Maria Remark Quotes

That is the remarkable thing about drinking: it brings people together so quickly, but between night and morning it sets an interval again of years.

I always say that love is like the meat in a pie," Freddy put in. "The crust is what people see - the practical things that hold a couple together. But love is the important part - without it you've got a meatless pie, and what's the point of that?" "Why, Freddy," Minerva said, "that was almost profound." "Freddy is always profound when it comes to pie," Maria remarked. Then she turned pensive as they drew up in front of an imposing building of gray stone. "But I think love is like the ocean. The surface may be stormy or ruffled by wind, rain may fall on it or lightning strike it, but if you sink down where the water is deep and steady, no matter what happens on the surface, you can always have a marvelous swim.

Nothing could be less conducive to reaching an art-work than critical remarks:it's always simply a matter of more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Everything cannot be so easily grasped and conveyed as we are generally led to believe; most events are unconveyable and come to pass in a space that no word has ever penetrated; more unconveyable than all else are art-works, whose mysterious existences, whose lives run alongside ours, which perishes, whereas theirs endure.

In a sentiment of remarkable prescience in the context of climate change denial half a century later, Carson articulated the formidable task before her: It is a great problem to know how to look at unpleasant facts that might have to be dealt with if one recognized their existence.

Aber hatte er den Menschen, den er liebte, nicht tiefer besessen als die Galerie der stupiden Sieger? Und was besitzen wir wirklich? Wozu soviel «Lärm um Dinge, die als bestes nur geliehen sind für einige Zeit; und wozu soviel Gerede darüber, ob man sie mehr oder minder besitzt, wenn das trügerische Wort „besitzen" doch nur heißt: die Luft zu umarmen?

Das Wunder, wenn man es erlebt, ist nie vollkommen, erst die Erinnerung macht es dazu.

The first day I came I remarked to Miss Maria that it looked a little like rain—and Miss Maria laughed. I said the road from the station was very pretty—and Miss Maria laughed. I said there seemed to be a few mosquitoes left yet—and Miss Maria laughed. I said that Prospect Point was as beautiful as ever—and Miss Maria laughed. If I were to say to Miss Maria, 'My father has hanged himself, my mother has taken poison, my brother is in the penitentiary, and I am in the last stages of consumption,' Miss Maria would laugh. She can't help it—she was born so; but is very sad and awful. "The

It's important to say what hope is not: it is not the belief that everything was, is, or will be fine. The evidence is all around of tremendous suffering and tremendous destruction. The hope I'm interested in is about broad perspectives with specific possibilities, ones that invite or demand that we act. It's also not a sunny everything-is-getting-better narrative, though it may be a counter to the everything-is-getting-worse narrative. You could call it an account of complexities and uncertainties, with openings. "Critical thinking without hope is cynicism, but hope without critical thinking is naïveté," the Bulgarian writer Maria Popova recently remarked. And Patrisse Cullors, one of the founders of Black Lives Matter, early on described the movement's mission as to "Provide hope and inspiration for collective action to build collective power to achieve collective transformation, rooted in grief and rage but pointed towards vision and dreams." It's a statement that acknowledges that grief and hope can coexist.

I am almost ashamed to answer,' she said. 'As I have said before, Emily Fox-Seton has become the lodestar of my existence. I cannot live without her. She has walked over to Maundell to make sure that we do not have a dinner-party without fish to-night.' 'She has _walked_ over to Maundell,' said Lord Walderhurst--'after yesterday?' 'There was not a pair of wheels left in the stable,' answered Lady Maria. 'It is disgraceful, of course, but she is a splendid walker, and she said she was not too tired to do it. It is the kind of thing she ought to be given the Victoria Cross for--saving one from a dinner-party without fish.' The Marquis of Walderhurst took up the cord of his monocle and fixed the glass rigidly in his eye. 'It is not only four miles to Maundell,' he remarked, staring at the table-cloth, not at Lady Maria, 'but it is four miles back.

Therefore, as St. Sophronius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, asserts, the archangel Gabriel called her full of grace: “Ave gratia plena;” because whilst to others, as the saint above mentioned remarks, limited grace is given, to Mary it was given in fulness. And thus it was ordered, as St. Basil attests, that in this way she might become the worthy mediatrix between God and men. For if the Virgin had not been full of divine grace, as St. Lawrence Justinian adds, how could she be the ladder of paradise, the advocate of the world, and the true mediatrix between God and men?

Close behind us were our friends: Tjaden, a skinny locksmith of our own age, the biggest eater of the company. He sits down to eat as thin as a grasshopper and gets up as big as a bug in the family way; Haie Westhus, of the same age, a peat-digger, who can easily hold a ration-loaf in his hand and say: Guess what I've got in my fist; then Detering, a peasant, who thinks of nothing but his farm-yard and his wife; and finally Stanislaus Katczinsky, the leader of our group, shrewd, cunning, and hard-bitten, forty years of age, with a face of the soil, blue eyes, bent shoulders, and a remarkable nose for dirty weather, good food, and soft jobs.

On Saturday 10 of 1917, and at the age of 19, Maria Orsic fell in a trance (or perhaps in a coma, for no apparent reasons) which lasted several hours. As soon as she came out of her coma and began to regain her senses, Maria Orsic told her mother that she saw tall beings of lights not from this world who came to her and said that they will be back once she starts to feel better.   During her state of trance, two tall beings talked to her in a language she could not understand. Her mother thought that Maria was deeply affected by what had happened to her, and made no remarks. But Maria Orsic was absolutely convinced that something extraordinary has entered her life.

Now that is a sword,” Freddy said in awe as he went to look at an impressive saber hanging from the hat rack near the door. “Stay away from it,” she cautioned. “I’m sure it’s sharper than yours.” As usual, Freddy ignored her. “Just think what I could do with this,” he said as he lifted it off its hook. “So far I haven’t seen you do anything with a sword, my boy,” Oliver remarked dryly. “Though I shudder to think what your cousin would attempt.” Maria glared at Oliver, which only made him laugh. Meanwhile, Freddy unsheathed the saber with a flourish. “Curse it, Freddy, put it back,” Maria ordered. “What a fine piece of steel.” Freddy swished it through the air. “Even the one Uncle Adam gave me isn’t near so impressive.” Maria appealed to Oliver. “Do something, for pity’s sake. Make him stop.” “And get myself skewered for the effort? No, thank you. Let the pup have his fun.” Freddy cast him a belligerent glance. “You wouldn’t call me a pup if I came at you with this.” “No, I’d call you insane,” Oliver drawled. “But you’re welcome to try and see what happens.” Don’t encourage him,” Maria told Oliver. The door opened suddenly, and Freddy whirled with the sword in hand, knocking a lamp off the desk. As the glass chimney shattered, spilling oil in a wide arc, the wick lit the lot, and fire sprang to life. Maria jumped back with a cry of alarm while Oliver leaped out of his chair to stamp it out, first with his boots and then with his coat. A string of curses filled the air, most of them Oliver’s, though Freddy got in a few choice ones as the fire licked at his favorite trousers. When at last Oliver put the flames out and nothing was left but a charred circle on the wood floor, dotted with shards of glass, the three of them turned to the door to find a dark-haired man observing the scene with an expression that gave nothing away. “If you hoped to catch my attention,” he remarked, “you’ve succeeded.” “Mr. Pinter, I presume?” Oliver said, tossing his now ruined coat and singed gloves into a nearby rubbish pail. “I hope you’ll forgive us for the dramatic intrusion. I’m Stonevi-“ “I know who you are, my lord,” he interrupted. “It’s what you’re doing here setting fire to my office that I’m not certain of.

Five minutes later, Mom followed it up with this: From: Bernadette Fox To: Manjula Kapoor I need a sign made. 8 feet wide by 5 feet high. Here’s what I want it to read: PRIVATE PROPERTY NO TRESPASSING Galer Street Gnats Will Be Arrested and Hauled Off to Gnat Jail Make the sign itself the loudest, ugliest red, and the lettering the loudest, ugliest yellow. I’d like it placed on the western edge of my property line, at the bottom of the hill, which will be accessible once we’ve abated the despised blackberries. Make sure the sign is facing toward the neighbor’s yard. * TUESDAY, DECEMBER 7 From: Manjula Kapoor To: Bernadette Fox I am confirming that the sign you would like fabricated is eight feet wide by five feet high. The gentleman I have contracted remarked it is unusually large and seems out of proportion for a residential area. Warm regards, Manjula * From: Bernadette Fox To: Manjula Kapoor You bet your bindi that’s how big I want it.

Suddenly he spotted Gran deep in conversation with Kitty’s closest friend, and relief coursed through him. Gran would squelch the tale at once. And once she tried to quash the gossip, he would win-because he could then threaten to send notice to the papers of his betrothal if she didn’t back down. She’d have no choice but to give up on her scheme. Except…she wasn’t acting as if she meant to squelch it. She was talking to the other woman with great animation. And when she met his gaze from across the room, beaming from ear to ear, he realized in a flash that he’d misunderstood everything. Everything. She hadn’t been bluffing him. All the rot about trying to buy Maria off, the disapproving looks and snide remarks…all along, Gran had been goading him toward what she wanted. God preserve him. With a sickening sense of inevitability, he saw her go to the duchess’s side and whisper a few words, then saw the duchess rise and tap her glass to indicate she had an announcement to make. With a triumphant smile, Gran announced the engagement of her grandson, the Marquess of Stoneville, to Miss Maria Butterfield of Dartmouth, Massachusetts. All eyes turned to him, and the whispers began anew. He couldn’t believe it. How could he have been so blind? He’d lost the battle, maybe even the war.

It’s no wonder your grandmother despairs of you. God only knows what a trial you are to your poor parents.” The humor vanished abruptly from his face. “Sadly, my parents are too dead to be overly concerned about my behavior.” His words were flip, but the sudden glint of grief in his eyes told another tale. “Please forgive me,” she said hastily, cursing her quick tongue. “It’s awful to lose your parents. I know that better than anyone.” “No need for apologies.” He pushed away from the door. “They despaired of me long before they died, so you weren’t far off the mark.” “Still, it was very wrong of me to-“ “Come now, Miss Butterfield, this has naught to do with my proposal. Will you pretend to be my fiancée or not?” When she hesitated, he went on with a hint of anger, “I don’t see why you make such a fuss over it. It’s not as if I’m asking you to do anything wicked.” That ridiculous remark banished her brief moment of sympathy. “You’re asking me to lie! To deceive a woman for the sake of your purpose, whatever that is. It goes against every moral principle-“ “And threatening to stab a man does not?” He cast her a thin smile. “Think of it as playing a role, like an actress. You and your cousin will be guests at my estate for a week or two, entirely at your leisure.” A dark gleam shone in his eyes. “I can even set up an effigy of myself for you to stab at will.” “That does sound tempting,” she shot back. “As for Freddy there, he can ride and hunt and play cards with my brothers. It’s better entertainment than he’d find in the gaol.” “As long as you feed me, sir,” Freddy said, “I’ll follow you anywhere.” “Freddy!” Maria cried. “What? That blasted inn where we’re staying is flea-ridden and cold as a witch’s tit. Plus, you keep such tight hold on my purse strings that I’m famished all the time. What’s wrong with helping this fellow if it means we finally sleep in decent beds? And it’s not a big thing, your pretending to be betrothed to him.” “I’m already betrothed, thank you very much,” she shot back. “And what about Nathan? While we’re off deceiving this man’s poor grandmother, Nathan might be hurt or in trouble. You expect me just to give up searching for him so you can get a decent meal?” “And keep from being hanged,” Freddy pointed out. “Let’s not forget that.” “Ah, the missing fiancé,” Lord Stoneville said coldly. “I did wonder when you would bring him back into it.” She glowered at him. “I never let him out of it. he’s the reason I’m here.” “So you say.” That inflamed her temper. “Now see here, you insufferable, arrogant-“ “Fine. If you insist on clinging to your wild story, how about this: while you pretend to be my fiancée, I’ll hire someone to look for fiancé. A simple trade of services.

Good God, Miss Butterfield,” Lord Jarret said. “Don’t tell me you read Minerva’s Gothic horrors.” “They’re not Gothic horrors!” Maria protested. “They’re wonderful books! And yes, I’ve read every single one, more than once.” “Well, that explains a few things,” Oliver remarked. “I suppose I have my sister to thank for turning a sword on me at the brothel.” Lord Gabriel laughed. “You took a sword to old Oliver? Oh, God, that’s rich!” Lord Jarret sipped some wine. “At least the mystery of the ‘weapons at her disposal’ is now solved.” “He was misbehaving,” Maria said, with a warning glance for Oliver. Did he want them to know everything, for pity’s sake? “He left me no choice.” “Oh, Maria’s always doing things like that,” Freddy said through a mouth full of eel. “That’s why we won’t teach her to shoot. She always goes off half-cocked.” Maria thrust out her chin. “A woman has to stand up for herself.” “Hear, hear!” Lady Celia raised her goblet of wine to Maria. “Don’t mind these clod-pates. What can you expect from a group of men? They would prefer we let them run roughshod over us.” “No, we wouldn’t,” Lord Gabriel protested. “I like a woman with a little fire. Of course, I can’t speak for Oliver-“ “I assure you, I rarely feel the need to run roughshod over a woman,” Oliver drawled. An arch smile touched his lips as his gaze locked with Maria’s. “I’ve kissed one or two when they weren’t prepared for it, but every man does that.” Lady Minerva snorted. “Yes, and most of them get slapped, but not you, I expect. Even when you misbehave, you have a talent for turning ladies up sweet. How else would you go from having a sword thrust at you to gaining Miss Butterfield’s consent to be your bride-eh, Miss Butterfield?” Maria didn’t answer. Something was nagging at the back of her brain-a vaguely familiar line from one of Lady Minerva’s books: “He had a talent for turning ladies up sweet, which both thrilled and alarmed her.” “Heavens alive.” She stared at Oliver. “You’re the Marquess of Rockton!” She hardly realized she’d said it aloud until his brothers and sisters laughed. A pained look crossed Oliver’s face. “Don’t remind me.” Sparing a glare for his sister, Oliver muttered, “You have no idea how my friends revel in the fact that my sister made me a villain in her novel.” “They only revel because she made them into heroes,” Lord Jarret pointed out, eyes twinkling. “Foxmoor got quite a big head over it, and Kirkwood’s been strutting around ever since the last one came out. He loved that he got to trounce you.” “That’s because he knows he couldn’t trounce me in real life,” Oliver remarked. “Though he keeps suggesting we should have a ‘rapier duel’ to prove whether he could.” Maria stared at them agape. “Do you mean that the Viscount Churchgrove is real? And Foxmoor…great heavens, that’s Wolfplain!” “Yes.” Oliver rolled his eyes. “Churchgrove is my friend, the Viscount Kirkwood, and Wolfplain is another friend, the Duke of Foxmoor. Apparently Minerva has trouble coming up with original characters.” “You know perfectly well that I only used a version of their names,” Lady Minerva said smoothly. “The characters are my own.” “Except for you, Oliver,” Lord Jarret remarked. “You’re clearly Rockton.

After this study of the methods in use throughout Europe I concluded my experiments upon the deficients of Rome, and taught them throughout two years. I followed Séguin's book, and also derived much help from the remarkable experiments of Itard. Guided by the work of these two men, I had manufactured a great variety of didactic material. These materials, which I have never seen complete in any institution, became in the hands of those who knew how to apply them, a most remarkable and efficient means, but unless rightly presented, they failed to attract the attention of the deficients.

Religion,” Voltaire is said to have remarked, “began when the first scoundrel met the first fool.

For the child with such exercises makes, to a certain extent, a selection of his own tendencies, which were at first confused in the unconscious disorder of his movements. It is remarkable how clearly individual differences show themselves, if we proceed in this way; the child, conscious and free, reveals himself.

While early, frequent, and meaningful exposure to science is valuable for the learning of all students, it is especially critical for the promotion of students of color, since cultivated passion can serve as a steady, driving force that counteracts the discouraging experiences—such as exclusion from study groups, condescending remarks from faculty or peers, or isolation and lack of encouragement—they will be more likely to encounter along their academic and career paths.

As Solomon Asch, one of the great psychologists of the twentieth century, once wrote, “We look at a person and immediately a certain impression of his character forms itself in us. A glance, a few spoken words are sufficient to tell us a story about a highly complex matter. We know that such impressions form with remarkable rapidity and with great ease. Subsequent observations may enrich or upset our view, but we can no more prevent its rapid growth than we can avoid perceiving a given visual object or hearing a melody.

Philosophically, it’s a powerful way of viewing life. (“Poker is exactly like life, but with instant karma,” Chewy remarks.)

The thought may seem remarkable, but perhaps not so much so as it would at first. First of all, there was never anything unusual about the Baron's sex life, even if it may tickle one's curiosity when presented in so balanced a fashion, and there is certainly nothing unique about the case. On the contrary, I would like to intimate that I have never, especially in artistic circles, met an individual who could be called psychically monosexual through and through. Our manliness-with all due respect-does not preclude a certain amount of femininity, thank God; it would be a great pity if it were otherwise. This 'second phase', then, which is so prevalent in the Baron's psychosexual makeup, this balanced perception of the feminine side of his nature, only seems special when studied in a superficial way. It should rather be seen as something entirely natural and normal. For if within an utterly male body with clearly defined male sexual feelings a soul is contained - I use the word in an abstract sense in order to get my point across more easily and directly - a soul, I say, which is animated by feminine feelings, generally speaking these feelings won't be strong enough to vanquish the natural restraints that stand in the way of an outspoken male-male bonding. The instinct remains focused on the female, and even when it finds itself in a feminine position vis-a-vis the soul, the apparent ambivalent result is only seeming. The masculine yearning for the female body basically remains, even when it finds itself flooded by feminine feelings, and the ostensible homosexuality is merely a mask. I do not consider Baron von Friedel's case to be anything more than an exceptionally clear-cut textbook case describing a phenomenon I have, for my part, seen often enough, if hardly ever in such pronounced form. "The Death Of Baron Jesus Maria Von Friedel

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke once remarked that in your darkest moments you shouldn’t blame your life. Instead, you should blame yourself for not being able to see the poetry.

Critical thinking without hope is cynicism, but hope without critical thinking is naïvete,” the Bulgarian writer Maria Popova recently remarked.

It happened that I was observed reading the paper, and when the nature of it was discovered, I was condemned to do penance for my offence. Great dislike to the Bible was shown by those who conversed with me about it, and several have remarked to me, at different times, that if it were not for that book, Catholics would never be led to renounce their own faith.

As an investigative journalist I am working most of the day with three computer screens in front me while musical vibrations are hitting my mid-brain by means of the headphone I am wearing. Recently I am started to see strange black, transparent smudges crossing my screens… from the corners of my eyes. From now on I will call these remarkable moments; "The Tandy-phenomena

Perfection is not the ultimate requirement in order someone to have a remarkable career and to deserve to have one, not only in music but everywhere.