Mack Maine Quotes

Competitive golf is played mainly on a five-and-a-half-inch course: the space between your ears. —BOBBY JONES

An Anglo-Saxon, Hinnissy, is a German that's forgot who was his parents. They're a lot iv thim in this counthry. There must be as manny as two in Boston: they'se wan up in Maine, an' another lives at Bogg's Ferry in New York State, an' dhrives a milk wagon. Mack is an Anglo-Saxon. His folks come fr'm th' County Armagh, an' their naytional Anglo-Saxon hymn is 'O'Donnell Aboo.' Teddy Rosenfelt is another Anglo-Saxon. An' I'm an Anglo-Saxon. I'm wan iv th' hottest Anglo-Saxons that iver come out iv Anglo-Saxony. Th' name iv Dooley has been th' proudest Anglo-Saxon name in th' County Roscommon f'r many years. "Schwartzmeister

guards. They break away, each moving to talk to various people who’ve been hanging around the perimeter of the market. One of the guards—a burly mountain of a man—stays with the main guy, who scans the clearing in a silent inspection. Then, to my surprise, his eyes land on me. He approaches. Mack has tensed up as the man gets closer. I can see that even from the distance. My throat grows tight. I have absolutely no idea what to expect, but it feels like a very bad idea to raise my weapon, so I don’t. “You’re new around here,” the man says when he reaches me. “I’ve never seen you before.” He sounds educated. Articulate. With a very slight Ozark accent. I clear my throat and reply, “I am. I’m a friend of Malachi.” I nod over toward Mack, who is visibly bristling but holding himself back for some reason. “I’ve only been here a month.” “Where are you from?” I’m not sure why it’s any of this man’s business, but too many alarms are going off in my head to object to the inquisition. “I’m from farther east. Originally from the mountains of Virginia, but I’ve been living in Kentucky for several years. The same area Mack—Malachi—is from.

Eventually it’s time for bed, so Mack and I walk back to the farmhouse. We don’t say much, but he reaches over to squeeze my hand at one point. I’m not sure why, but I don’t let his go, so we’re holding hands for the rest of the walk back. By the time we reach our pretty guestroom, I’m feeling closer to him than I’ve ever felt to anyone in my entire life. And I’m also holding back tears because it feels so much like I’m about to lose him. He’ll leave in the morning, and I’ll risk my life in this attack. There’s a chance we’ll never see each other again, and even if we do, it won’t be like it’s been in these past two months. Tonight might be our last. Maybe Mack is experiencing something similar. He’s subdued when he finally releases my hand as we stand in our bedroom. They don’t have showers here. They have to pump water manually to fill tubs, and most of the time they use a basin and pitcher of water in rooms to wash up the way they do at New Haven. We get as clean as we can and get ready for bed. I change into a simple knit nightgown while Mack takes off all his clothes. We switch off the lantern on the bedside table and climb into bed. Mack still hasn’t said anything as he pulls me closer and rolls on top. He stares down at me in the dark for a minute before he finally lowers his head so he can kiss me. I kiss him back, wrapping my arms around him and softening my lips. He slides his tongue into my mouth. As our kiss deepens, I move my hands over his body, stroking his smooth scalp, caressing my way down his back, running my fingers over his large frame, his developed muscles, his tight skin. Every part of him is big and strong and solid and warm. Every part of him is perfect for me, exactly what I want to feel under my hands. We kiss for a really long time. His body slowly tenses up, and eventually his erection is poking into me. But he doesn’t rush to the main event. He seems to need this—this intimate, needy kiss—as much as anything else. I need it too. I’m hotly aroused and filled with so much more in my heart when he finally breaks his mouth away, gasping and ducking his head to suck on the pulse in my throat. “Mack!” His name on my lips is a whispered gasp. He makes a guttural sound as he pushes up my nightgown so he can get his mouth on my breasts. He teases and sucks until I’m squirming. I hold on to his head until I can’t take any more. “Mack!” I’m still keeping my voice soft so no one can hear us through the walls. We aren’t in our little cabin right now where it doesn’t matter how loud we get.

Before he could decide what to do, he heard a female voice call out, "Pepe? Mack?" Pepe recognized the voice as belonging to Senora Rodriguez. No, Senora Thompson. There'd been a wedding in late summer. He hurried out to the main part of the barn to see what she wanted. Senora Thompson stood just inside the entrance, holding the reins of her mare, Bianca, a black beauty with four white stockings and a blaze down her nose her husband had given her after their marriage.

No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own or of thine friend’s were. Each man’s death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.

For the suffix -son, you might always see a smaller version of the main thing you’re picturing. For example, for Robinson, you could see a robin and a smaller robin—its son. Or, you could use the sun in the sky as your standard. For Mc- or Mac-, you could always picture a Mack truck; for -itz or -witz, picture brains (wits); for -berg, see an iceberg; for -stein, picture a beer stein; for -ton, see the item weighing a ton; for a -ger ending, we usually picture either a wild animal growling (grr), or a cigar