Mouse That Roared Quotes

Who am I? the monster repeated, still roaring. I am the spine that the mountains hang upon! I am the tears that the rivers cry! I am the lungs that breathe the wind! I am the wolf that kills the stag, the hawk that kills the mouse, the spider that kills the fly! I am the stag, the mouse and the fly that are eaten! I am the snake of the world devouring its tail! I am everything untamed and untameable! It brought Conor up close to its eye. I am thils wild earth, come for you, Conor O'Malley. "You look like a tree," Conor said.

Want your boat, Georgie?' Pennywise asked. 'I only repeat myself because you really do not seem that eager.' He held it up, smiling. He was wearing a baggy silk suit with great big orange buttons. A bright tie, electric-blue, flopped down his front, and on his hands were big white gloves, like the kind Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck always wore. Yes, sure,' George said, looking into the stormdrain. And a balloon? I’ve got red and green and yellow and blue...' Do they float?' Float?' The clown’s grin widened. 'Oh yes, indeed they do. They float! And there’s cotton candy...' George reached. The clown seized his arm. And George saw the clown’s face change. What he saw then was terrible enough to make his worst imaginings of the thing in the cellar look like sweet dreams; what he saw destroyed his sanity in one clawing stroke. They float,' the thing in the drain crooned in a clotted, chuckling voice. It held George’s arm in its thick and wormy grip, it pulled George toward that terrible darkness where the water rushed and roared and bellowed as it bore its cargo of storm debris toward the sea. George craned his neck away from that final blackness and began to scream into the rain, to scream mindlessly into the white autumn sky which curved above Derry on that day in the fall of 1957. His screams were shrill and piercing, and all up and down Witcham Street people came to their windows or bolted out onto their porches. They float,' it growled, 'they float, Georgie, and when you’re down here with me, you’ll float, too–' George's shoulder socked against the cement of the curb and Dave Gardener, who had stayed home from his job at The Shoeboat that day because of the flood, saw only a small boy in a yellow rain-slicker, a small boy who was screaming and writhing in the gutter with muddy water surfing over his face and making his screams sound bubbly. Everything down here floats,' that chuckling, rotten voice whispered, and suddenly there was a ripping noise and a flaring sheet of agony, and George Denbrough knew no more. Dave Gardener was the first to get there, and although he arrived only forty-five seconds after the first scream, George Denbrough was already dead. Gardener grabbed him by the back of the slicker, pulled him into the street...and began to scream himself as George's body turned over in his hands. The left side of George’s slicker was now bright red. Blood flowed into the stormdrain from the tattered hole where his left arm had been. A knob of bone, horribly bright, peeked through the torn cloth. The boy’s eyes stared up into the white sky, and as Dave staggered away toward the others already running pell-mell down the street, they began to fill with rain.

The crime which is done now is that war has made a tool and slave of science, and man's knowledge, painfully and laboriously compiled, is made the instrument of man's destruction.

I am impelled, not to squeak like a grateful and apologetic mouse, but to roar like a lion out of pride in my profession.

(F)or it was the belief of the duchy that no nation can be governed well unless there is a majority which can impose its will upon a minority. A complete balance of pros and antis could produce nothing but deadlock.

Why have your followers all drawn their swords, may I ask?" said Aslan. "May it please Your High Majesty," said the second Mouse, whose name was Peepiceek, "we are all waiting to cut off our own tails if our Chief must go without his. We will not bear the shame of wearing an honor which is denied to the High Mouse." "Ah!" roared Aslan. "You have conquered me. You have great hearts. Not for the sake of your dignity, Reepicheep, but for the love that is between you and your people, and still more for the kindness your people showed me long ago when you ate away the cords that bound me on the Stone Table (and it was then, though you have long forgotten it, that you began to be Talking Mice), you shall have your tail again.

Yea” might be turned into “Nay” and vice versa if a sufficient quantity of wordage was applied to the matter. The second was that in any argument, the victor is always right, and the third that though the pen is mightier than the sword, the sword speaks louder and stronger at any given moment. - Roger Fenwick, Duke of Grand Fenwick

Channel Firing That night your great guns, unawares, Shook all our coffins as we lay, And broke the chancel window-squares, We thought it was the Judgment-day And sat upright. While drearisome Arose the howl of wakened hounds: The mouse let fall the altar-crumb, The worms drew back into the mounds, The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, “No; It’s gunnery practice out at sea Just as before you went below; The world is as it used to be: “All nations striving strong to make Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters They do no more for Christés sake Than you who are helpless in such matters. “That this is not the judgment-hour For some of them’s a blessed thing, For if it were they’d have to scour Hell’s floor for so much threatening . . . “Ha, ha. It will be warmer when I blow the trumpet (if indeed I ever do; for you are men, And rest eternal sorely need).” So down we lay again. “I wonder, Will the world ever saner be,” Said one, “than when He sent us under In our indifferent century!” And many a skeleton shook his head. “Instead of preaching forty year,” My neighbour Parson Thirdly said, “I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.” Again the guns disturbed the hour, Roaring their readiness to avenge, As far inland as Stourton Tower, And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.

Who am I? the monster repeated, still roaring. I am the spine that the mountains hang upon! I am the tears that the rivers cry! I am the lungs that breathe the wind! I am the wolf that kills the stag, the hawk that kills the mouse, the spider that kills the fly! I am the stag, the mouse and the fly that are eaten! I am the snake of the world devouring its tail! I am everything untamed and untameable!

You know, I still feel in my wrists certain echoes of the pram-pusher’s knack, such as, for example, the glib downward pressure one applied to the handle in order to have the carriage tip up and climb the curb. First came an elaborate mouse-gray vehicle of Belgian make, with fat autoid tires and luxurious springs, so large that it could not enter our puny elevator. It rolled on sidewalks in a slow stately mystery, with the trapped baby inside lying supine, well covered with down, silk and fur; only his eyes moved, warily, and sometimes they turned upward with one swift sweep of their showy lashes to follow the receding of branch-patterned blueness that flowed away from the edge of the half-cocked hood of the carriage, and presently he would dart a suspicious glance at my face to see if the teasing trees and sky did not belong, perhaps to the same order of things as did rattles and parental humor. There followed a lighter carriage, and in this, as he spun along, he would tend to rise, straining at his straps; clutching at the edges; standing there less like the groggy passenger of a pleasure boat than like an entranced scientist in a spaceship; surveying the speckled skeins of a live, warm world; eyeing with philosophic interest the pillow he had managed to throw overboard; falling out himself when a strap burst one day. Still later he rode in one of those small contraptions called strollers; from initial springy and secure heights the child came lower and lower, until, when he was about one and a half, he touched ground in front of the moving stroller by slipping forward out of his seat and beating the sidewalk with his heels in anticipation of being set loose in some public garden. A new wave of evolution started to swell, gradually lifting him again from the ground, when, for his second birthday, he received a four-foot-long, silver-painted Mercedes racing car operated by inside pedals, like an organ, and in this he used to drive with a pumping, clanking noise up and down the sidewalk of the Kurfurstendamm while from open windows came the multiplied roar of a dictator still pounding his chest in the Neander valley we had left far behind.

How many notes have you made on this book?” The Mouse chanced a tentative light through the hangar. “Not a tenth as many as I need. Even though it's doomed as an obsolete museum relique, it will be jewelled—” he swung back on the nets— “crafted—” the links roared; his voice rose— “a meticulous work; perfect!” “I was born,” the Mouse said. “I must die. I am suffering. Help me. There, I just wrote your book for you.” Katin looked at his big, weak fingers against the mail. After a while he said, “Mouse, sometimes you make me want to cry.

Once I’m marked as the Hunter’s daughter, what man will ever love me? I won’t dare have children for fear they might turn out like him. No one will ever want me—ever!” “That’s not true!” Bud yelled. “I want you! I’ve always wanted you.” Holly choked, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Her pulse was roaring in her ears. Had she really heard that, or was it just her imagination? Bud groaned. Now he’d done it, but by God, he wasn’t taking any of it back. When she didn’t answer, he knew she was shocked. “Are you going to cry all night?” “No,” Holly said, then winced. She sounded like a damn mouse, squeaking in the dark. “Good. So keep your sweet ass in one piece and come home as soon as you can. Do you hear me?” “Yes.” “Good. Talk to you later.” Holly shivered. “Later.” The dial tone was suddenly buzzing in her ear. She dropped her phone and then covered her mouth with both hands, muffling her words. “Oh, my God, oh, my God, he did not just say that.” She bolted out of bed, dashed into the bathroom and flipped on the light. What she saw in the mirror made her wince. She looked like hell, with her hair all over the place, her eyes red and puffy, and her lips all swollen. “Bud Tate loves me,” she whispered. It was her best dream come true.

He murmured, "So the mouse can roar." "I am not a mouse," she managed to say.

You know, there’s something about women and money,” said the other. “They just don’t understand each other at all. Women think that money is what they want it to be and not what it is.” “Women think that everything is what they want it to be and not what it is,” said the other. “And God bless them for it,” he added fervently. “It’s made a saint out of many a sinner.

Something very close to a groan went up from the various members of the Cabinet. They felt themselves trapped. They were getting into an area which some felt was very close to magic and they felt incompetent to deal with the intangibles with which they were surrounded.

God has always had us in his special care,” mused the Count, viewing the pleasant landscape about from his window. “We have lived with the esteem of the world, with no ambitions upon the territories of our neighbors, with respect for the rights of others, supporting ourselves by our labor and by the fruits of the soil. We are enemies of none and bear ill will toward none.” His eye strayed to where the white and winding road disappeared into the Gap of Pinot toward the border and he added, “Except, of course, the damnable French.

No portion of a nation, which in all its long history had been dedicated to individualism, to the proposition that there should be the least amount of law to govern the greatest number of people, would submit to being arbitrarily and indefinitely shut up in houses and in cellars, in subways and in shelters, forbidden the comforts of radios, of television, of refrigerators and iced drinks, of cups of coffee, and of slugs of whisky or glasses of beer. Risk of death after a while became preferable to this, which was, for such a people, a form of living death.

The plain fact of the matter was that there were too few officials to control the crowds. And the crowds, individually and collectively, would prefer to meet their fate in the open than be kept penned up in safety.

Mental effort of any kind made Sir Roger sad, for he believed himself so constituted that, called upon to use his mind, evil humors collected in his liver. On the other hand, physical exercise cleared his liver but prevented anything from settling in his mind to its detriment.

But touching the matter of the Count of Chaux de Fonds, let it be borne in mind that the blows given in a tournament should be delivered with Christian charity and a desire to serve God.” “Whoever puts a dent in a Frenchman’s skull serves God most handsomely,” said the Duke.

Lizzy hated mice with a passion. A spider, she could handle. A snake, she could kill with a hoe or a pistol. But a damn mouse was only slightly smaller than a full-grown gorilla and it roared like a lion.

I do not seek to belittle these cannon of the French. Yet the French have a greater weapon than their cannon in your fears of it. Unless you can cast them out, you are lost before a shot is fired or an arrow fitted to a string. And,” he thundered, “you deserve to be lost. For the world is not a place for timid men, nor is liberty a birthright of those who fear to fight and speak for it come what may. Nor was this dukedom founded by men who hung back from the assault. If we lose Grand Fenwick now, let us admit that we lost it through fear and not through gunshot and let us admit that we deserve to lose it, for it is no place to be held by cowards. And let us admit that we were not men enough to hand this land of ours on to our sons.

If a small green caterpillar drops from a tree on the sleeve of an Irishman he will two days later assure you that he was attacked by a dragon of four heads, one blue, one red, one black and one invisible, that the dragon was a furlong in length and that he escaped from it only after a battle in which he was left with but a pint of blood in his veins.” “They are an engaging race, without a doubt,” said Abbot Almin. “Yes,” said Sir Roger, “but as I say, they don’t know the real from the fanciful. That is why it is so important for us to rule their country. You can’t have a collection of poets, mystics and outright liars running an island next door to your own nation. Much too dangerous and disorderly.

The Abbot shrugged. “Perhaps because it would have been thought un-English of the English to use them first,” he said. “Or perhaps because they were new, for in England, as Your Grace knows, it is a mark of unholiness to try anything which is new. That is always left to others.

Honesty is the best policy’ is a text you have copied out so many times in your youth that it has quite ruined your mind.

The nearest airport is at Besançon on French territory. He will have to come the rest of the way, perhaps one hundred and twenty kilometers, by car. When the speedometer shows one hundred and sixteen kilometers the chauffeur should watch for a side road marked by a grove of beech trees. He should turn left there, otherwise he will miss Grand Fenwick altogether. There was a sign but it has been destroyed. The French, you know.

The word had gone around that Americans were big oil users and therefore were wicked. Sometimes it wasn’t just oil that the Americans were accused of using in Gargantuan quantities. It was energy. They used, it was said, with pious scorn, more energy than any other people on earth and the fact that they did more with the energy they used than any other people on earth was quite beside the point. Americans had become ogres, vampires, destroyers rather than leaders of mankind, and in their humanity they destroyed bluebirds, anchovies, pine trees, grass, grizzly bears, black people, the soul, the oceans of the world, and having left their footprints on the moon were probably intent upon doing the same thing there and through the whole of outer space if they were not stopped.

Just as I stand, muffled shouting arises, and I feel several sets of hands grab my body at once and shove me back down. I fight against their hold, continuing to roar, but my blindness works against me. Straps circle around my wrists and chest, imprisoning me to the hospital bed. But I’m too far gone.

Once there lived a Saint. He used to meditate for long hours, every day, and through his dedication, he had achieved great powers - magical powers. Although the talks of magical powers may seem very unscientific to a software engineer like you, these fictions are required by a psychologist to explain tough subjects. Take it as how we assume a principal amount as 100 in mathematics. Understand without scepticism what the story unfolds to you. When the Saint used to meditate, a mouse used to sit in his lap. The tiny animal wouldn’t disturb him but would accompany him.  Slowly over the period of months, the Saint grew fond of that mouse. It became his companion. One day a cat came when the Saint was meditating. The cat threatened to kill and eat that mouse. Hearing that, the Saint was annoyed, and he used his magical powers to turn the mouse into a bigger cat.  Everything went fine for a while. That bigger cat played around the Saint, and no animal tried to cross its path. But one day, a wild dog came and challenged this cat. The Saint again used his magical powers to convert the Cat into a Dog. Things went well for a while until the Saint heard the roar of a Lion nearby one day. Without wasting a second, the Saint turned his dog to a lion by magic. But this time, as soon as the Dog turned, it attacked the Saint. This Lion was the Ego.

When the Saint used to meditate, a mouse used to sit in his lap. The tiny animal wouldn’t disturb him but would accompany him.  Slowly over the period of months, the Saint grew fond of that mouse. It became his companion. One day a cat came when the Saint was meditating. The cat threatened to kill and eat that mouse. Hearing that, the Saint was annoyed, and he used his magical powers to turn the mouse into a bigger cat.  Everything went fine for a while. That bigger cat played around the Saint, and no animal tried to cross its path. But one day, a wild dog came and challenged this cat. The Saint again used his magical powers to convert the Cat into a Dog. Things went well for a while until the Saint heard the roar of a Lion nearby one day. Without wasting a second, the Saint turned his dog to a lion by magic. But this time, as soon as the Dog turned, it attacked the Saint. This Lion was the Ego.

Man did not discover he had a soul until he was well fed, with prospects of that condition continuing for some time.

This second weekend retreat wasn’t at a lovely mountain meditation center. It was in a day-care center where we hung sheets over the walls in a vain attempt to cover up the ABCs and Mickey Mouse figures. The air was stuffy in spite of the roaring, rattling air conditioners. The rug under our sitting mats was hopelessly stained and faded from years of small children and their accidents. Trucks roared up and down the busy highway outside the building every few minutes. I cringed at the prospect of two days shut up in this place.

I gagged. It was not air. It was cold, it smelled like the hiss of gas in a cellar, it had echoes in it, it rang like metal footsteps, it hissed, cell doors clanged shut, I heard my voice calling to me down long stone corridors, I could not breathe. I knew I must not lose consciousness. I fought. I shook my head, I could not free myself. And now great swirls of colored light advanced toward me, spinning like pinwheels, revolving so fast they seemed to scream. And then the light was splintering and flying toward me, needles of it stinging me, flying past me, yellow and red stings, and now a roaring sound filled my head and began to pulsate. And all this swirling light and roaring screaming noise popped into Donald Duck looming up from a point, and he spoke and clacks came out of his mouth, and then Mickey Mouse loomed up in front of me and made horrible faces, and spoke in clacks or roars, and they were laughing at me and shaking their fists and showing their teeth. And I couldn’t help it, now I was breathing in this terrible gas in a white tiled swimming pool or corridor whose walls moved in toward me and then outwards. I was falling through my Compton’s Picture Encyclopedia article on the sea and these underwater animals were laughing in my ears, but the laughter pulsated like a machine, and I couldn’t stop breathing even though I knew it was the machine breathing. The smell was cold, the hiss grew softer. I felt as if I were under the sea but breathing under the sea somehow this air that was the only thing left to breathe in all this cold floating.

This was the world I belonged to now, this one, where when a living thing died it fed others, where the scents were of mouse drops and sap, not exhaust fumes and cordite, and the air hummed with insects rather than screams and the roar of flame.

It will not be Grand Fenwick that lies but I,” replied Mountjoy, “and I will take the shame—if discovered. It is a poor man indeed who will not lie for his nation.

It was a very English breakfast, bacon, eggs, kidneys and cold toast. Gloriana had wanted the toast hot, but Tully, who was much more traveled than she, said the English always ate cold toast for breakfast and, to ensure that it was cold, put it in a thing called a toast rack where it had maximum exposure to the air and so could lose all its heat before being eaten.

Sebastian stared after Tessa, mouth open, head full of disbelief, the ring still warm in his hand. The little mouse had roared and it was oddly stimulating.

The Mouse On The Bar Room Floor Some Guinness was spilt on the bar room floor When the pub was shut for the night. Out of his hole crept a wee brown mouse And, in the pale moonlight, He lapped up the frothy brew from the floor, Then back on his haunches he sat. And all night long you could hear him roar, ‘Bring on the goddamn cat!’ —An Irish Tall Tale

They saw the lion—its body the size of a cow—drag his grandmother into the thorny trees, then toss her body into the bush like a mouse. It then turned and faced its challengers, let out a terrible roar, and disappeared with its kill. The poor woman’s body was never recovered.

If you waste only one year out of your lifetime, and that to please your father, the wastage is very small,” said Tully.