Mole Best Quotes

What's your best discovery?" asked the mole. "That I'm enough as I am," said the boy.

The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spellbound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of space.

What's your best discovery?' asked the mole. 'That I'm enough as I am.' said the boy

The best sort of revenge is not to be like him who did the injury.” — Marcus Antonius

What kind of party?” “The good kind.” “Yeah, right.” Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light is too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of space. The worst thing is the stupid hopefulness. Every new party, every new bunch of people, and I start thinking that maybe this is my chance. That I’m going to be normal this time. A new leaf. A fresh start. But then I find myself at the party, thinking, Oh, yeah. This again. So I stand at the edge of things, crossing my fingers, praying nobody will try to look me in the eye. And the good thing is, they usually don’t.

Well they have to have something to wean Caluntians off Venusian moles. Seems humans are the best therapy, to consume that is. They say we are a bit gamey though. An acquired taste, one we hope not many acquire.

The Mole was a good listener, and Toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go. Indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-I-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of ten-minutes-afterwards. Those are always the best and the raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off?

Greta knows that for me there are no good parties. I’m okay with one or two people, but more than that and I turn into a naked mole rat. That’s what being shy feels like. Like my skin is too thin, the light too bright. Like the best place I could possibly be is in a tunnel far under the cool, dark earth. Someone asks me a question and I stare at them, empty-faced, my brain jammed up with how hard I’m trying to find something interesting to say. And in the end, all I can do is nod or shrug, because the light of their eyes looking at me, waiting for me, is just too much to take. And then it’s over and there’s one more person in the world who thinks I’m a complete and total waste of time.

He thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river. Never in his life had he seen a river before—this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again. All was a-shake and a-shiver—glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.

The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. Stacks of books stood neatly arranged on every horizontal surface—tables, windowsills, even the top of an unplugged television. Since Sophie had been forbidden to explore the library at home, her only real experience with books had come at school and from the few children's books that lay on the bottom shelf of a cabinet in the nursery. She sensed immediately that this was something altogether different. It was a library, yes, but she knew these books had been read. They weren't arranged in long lines of matching bindings like the ones in Bayfield House, and almost every volume had slips of paper protruding from the top. she wondered if Uncle Bertram had marked all the best bits. "Shall we have a story?" said her uncle, when he had hung up their coats. "Yes, please," said Sophie. "What would you like?" he asked. "You pick." And so he did. They settled onto the couch, Bertram with a cup of tea and Sophie with a mug of cocoa. He began to read and Sophie's world was transformed—this was not like the insubstantial children's stories her mother read to her at bedtime. This was ever so much more. "The Wind in the Willows," read Uncle Bertram. "Chapter One, The River Bank. The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home." Sophie closed her eyes and fell into the story.

The Finns revel in hardship. They are at their best when circumstances are at their worst.

Will you stand up for us? Will you be our best man? I smile back. Sure. Absolutely. I say it with great gusto even though I know it will be an extremely tough act to pull off. Practically impossible. It's hard for anybody to be the so-called best man when John Ceepak is already standing there. But I'll give it a shot.

We are not individually much cleverer than the average animal, a heron or a mole, but the knack of our species lies in our capacity to transmit our accumulated knowledge down the generations. The slowest among us can, in a few hours, pick up ideas that it took a few rare geniuses a lifetime to acquire. Yet what is distinctive is just how selective we are about the topics we deem it possible to educate ourselves in. Our energies are overwhelmingly directed towards material, scientific and technical subjects – and away from psychological and emotional ones. Much anxiety surrounds the question of how good the next generation will be at maths; very little around their abilities at marriage or kindness. We devote inordinate hours to learning about tectonic plates and cloud formations, and relatively few fathoming shame and rage. The assumption is that emotional insight might be either unnecessary or in essence unteachable, lying beyond reason or method, an unreproducible phenomenon best abandoned to individual instinct and intuition. We are left to find our own path around our unfeasibly complicated minds – a move as striking (and as wise) as suggesting that each generation should rediscover the laws of physics by themselves.

AN INCOMPLETE PORTRAIT OF OUR LOVE written by: Zaki Ansari An incomplete portrait of our love Relic of our relationship like a poor injured dove An incomplete portrait of our love framed with some shabby moments Hanging on my heart’s wall. Thirsty for some colors of love Which are missing at all I have painted, the shadow of your smile. I have added Some color of your hair, I drew some marks of your lips I spread shine of your eyes Tried to fill with some of our memories And with some of our dreams I Gave a touch of your laughter, and made the shape of your dimple. Decorated with the beautiful mole mole the same as you have on pretty face but many things are mismade yet, it is dark, it is fade Missing a complete part which has been made That’s You, your love, your presence And all those beautiful colors which you took with you when you left How do I complete without you? even I have lost myself without you, Yes I’m breathing, yes I’m living But that’s not life which spent without you. you are required, Your touch is needed to make complete An incomplete portrait of our love Relic of our relationship, like a poor injured dove thirsty for some colors of love Which are missing at all Maybe there is no chance to make it whole Complete or incomplete, happiness or sorrow tears or laughter, the wounds on the soul Whatever, but it’s a masterpiece of my life, that’s all into the bitter ocean of life only sweetest thing, I have known, Even it’s incomplete but it’s my own An incomplete portrait of our love Relic of our relationship like a poor injured dove

Anna periodically whipped the curtain back to reveal the results and deliver her verdict. Electric-blue lace mini: ‘Inside Soap Awards, winner of “Best Bitch”.’ Cabbage-rose floral with lavender sash: ‘An Alice band away from The 40-Year-Old Virgin.’ Sugar-mouse pink tulip skirt, with silver embellishment: ‘I have Sylvanian Families on my windowsill and kiss the McDigger Mole family good night individually.

Within minutes, the other angels followed the sound of the collapsed tunnel and found Mikael’s location. They were able to dislodge enough of the rock and pull his broken body from the rubble. He had been severely crushed. Gabriel held him. “I can bring him back to the surface to heal.” Raphael said, “That leaves five. We can split up and try to surround the mole. He can’t hide here forever.” They heard the sound of a howl. “Dire wolves,” said Uriel. “We can’t chase him here forever.” Dire wolves were vicious, fanged black hounds of hell almost as tall as a man. Raphael said, “He must have bred them down here. There could be dozens.” “Or hundreds,” said Uriel. The angels could kill dozens of the wolves. But hundreds was another matter altogether. Several of them had almost been overwhelmed by a hundred dire wolves in the days of the giant King Arba, while rescuing Abraham and Sarah from the clutches of the Anakim in Kiriath-arba. They were rescued by a hundred archers. But they didn’t have a hundred archers down in this dungeon of dread darkness. “Take Mikael to safety,” said Uriel. “The rest of you draw the wolves back up to the surface.” They looked at Uriel with fear. Gabriel said, “No, Uriel. We can do this together.” Uriel grasped the leather harness of the special weapon strapped to his back. “I must do this alone.” They all knew what it meant. Uriel had the most sensitive senses. He was the best tracker of all of them. Gabriel protested more, “I will not let you.” “You have no choice.” They heard the sound of wolves getting closer. “And I have no time to quibble with you, Gabriel. Leave — all of you. Draw them after you.” Gabriel teared up. What Uriel was going to do was akin to suicide for humans. Raphael said, “He’s right.” They agreed silently. Gabriel went and grasped his friend in a bear hug that he didn’t seem to want to let go. “My brother.” “Stop your pouting, Gabriel. It’s only until the judgment.” Gabriel pulled away with an angry look in his face. It softened, and he said with a smirk, “You will finally outdo me, little friend.” Uriel gave him a dirty look. Little friend. There was still time to tease. “I outdid you a long time ago,” said Uriel with a grin. Gabriel added, “But there is still Armageddon. You don’t know what I might be capable of.” Uriel said, “Go. We’ll have all eternity to debate that.” They turned to leave. But their delay had lost them time. The underworld dire wolves were upon them. Fifty glowing eyes locked on them, approaching slowly, ready to pounce. There was only enough room to fight against one or two wolves at a time through the narrow passages. Gabriel stood at the back, carrying the broken form of Mikael, who was starting to heal, but not able to fight yet. The other four approached the wolves in single file.

For the farsighted, the folks in the know, life is a deer park, where gentle breezes and fragrant grape leaves keep you company, complete with afternoon foot-soakings, peaceful snoozes, fine hounds and desirable wenches, the hell with all care; a long life, a nice pipe from time to time, mellow dinners: that's the way to spend life, life that digs your grave even now, steadfastly, like the ever-burrowing mole. To want nothing, and ask only for peace and quiet. Hope for nothing besides fair weather on the morrow. Trust no one, believe no one, think no extraordinary thoughts, just live, live, and love; fall asleep, and wake up healthy... Wear comfy slippers and pass the night in a feather bed. Live out a happy and long old age, the best part of life. To get an honest night's sleep, and then a snooze after lunch, let out a few whoops, fight and make up.

She was staring at him, only she wasn’t taking in the view the way he’d done earlier. No, she was looking at him as if he was a polecat at a picnic. He lowered his arms. “How does everything look?” she asked. It was the best record keeping he’d ever seen. And he’d seen plenty. “It’ll do.” Her lips thinned. The little mole beneath them shifted. “Do you have any questions?” “Not as yet.” “How long are you going to sit there?” He leaned back in his chair. “Am I bothering you?” “Yes.” He didn’t try to hide his amusement. “Gloating?” she asked. “No, ma’am.

Former spider boys came from all walks of life—they ranged from homeless street kids and school dropouts to decent kids, but the best ones were those who had gone anywhere and everywhere to search out and capture their fighting spiders; they even ventured into dangerous bushes infested with black mambas. These boys were risk-takers and crowd-pullers, always on the move, always looking for worthy opponents with which to fight their spiders.

A family of moles had been hibernating all winter. One spring morning, they woke up, and the father mole stuck his head out of the hole and looked around at the sunshine and flowers. “Mother Mole!” he called back down the hole. “Come up here! I can smell honey, freshly-made honey!” Mother Mole ran up and squeezed in next to him. “That’s not honey,” she says, “that’s maple syrup! I can smell maple syrup!” The baby mole is still stuck down in the hole, sulking. “I can’t smell anything down here but molasses...

Ghana’s largest wildlife sanctuary, Mole (pronounced Mo-lay) National Park is one of the best places anywhere in West Africa for general game viewing. Serviced by the rather rundown but relatively affordable Mole Motel, it is also comparatively easy and affordable to visit, whether on public transport or in a private vehicle, and well worth the effort for the opportunity to see a varied range of savannah wildlife at close quarters, most prolifically in the dry season (October–March). The motel has a memorable setting on a cliff overlooking a pair of waterholes regularly visited by elephant,

I never thought about food like that, but it makes sense. You aren't a different person when you read versus when you eat or do anything else----everything in us does intersect, I guess..." Cecilia's voice drifted away as she thought, and a blush suffused her face. "Put it that way, I see why I eat terribly. I love American teenage food, and it fits with my soft spot for eighties teen movies. You know, Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink... I even dress like that when I feel sad. Austen's much more intellectual." "That's Jane. If it makes you feel better, I read only cookbooks, and they really shouldn't count as real books." I thought for a moment. "But I never forget a food reference." "Never?" I shrugged. "It's a gift." "Sixteen Candles?" "The cake, of course. Oh, but there's that quiche dinner too. See? Sixteen Candles and Dickens---all about breakfast." "Under the Tuscan Sun?" "Never read it, but I'm assuming a ton of Italian?" "That was obvious." Cecilia smiled. "What's your favorite food reference?" "I've got two. I think the best opening line in literature is Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence. 'The year began with lunch.' All books and all years should begin that way." "And the other?" "Coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscressandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater-----" "That's too much!" She laughed. "That's exactly what Mole said. But Rat said, 'It's only what I always take on these little excursions, and the other animals are always telling me that I'm a mean beast and cut it VERY fine!'" I grinned. "I love that line." "What's that even from?" "The Wind in the Willows. It's the best picnic ever.

At least each course was better than the last. The ingredients were fresh, everything was made from scratch, and she had also planned the perfect wine pairing. He had never had mole with fish, as it was usually served with chicken. And for the first time in his life, he actually enjoyed eating cactus, a feat that even some of the best chefs in the world who had cooked for him hadn't managed to accomplish.

As for myself, I cannot forget the hedgehog’s last farewell, coupled with Quixote’s hint about the animals and Milton’s subterranean dream. It is little more than a theory, but perhaps the inhabitants of Bodmin will look at their tumulus, and, if it is like an enormous mole-hill with a dark opening in its side, particularly if there are some badger tracks in the vicinity, we can draw our own conclusions. For I am inclined to believe that my beloved Arthur of the future is sitting at this very moment among his learned friends, in the Combination Room of the College of Life, and that they are thinking away in there for all they are worth, about the best means to help our curious species:

He rolled off the bed and unzipped his overstuffed duffel bag. Clothes erupted from it with such force that a pair of boxer shorts sailed across the room and nailed Warren in the face. Warren screamed in horror, stumbled backward over his own suitcase, and collapsed on the floor. “It’s not really supposed to be a vacation,” I warned them. “Erica says our lives could be at risk.” Chip laughed and shrugged this off. “Erica always thinks her life is at risk. Remember last year when she got all worked up about us having a mole in the school?” “Um . . . there was a mole,” I reminded him. “And our lives really were in danger. I almost got killed. Twice.” “Oh, yeah,” Chip recalled. “That’s right. Hey, I wonder if anyone will try to kill us this time.” “I hope so!” Jawa said excitedly. “That’d be amazing!” “Assuming they’re unsuccessful,” Warren pointed out. Chip pegged him in the face with another pair of boxers. “Well, duh. No one wants a successful attempt made on their life, you nitwit.” “What if it happened on the slopes?” Jawa asked, his excitement ratcheting up a few notches. “And we got to have an honest-to-goodness ski chase? How fantastic would that be?” “It’d be the best,” Chip agreed. “Warren, stop playing with my underwear, you pervert.” He snatched the boxers Warren had just removed from his head and tossed them into a drawer, along with a handful of random socks and gloves.