Lydia Bennet Quotes

Here's the thing about good guys. They don't tell you they're good guys.

Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex.

Books may not judge you, but people do.

A few of the guests, who had the misfortune of being too near the windows, were seized and feasted on at once. When Elizabeth stood, she saw Mrs. Long struggle to free herself as two female dreadfuls bit into her head, cracking her skull like a walnut, and sending a shower of dark blood spouting as high as the chandeliers. As guests fled in every direction, Mr. Bennet's voice cut through the commotion. "Girls! Pentagram of Death!" Elizabeth immediately joined her four sisters, Jane, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia in the center of the dance floor. Each girl produced a dagger from her ankle and stood at the tip of an imaginary five-pointed star. From the center of the room, they began stepping outward in unison - each thrusting a razor-sharp dagger with one hand, the other hand modestly tucked into the small of her back.

Isn’t it strange to see that, even as one’s own story unfolds, others are traveling through their own, which may be just as interesting?

This smug nation of yours certainly enjoys grinding its daughters down to a powder.

It has started to snow. We all ran out when it began, and played at catching flakes as we used to when we were children. But it was cold, and our boots and gloves and cloaks were soon wet - you feel these things more when you are grown-up.

Goodbye, Lizzy. I will see you again, of course—but you will not see me. Not really. You never have. It is too bad. This the part, I suppose, where the novel would wrap up with a tidy boring moral, so I will say this: Love your best friends. Forgive your worst friends. Remember, always, not to judge people too hastily, for everyone is living out a story of their own, and you only get to read the pages you appear on.

Hopefully, my dearest Jane, you can muster some of Elizabeth’s headstrong manner and mix it with a bit of Lydia’s boldness and suggest Sir Wesley take a long walk off a short pier.

Lord, travel is a curse. So are friends, and love, and mornings.

It is so much easier to write when you have something to write about.

At least we can engage in that most Bennet of traditions tonight,' Lizzie offered. 'Eating our feelings while watching bad movies. Usually romantic comedies, but you can pick.

Austen seemed to know the power of physical attraction (see Mary Crawford and the upstanding Edmund Bertram, or Wickham and Lydia, or even the Bennets twenty years before the plot).

At the public ball in Meryton in May, I stood in a corner complaining to a few friends. They had heard it all before, but what are friends for, if not to listen to the same complaints over and over?

Let's make a game of it, shall we?" she said. "Whoever kills the most, wins." "I will kill twenty!" Lydia declared. "I will kill thirty!" Kitty countered. Mary paused for a moment of sober calculation. "I will kill thirty-two." she said. "I will kill as long as I must," said Jane. "And I will kill as long as I can," said Elizabeth

Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, make them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married.

new acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball." "Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I'm the tallest." The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.

Becoming a young lady is a bit like being a topiary bush. You start out wild and unformed, and highly paid experts snip away at you until you’re beautiful and thoroughly tamed. Only then are you considered proper company. A witch is more like a young willow tree. You may start as a scrawny weed, but every root you send questing through the ground, every shoot you send toward the sun, strengthens you. If you’re not checked, your roots can crack walls.

The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord, how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.

when he observed Kitty with her. “Damnation, can’t that girl do anything she’s told!” Wickham thumped the wall with his clenched fist, a red mist of anger blurring his vision. Lydia might be persuaded to keep his presence here

Lydia looked up at the general’s careworn countenance. She placed her hand on his arm and said, “My family will be eternally grateful to you.

So this girl promoting different ways to don modest religious outerwear ended up looking more beautiful by virtue of her scarf styles, and garnering more attention, male and female, than she ever would have received if she didn’t wear one.

Elizza continued to scroll. It only got worse from there. Bandwagons of other girls, Libyan and non-Libyan, joined the thread with their own comments, so that within twenty or so tweets about the subject, what started out as blatant appreciation of male physical perfection soon downward spiraled into down-right stalking. She had to stop herself after a few minutes of reading—she didn’t think she could handle much more of it. She only knew of one word to describe the sad little thread, if only she could think of it. What is that word the young kids used these days? Oh yeah. Thirsty.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter must be a witch.

I thought of nothing but attracting attention in those days; in our large family circle I was often forgotten. They do not remember it is so, of course—in a large family, every child is sure that they alone were uniquely neglected.

I began to follow the cat about as I had my sisters. At first I had no better luck winning its heart. Indeed, when it saw me reaching my jammy hands toward its fur, it would make a sound of dread low in its throat and leap for the nearest open window. But cats are simpler creatures than sisters. Neither scratches nor howls deterred my lavish embraces and sticky kisses. My love needed an object, and the family cat could not escape. Generous gifts of cream and kippers soon had the creature following me from room to room, much to Mary and Papa’s disgust. Indeed, Papa would leave the room when he saw us coming, claiming that my pet made him sneeze. I did not care. I only hugged my cat close, glorying when she purred instead of fleeing, and whispered my secrets into her fur. So far, ordinary enough. Many a lonely young girl makes a companion of a pet.

If you were to tell Lizzy’s story, or Jane’s, I suppose you would begin with when they met their husbands. I don’t say that to slight them! I’ve often wished that my own life had turned out like theirs. They seem very happy with their rich husbands, and though neither man is to my taste, who am I to judge? I am a foolish wretch and usually racked with misery of my own making. Ask anyone. Ah well! At least I’ve known such fun as they will never come within a hundred yards of.

We cats know things of magic that your aunt can never teach you.

You may go home,” I said, “but I shan’t. Aunt is teaching me tea-reading today. Fancy being able to tell the future whenever someone comes to tea! You’re just jealous, Kitty, that she won’t teach you.” Kitty put her hands on her hips. “We cats know things of magic that your aunt can never teach you.

You certainly speak your mind, child. Is it bravery or idiocy? Ah, well in many folks they are the same.

It’s like this, Father,” he said. “With my strength added to that of these fine witches here”— he nodded to me and Harriet— “you can’t overcome us. That means you can neither eat this young lady and her cat, nor force me to return to my elemental form and rejoin you in that wretched pit beneath the church.” Nonsense, boy, the voice snarled. You are my creation. I own you. You are me. You must do what I say. “I understand that is quite a rite of passage for human fathers to discover that none of that is true of their sons.

It’s like this, Father,” he said. “With my strength added to that of these fine witches here”— he nodded to me and Harriet— “you can’t overcome us. That means you can neither eat this young lady and her cat, nor force me to return to my elemental form and rejoin you in that wretched pit beneath the church.” Nonsense, boy, the voice snarled. You are my creation. I own you. You are me. You must do what I say. “I understand that it is quite a rite of passage for human fathers to discover that none of that is true of their sons.

What was needed, as Harriet had said, was a real sacrifice. Something that hurt. A loss that would ache for a long time, maybe always. As I examined my life, I found to my horror, thst k didn’t have anything like that. What could I offer, after all, that was mine to give? A favorite ribbon? A blobby painting of the regiment? An imaginary love affair? My life, I saw, was little more than a collection of trinkets.

What was needed, as Harriet had said, was a real sacrifice. Something that hurt. A loss that would ache for a long time, maybe always. As I examined my life, I found to my horror, that I didn’t have anything like that. What could I offer, after all, that was mine to give? A favorite ribbon? A blobby painting of the regiment? An imaginary love affair? My life, I saw, was little more than a collection of trinkets.

I do think you might be a little nicer,” I said. “I’m doing this for you, you know.” She growled, low in her throat. “I had no choice about using your attachment to Denny. You know that. There was nothing else.” At that she looked up at me, her yellow eyes enormous. And whose fault is that? she demanded. If you hadn’t led such a foolish, empty life, you would have had something of worth of your own to sacrifice. “You might have told me,” I said. “You were there every step of the way.” No one can live your life for you, witch. You must mend it yourself.

There you are,” I said, striving to paddle back to shore from the deep waters I felt I’d somehow wandered into. “Aren’t you going to waltz me? Listen, they’re starting.” He opened his eyes at that. “I know,” he said. “I can hear. God, I can hear it. How do you humans bear it?” The waltz had started slowly, and he thumped his hand against his chest in time. One-two-three, one-two-three. “Bear what?” I said softly. “The music,” he said. “A man in Austria wrote this—just a man, just a stinking, selfish, distractible human—scratched it out on tree pulp, and then it traveled across countries and through wars and arrived here, and though none of us speak his language and most don’t know his name, he speaks to us exactly as he intended to. He tells our bodies how to move to it almost without learning the steps. One-two-three, one-two-three.” A smile flitted across his lips. I was astonished to see that he had tears in his eyes. “God! How beautiful it is! And you all talk over it about what Lady-So-and-So said to the Honorable Whosit yesterday on the Steyne.

I’m made of fire, you know,” he said. “Fire and stone. If he regained his full strength, my father could kill everyone in the ballroom before they could choke out a scream. But I’d rather have the tinder-flare of a glass punch, the curve of a barmaid’s breast, the frost of a winter morning—it all pierces me to the heart. God, why am I telling you all this?” I tried to fall back on teasing. The waltz was slowly picking up tempo, and my heart seemed to be matching it pulse for pulse. “No need for tears for a simple waltz,” I mock-scolded in a whisper. “And you a great boy of eight-and-twenty.” He opened his eyes at that and surged away from the wall. “I am not eight-and-twenty. I am ten months old, or nine thousand years. Nothing in between.” Before I could squeak, he’d seized me in a waltz hold, far closer than propriety allowed. “Yes,” he said. “In answer to your question.” “What question,” I said. “Am I going to waltz you.” He began, slowly, to move. “The answer is yes, at every opportunity.

I’m made of fire, you know,” he said. “Fire and stone. If he regained his full strength, my father could kill everyone in the ballroom before they could choke out a scream. But I’d rather have the tinder-flare of a human lifetime than go back to him. It’s not just the waltz. The taste of a glass punch, the curve of a barmaid’s breast, the frost of a winter morning—it all pierces me to the heart. God, why am I telling you all this?” I tried to fall back on teasing. The waltz was slowly picking up tempo, and my heart seemed to be matching it pulse for pulse. “No need for tears for a simple waltz,” I mock-scolded in a whisper. “And you a great boy of eight-and-twenty.” He opened his eyes at that and surged away from the wall. “I am not eight-and-twenty. I am ten months old, or nine thousand years. Nothing in between.” Before I could squeak, he’d seized me in a waltz hold, far closer than propriety allowed. “Yes,” he said. “In answer to your question.” “What question,” I said. “Am I going to waltz you.” He began, slowly, to move. “The answer is yes, at every opportunity.

Do not apologize. When we cats make a mistake, we merely show the world that it was what we meant to do all along. I gave a watery laugh. “You don’t fool us, you know.” Yes we do. Shut up.

You said that every time the spell activated, the creature came straight for you. This spell was intended to make Miss Darcy kill you.” Her eyes widened. “Someday you’ll have to teach me how you do that.” “Do what? Observe things and think them through?” “Yes, that thing.” She frowned. “Well. Let us go ahead with it then.

A scientific-minded young witch once told me it was the reverse of entropy- witchcraft is the only force in the world that can unbreak a teacup.

When I was done, I turned to the crowd, holding the little basin of my friends' blood. Funny, I thought, looking into the bowl -once it was mixed up, you could no longer tell dragon's blood from human, or noble from common. It was all just a mass of red.

This kiss was different from those we had shared before, There was no frenzied seawater powering it, nor was it a payoff of a complicated transaction. It was just sweet comfort, the sweetest thing I thought I had ever felt. The gentle, tender touch of his lips, the soothing strokes of his hands, the press of his body on mine, all of it rushed into the parts of me that had been filled with queasy despair.

Isn't it strange to see that, even as one's own story unfolds, others are traveling through their own, which may be just as interesting?

This is the part, I suppose, where the novel would wrap up with a tidy boring moral, so I will say this: Love your best friends. Forgive your worst friends. Remember, always, not to judge too hastily, for everyone is living out a story of their own, and you only get to read the pages you appear on.

Surely a young beauty like yourself is lonely, too. It can be a part of the game, if you like.” “Get off,” she said, thoroughly done with this. His answer was to lean in closer. So she kneed him in the groin. As hard as she could. “Aw, ow, dammit!” He doubled over and thudded onto his knees. Jane brushed off her knee, feeling like it had touched something dirty. “Aw, ow, dammit indeed! What’re you thinking?” Jane heard hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. It was Mr. Nobley. “Miss Erstwhile!” He was barefoot in his breeches, his shirt untucked. He glanced down at the groaning man. “Sir Templeton!” “Ow, she kicked me,” said Sir Templeton. “Kneed him, I kneed him,” Jane said. “I don’t kick. Not even when I’m a ninja.” Mr. Nobley stood a moment in silence, looking over the scene. “I hope you remembered to shout ‘Ya’ when taking him down. I hear that is very effective.” “I’m afraid I neglected that bit, but I’ll certainly ‘ya’ from here to London if he ever touches me again.” “Miss Erstwhile, were you perhaps employed by your president’s armed forces in America?” “What? Don’t British women know how to use their knees?” “Happily, I have never put myself in a position to find out.” He stared at the prostrate Sir Templeton. “Did he hurt you?” “Frankly, your arm-yanking earlier was worse.” “I see. Perhaps you should retire to your chambers, Miss Erstwhile. Would you like me to escort you?” “I’m fine,” she said, “as long as there aren’t any other Sir Templetons lurking upstairs.” “Well, I cannot give Colonel Andrews a glowing reference, but I believe the way is safe.” She stepped closer to Mr. Nobley and whispered, “Are you going to out me to Mrs. Wattlesbrook for the servants’ quarters lurking?” “I think,” he said, nudging the prostrate Sir Templeton with his foot, “that you have suffered enough tonight.” Mr. Nobley smiled at her, the first time she had seen his real smile. She wouldn’t go so far as to call it a grin. His lips were closed, but his eyes brightened and the corners of his mouth definitely turned up, creating pleasing little cheek wrinkles on either side as though the smile were in parentheses. It bothered her in a way she couldn’t explain, like feeling itchy but not knowing exactly where to scratch. He was not particularly amused, she saw, but smiled to reassure her. Wait, who wanted to reassure her? Mr. Nobley or the actual man, Actor X? “Thanks. Good night, Mr. Nobley.” “Good night, Miss Erstwhile.” She hesitated, then left, Sir Templeton’s groans following her up the stairs. On the second floor, Aunt Saffronia was emerging from her room, clutching a white shawl over her nightgown. “What was that noise? Is everything all right?” “Yes. It was…your husband. He was being inappropriate.” Aunt Saffronia blinked. “Inebriated?” “Yes.” She nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Jane.” Jane wasn’t sure if Aunt Saffronia was speaking to Jane the niece or Jane the client. For the first time it didn’t matter; both Janes felt exactly the same. She acknowledged the apology with a nod, went to her room, and locked the door behind her. She thought she was angry but instead she plopped herself down on her bed, put her face in her pillow, and laughed. “What a joke,” she said, sounding to herself like the movie incarnation of Lydia Bennet. “I come for Mr. Darcy, fall for the gardener, and get propositioned by the drunk husband.” Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow she would play for real. She was going to drive full force into the game, have a staggering good time, and kick the nasty Darcy habit for good. She fell asleep with the ticklish thought of Mr. Nobley’s smile.

When I left, Lydia was prattling about new clothes for her wedding and expressing her own satisfaction that she, the youngest of the Bennet sisters, would be the first of them to be married. Wickham smiled indulgently and said pretty things to her. I, disgusted with them both, was persuaded they deserved each other.

Do not be afraid of books, Miss Bennet. Simply treat them with the respect they deserve, and you will be richly rewarded. You do not have to be clever or rich or have attended celebrated schools or universities in order to appreciate them. It is enough simply to have an open and receptive mind-- and sometimes, it is true, a little perseverance. But you must not be afraid, Miss Bennett, for books do not judge you.

This is the part, I suppose, where the novel would wrap up with a tidy boring moral, so I will say this: Love your best friends. Forgive your worst friends. Remember, always, not to judge people too hastily, for everyone is living out a story of their own, and you only get to read the pages you appear on. And no matter what your physician may say, do not drink seawater. It is bad for you.

There was one fly in the ointment of my Brighton delight.

She pulled back and looked into his eyes fiercely. “Don’t forget me, Denny,” she said. She didn’t look like my sister anymore, or my pet, or my familiar. She was a woman rendered ageless and unrecognizable by agony.

The look he gave me was that mixture of exasperation and pity that I seem to so often bring out in respectable people.

I am not afraid; for though I am the youngest, I'm the tallest"-Lydia Bennet

I may be going to Hell, but I am going to Brighton first.

She knew that, in her family, Lydia was always the first to gallop off to do something, and rarely, if ever, did any of her sisters run along with her. Even Kitty would follow in a more ladylike fashion. It was just how Lydia was. Exuberance poured from her in streams or, more precisely, like loud, babbling brooks that hopped here and there.

How does any cat get in where it’s not expected? she said, butting her forehead under my chin. I’ve told you, Lydia, we cats have ways unknown to mortals.

You said that every time the spell activated, the creature came straight for you. This spell was intended to make Miss Darcy kill you. Her eyes widened. “Someday you’ll have to teach me how you do that.” “Do what? Observe things and think them through?” “Yes, that thing.” She frowned. “Well. Let us go ahead with it then.

When books talk of the “primrose path to damnation” they ought to have an illustration of me in them.

People are forever getting cross with me for doing things they wish they could do themselves.

We’re a decent country coven, we are, and we want merely to practice our dark arts in peace.

Our lovely house, Longbourn, was our father’s, along with enough land to keep us in gowns and lace and a serviceable carriage; but it was entailed to the male line, and we had no brother, and all together our situation was a bit like eternally picnicking at the edge of a crumbling cliff. My father’s favorite pastime was mocking my mother’s fear of falling.

saveloys

Mrs. Bennet, Miss Lydia, is vulgar! Your excuses for her do not lend credit to our family’s future. Her words have me unsettled and I shall not remain for supper.

Watching her parents, Elizabeth sighed; her mother and father changed after Lydia’s elopement from Brighton. Her father ruled Longbourn with an iron fist and forbid any officer or gentlemen he did not know personally from setting foot on the estate, and Mrs. Bennet placated her husband with his favourite dishes at the table and curbed her tongue as much as possible.

Auden’s gone full-blown Lydia “Bennet and accused me of being Lizzie. Which, I don’t mind, but still.” “Plain English here please, Em. You know I don’t speak Austen.” “Neither does she.” I exhale