Life Is Ruff Quotes

Before the war Sofya Levinton had once said to Yevgenia Nikolaevna Shaposhnikova, 'If one man is fated to be killed by another, it would be interesting to trace the gradual convergence of their paths. At the start they might be miles away from one another – I might be in Pamir picking alpine roses and clicking my camera, while this other man, my death, might be eight thousand miles away, fishing for ruff in a little stream after school. I might be getting ready to go to a concert and he might be at the railway station buying a ticket to go and visit his mother-in-law – and yet eventually we are bound to meet, we can't avoid it...

Its going to be a rocky relationship you are going to have with your business, don’t marry it if you don’t like it! Its going to be ruff sometimes but you can create life to something beautiful!

Something else that puzzles me about other people is that a lot of them don’t know their purpose in life. This usually does bother them—more than not being able to remember being born, anyway—but I can’t even imagine it. Part of knowing who I am is knowing why I am, and I’ve always known who I am, from the first moment.

Like a pendulum my life swung between fairytales and nightmares.

How do you leave someone who has been such an important part of your life for twenty-eight years, someone you love more than life itself?

Almondine To her, the scent and the memory of him were one. Where it lay strongest, the distant past came to her as if that morning: Taking a dead sparrow from her jaws, before she knew to hide such things. Guiding her to the floor, bending her knee until the arthritis made it stick, his palm hotsided on her ribs to measure her breaths and know where the pain began. And to comfort her. That had been the week before he went away. He was gone, she knew this, but something of him clung to the baseboards. At times the floor quivered under his footstep. She stood then and nosed into the kitchen and the bathroom and the bedroom-especially the closet-her intention to press her ruff against his hand, run it along his thigh, feel the heat of his body through the fabric. Places, times, weather-all these drew him up inside her. Rain, especially, falling past the double doors of the kennel, where he’d waited through so many storms, each drop throwing a dozen replicas into the air as it struck the waterlogged earth. And where the rising and falling water met, something like an expectation formed, a place where he might appear and pass in long strides, silent and gestureless. For she was not without her own selfish desires: to hold things motionless, to measure herself against them and find herself present, to know that she was alive precisely because he needn’t acknowledge her in casual passing; that utter constancy might prevail if she attended the world so carefully. And if not constancy, then only those changes she desired, not those that sapped her, undefined her. And so she searched. She’d watched his casket lowered into the ground, a box, man-made, no more like him than the trees that swayed under the winter wind. To assign him an identity outside the world was not in her thinking. The fence line where he walked and the bed where he slept-that was where he lived, and they remembered him. Yet he was gone. She knew it most keenly in the diminishment of her own self. In her life, she’d been nourished and sustained by certain things, him being one of them, Trudy another, and Edgar, the third and most important, but it was really the three of them together, intersecting in her, for each of them powered her heart a different way. Each of them bore different responsibilities to her and with her and required different things from her, and her day was the fulfillment of those responsibilities. She could not imagine that portion of her would never return. With her it was not hope, or wistful thoughts-it was her sense of being alive that thinned by the proportion of her spirit devoted to him. "ory of Edgar Sawtelle" As spring came on, his scent about the place began to fade. She stopped looking for him. Whole days she slept beside his chair, as the sunlight drifted from eastern-slant to western-slant, moving only to ease the weight of her bones against the floor. And Trudy and Edgar, encapsulated in mourning, somehow forgot to care for one another, let alone her. Or if they knew, their grief and heartache overwhelmed them. Anyway, there was so little they might have done, save to bring out a shirt of his to lie on, perhaps walk with her along the fence line, where fragments of time had snagged and hung. But if they noticed her grief, they hardly knew to do those things. And she without the language to ask.

For roughly the millionth time in his life he asked himself, Is there any way I can just ignore this and get on with my day? and he reflected that it was the minor slights that were the hardest to let pass.

Tears pricked at my eyes. “You were still a child when your parents died. Besides, I think that’s what gives you those dark edges. Your wings have beat against the darkest side of life.” He shook his head. “I don’t have wings.” I rubbed between his shoulder blades. “I think maybe you do. Maybe they were broken somewhere along the way or maybe you just forgot how to use them…” A smile teased at the corner of his lips. “I’m no angel.” “You’re my angel,” I insisted.

My neck was slender and long and I could bend it nearly all the way about to take in my body: also slender, also shining. I was a dragon of gold, as if Jesse had touched me and transmuted me but not taken my life. I was sinuous and covered in lustrous golden scales, all the way almost to the tip of my tail, until they faded into purple. I had a mane, too, mapping a line down my back. It looked like a ruff of silk or cut velvet. I folded my neck around almost double so that I could rub my chin on it. Silken, yes, but also jagged. Combing my chin through it sent quivers of pleasure down my spine. Then I saw my wings. They were folded against my back, metallic. Without knowing how I did it, I opened them, using muscles I didn't even have as a person. ... I slashed my tail through the rain and realized that it was barbed when it hit an oak tree and I got stuck. No problem. I pulled it out and danced around, delighted at the fresh, gaping hole in the trunk. ... If the shark-hunters or lance-bearers came for me, I'd chew them to chum.

I don’t know if I’ll get in with all the bad in life I done. But at least when Saint Peter, or whoever they got guardin’ ‘em asks what I did in life to deserve heaven, I’ll be able to tell ‘em about Kathy. On the plus side, I’ll have one good thing…

Osteoporosis isn’t a problem that gets a lot of attention, but it is deadly in older women. The weakening of their bones doesn’t only result in cosmetic changes. The fragility means that a fall can be life-threatening.

I couldn’t stop thinking of all the tragedies, the heartache, and pain that life has thrown our way. We ended up together, despite all the obstacles and frankly dismal odds. But what if God intended it that way? Man has been broken since the Garden of Eden, but we were never meant to be broken apart. We were meant to be broken together until He comes for us.

I’d been praying every day… praying that life wouldn’t break her the way it had broken me… but I knew, as surely as God was resting his hand on my shoulder and peering down at her too, that she’d never be broken and alone. She’d be broken together until the day he called her home.

Yes, I eat nothing but shit food and coffee. So what? Guys in my line of work, there’s no retirement package. Sooner or later, the fatality rate was a hundred percent. My unofficial motto: eat crap food, bed beautiful women, and slaughter as many unholy sons-of-bitches of the Midnight as I can. Life is short. Insert your favorite slogan here.

Despite Grumblethorpe's noises of disapproval, Esme knew she liked the family pets.She just did't approve of having so many of them in her mistress's bedroom at once. Still, it was an old battle and one the lady's maid had given up waging long ago. Good thing too, since four of Esme's six cats- who had all started life in either Braebourne stables or as strays she'd rescued- were snoozing in various locations around her room. They included a big orange male, Tobias, who was curled up in a cozy spot in the middle of her bed; Queen Elizabeth- a sweet-natured tabby, who was lounging in her usual window seat; Mozart- a luxuriously coated white longhair who luckily loved being brushed; and Naiad, a one-eyed black female, whom Esme had rescued from drowning as a kitten. Her other two cats, Persephone and Ruff, were out and about, seeing to their own cat business. As for the dogs, Burr lay stretched out on the hearthrug in front of the fireplace. He snored gently, clearly tired after their recent adventures. And joining him in the land of dreams was dear old Henry, a brindle spaniel who was curled up inside a nearby dog bed lined with plush pillows that helped cushion his aging joints. Handel and Haydn, a pair of impish Scottish terriers, were absent. She suspected they were on the third floor playing with her increasingly large brood of nieces and nephews. The dogs loved the children.

And what sound does ough make? As somone once noted, “A rough, dough-faced, thoughtful ploughman strode through the streets of Scarborough; after falling into a slough, he coughed and hiccoughed.” This should be read by the learned as “A ruff, doe-faced, thawtful plowman strode throo the streets of Scarboruh; after falling into a sloo, he coffed and hiccupped.” Quite a language we have here.

My eyes were already closing but to my surprise, the wolf came around the bed and hopped up, taking the other side. “Hey now,” I protested, trying to sit up and failing. “You can’t… can’t do that. Fur on… the sheets. Victor will be… pissed.” But the wolf wasn’t budging. And at this point, neither was I. I barely had strength to roll over, let alone try to push him off the bed. With a sigh, I gave up. Let him stay—there was nothing I could do about it now. My eyes closed but I was cold. Marshalling my flagging strength, I tried for a minute to get under the covers but I couldn’t… they were tucked in too tightly. Whoever had taught Victor to make a bed must have been into hospital corners. With a little moan, I curled in on myself, trying to tuck my arms and legs into the white t-shirt I still wore and gather a little warmth. Cold… so cold. It was the story of my undead life. Ever since I had been turned, I could never seem to get warm enough, no matter what I did. To my sleepy surprise, the wolf seemed to understand my problem. He scooted closer to me, pushing his long furry back against my front until I found my face buried in his ruff. And oh, he was so warm. With a little sigh of contentment, I wound my arms around his furry neck and pressed closer, letting the delicious animal heat penetrate to my bones. His fur tickled my nose but I didn’t care. He smelled wild and yet, somehow familiar. Like fur and leather and sunlight in the woods. Speaking of sunlight, I could feel the sun rising to full glory overhead and I couldn’t stay awake any longer. Between my terrible weariness and the delicious feeling of finally being warm, I couldn’t hold my eyes open anymore. I nestled closer to the wolf and let sleep claim me.

The two boys did quite a lot of cycling, playing cycle polo in a field not far from Cooldrinagh, just as their father had done earlier in a team run by a man called Wisdom Healy.110 The scene in Beckett’s novel Dream of Fair to Middling Women, where the two brothers go off on their bicycles to the sea, recalls a poignant memory of his childhood: That was in the blue-eyed days when they rode down to the sea on bicycles, Father in the van, his handsome head standing up out of the great ruff of the family towel, John in the centre, lean and gracefully seated, Bel behind, his feet speeding round in the smallest gear ever constructed. They were the Great Bear, the Big Bear and the Little Bear; aliter sic, the Big, Little and Small Bears … Many was the priest coming back safe from his bathe that they passed, his towel folded suavely, like a waiter’s serviette, across his arm. The superlative Bear would then discharge the celebrated broadside: B-P! B-P! B-P! and twist round with his handsome face wreathed in smiles in the saddle to make sure that the sally had not been in vain. It had never been known to be in vain.111