways in which that bank, its sister organizations, and I empowered US corporations to spread their cancerous tentacles across the planet. I’m haunted by the payoffs to the leaders of poor countries, the blackmail, and the threats that if they resisted, if they refused to accept loans that would enslave their countries in debt, the CIA’s jackals would overthrow or assassinate them. I wake up sometimes to the horrifying images of heads of state, friends of mine, who died violent deaths because they refused to betray their people. Like Shakespeare’s Lady Macbeth, I try to scrub the blood from my hands. But the blood is merely a symptom.

Here is the foreign bride who is learning to speak Scots like a native. Here is the girl asking for a cloak made from the creatures of her new homeland. Here is the Lady who has killed for him three times over, and then washed the blood from her hands and pretended to shrink and simper under her veil. Here is a witch who wears her manacles like bracelets, who calls her shackles armor. Here is the wife who has served him in every manner a wife is meant to serve her husband. Except for one.

Resta strano e quasi inesplicabile il fatto che nella città di Atene, dove le donne erano tenute in reclusione quasi orientale, come odalische o serve, il teatro abbia ugualmente prodotto figure come Clitemnestra e Cassandra, Atossa e Antigone, Fedra e Medea, e tutte le altre eroine che dominano i drammi del "misogino" Euripide. Ma il paradosso di questo mondo, in cui nella vita reale una donna rispettabile non poteva quasi farsi vedere sola per strada, e tuttavia sulla scena, la donna uguaglia e supera l'uomo, non è stato mai spiegato in modo soddisfacente. Nella tragedia moderna esiste lo stesso prodominio. Ad ogni modo, una scorsa all'opera di Shakespeare (e anche a quella di Webster, ma non di Marlowe o Jonson) basta a dimostrare che questo preodominio, questa iniziativa delle donne, persiste da Rosalind a Lady Macbeth. E' così anche in Racine; se delle sue tragedia portano il nome dell'eroina; e quale dei suoi personaggi maschili possiamo contrapporre ad Ermione e ad Andromaca, a Berenice e a Rossana, a Fedra e ad Atalia? Così di nuovo con Ibsen, quale uomo possiamo paragonare a Solveig e Nora, Hedda e Hilda Wangel e Rebecca West?

See here, child,” my father whispered, lifting me to the open window casement. “These men are of your blood. I set the mark of the old gods upon you,” he said, tracing ancient runes upon my brow, my natal blood mixing with the blood of the dead men. “Avenge your kinsman. I call upon the Morrigu, the ancient and dead Goddess of these lands, and ask her to claim you.

No," he says. "You have been made to fit a shape that confines you. That does not serve you.

I do not need to live among barbarians to understand that the greater one's rise, the further his fall. The higher the tower is built the more precarious it becomes. Even children with their building blocks comprehend this.

All your life you have been muzzled," he says. "So as not to disturb the architecture of the world. But a muzzled dog thinks only of its misery and its shackles. They may rob your body of its power, but they cannot take your mind.

An aberration that runs through her like a crack in the earth itself.

The arrogance of hope.

There was no need for this girl to scream. Everyone who looked on could imagine her pain. The pain is the protest.

Roscille will never stop marveling at the stupidness of men when the order of their world is disrupted.

There is no honor, after all, in a seed that sprouts daughters.

Like an ageing theatrical knight convinced he had one last Hamlet in him.

And attacked you! Lady Macbeth ain’t in it!

LADY MACBETH We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.

June is such a child,” Fiona muttered to me. I could still feel anger radiating off her. “Can you imagine being the sexiest woman in Hollywood and complaining that no one wants to see you play Lady Macbeth?