O (othello) Quotes

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss, Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger: But O, what damnèd minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!

O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!" - Cassio (Act II, Scene iii)

willow trees, willow trees they remind me of Desdemona I'm so damned literary and at the same time the waters rushing past remind me of nothing

Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience To do no contrived murder: I lack iniquity Sometimes to do me service: nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs.

O, gentle lady, do not put me to’t,/ For I am nothing, if not critical.

O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair, and smell'st so sweet,

Haply for I am black, And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have; or for I am declined Into the vale of years—yet that’s not much— She’s gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad And live upon the vapor of a dungeon Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet ’tis the plague of great ones; Prerogatived are they less than the base. ’Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.

I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. OTHELLO: Oh, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born! DESDEMONA: Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO: Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write “whore” upon?

My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.

O, she was foul!— I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath, indeed, these hands have newly stopp'd: I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO Poor Desdemona! I am glad thy father's dead: Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain: did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobance. OTHELLO 'Tis pitiful; but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath

O my fair warrior!

Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites!

O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think,-- tell me, Emilia,-- That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind?

O, now, for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content

O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear!

A mim quer me parecer que o vento está gritando com a terra.

O ill-starred wench! Pale as your smock!

O wretched fool / That lov’st to make thine honesty a vice! / O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world: / To be direct and honest is not safe.

Não é nem mesmo o bem-estar geral do povo que ocupa meus pensamentos, pois minha dor particular é de tal maneira torrencial e de natureza tão oprimente que devora e engole outras tristezas... e, no entanto, continua sendo a mesma dor.

Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i’ the nose thus? FIRST MUSICIAN How, sir, how! CLOWN Are these, I pray you, wind instruments? FIRST MUSICIAN Ay, marry, are they, sir. CLOWN O, thereby hangs a tale. FIRST MUSICIAN Whereby hangs a tale, sir? CLOWN Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know.

And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love: I never gave him token. OTHELLO By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in's hand, O perjured woman! thou dost stone my heart, And makes me call what I intend to do A murder, which I thought a sacrifice: I saw the handkerchief.

The Outsider by Stewart Stafford Pierce the veil of the marital bed, And find the droning mosquito of infidelity there, O how the heart and stomach sink, And the fiery fever of rabid fury rises. Dispel the interloper, Turn him out, Run him through, But she is no longer wife in name or vision. The choice of hers already made, Only possible resentment at the unilateral revocation of it, No, let them lie, Leave them be. Think, do no react, Incandescent Man Their hand and natures now revealed, Now shall we salt away their penance, Karma shall be their judge. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

¿Virtud? ¡Una higa! Ser de tal o cual manera depende de nosotros. Nuestro cuerpo es un jardín y nuestra voluntad, la jardinera. Ya sea plantando ortigas o sembrando lechugas, plantando hisopo y arrancando tomillo, llenándolo de una especie de hierba o de muchas distintas, dejándolo yermo por desidia o cultivándolo con celo, el poder y autoridad para cambiarlo está en la voluntad. Si en la balanza de la vida la razón no equilibrase nuestra sensualidad, el ardor y la bajeza de nuestros instintos nos llevarían a extremos aberrantes. Mas la razón enfría impulsos violentos, apetitos carnales, pasiones sin freno. Por eso, lo que tú llamas amor, a mí no me parece más que un brote o un vástago.

Virtù! Sciocchezze! Sta in potere nostro esser così o cosà! Il nostro corpo è il nostro bel giardino, e la volontà nostra il giardiniere: piantare ortiche o seminar lattuga, metter l’issopo ed estirpare il timo, guarnirlo d’erbe d’una sola specie o variegarlo con specie diverse, mantenerlo infruttuoso per pigrizia o concimarlo per farlo fruttare, la facoltà di fare tutto questo e d’agire nell’uno o l’altro modo sta tutta nella nostra volontà. Se la bilancia della nostra vita non avesse su un piatto la ragione da controbilanciar quello dei sensi, il sangue e la bassezza degli istinti ci trarrebbero inevitabilmente alle più scriteriate conclusioni. Ma per fortuna abbiamo la ragione a raffreddarci le bramose voglie, gli impulsi della carne, le libidini; delle quali ciò che tu chiami amore è soltanto un pollone od un germoglio.

Paradoxically, the feminine soul in our culture subsists on dimes, while millions are spent to dramatize her victimized condition. Imagine what would happen if images of the victimized feminine were banned in our culture. We would lose many of our classical dramas Tamberlaine, Othello, St Joan. Opera houses would not resonate with the anguish of La Iraviata, Lucia di Lammermoor, Madam Butterfly, Anne Boleyn. Theaters would not play Tennessee Williams, Eugene O'Neill, Samuel Beckett. Bookshelves would be depleted without Anna Karenina, The Idiot, the poetry of Robert Browning, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton. The list is endless. The cruelty of the victimization is veiled by the beauty of the art form in which the images are enshrined. Without those diaphanous veils, we have something quite different -Dallas, Dynasty, Miami Vice and ubiquitous examples of advertising where the feminine is raped by male and female alike. At the bottom of this barrel is pornography.

Othello’nun kötülük bilmeyen, çocuk gibi saf bir ruhu vardı; saftı ama, ihanete dayanamıyordu; bağışlayamıyor değil, dayanamıyordu. Gerçek kıskanç ise bambaşkadır; onun nelere katlanıp sineye çekeceği ve bağışlayabileceği güç kestirilir. Herkesten çabuk bağışlayan kıskanç kimseler ve kadınlar iyi bilir bunu... Bir kıskanç (tabii kıyameti kopardıktan sonra) aşağı yukarı kanıtlanmış bir ihaneti —mesela, gözüyle gördüğü kucaklaşma ya da öpüşmeleri— bağışlayabilir, elinden gelir bu. Yeter ki o sırada bu ihanetin “son defa” olduğuna, rakibinin hemen o anda dünyanın öbür ucuna gideceğine ya da kendisinin sevgilisini korkunç rakibin ulaşamayacağı bir yere kaçıracağına inanabilsin. Şüphesiz, barışma bir saatten fazla sürecek değildir, çünkü rakibi gerçekten o anda yok olsa bile ertesi gün yerine yenisini icat eder, sevgilisini ondan kıskanmaya başlar. Oysa sürekli denetleme ve gözetlemeyle hangi aşk yürütülebilir?

Othello’nun kötülük bilmeyen, çocuk gibi saf bir ruhu vardı; saftı ama, ihanete dayanamıyordu; bağışlayamıyor değil, dayanamıyordu. Gerçek kıskanç ise bambaşkadır; onun nelere katlanıp sineye çekeceği ve bağışlayabileceği güç kestirilir. Herkesten çabuk bağışlayan kıskanç kimseler ve kadınlar iyi bilir bunu... Bir kıskanç (tabii kıyameti kopardıktan sonra) aşağı yukarı kanıtlanmış bir ihaneti —mesela, gözüyle gördüğü kucaklaşma ya da öpüşmeleri— bağışlayabilir, elinden gelir bu. Yeter ki o sırada bu ihanetin “son defa” olduğuna, rakibinin hemen o anda dünyanın öbür ucuna gideceğine ya da kendisinin sevgilisini korkunç rakibin ulaşamayacağı bir yere kaçıracağına inanabilsin. Şüphesiz, barışma bir saatten fazla sürecek değildir, çünkü rakibi gerçekten o anda yok olsa bile ertesi gün yerine yenisini icat eder, sevgilisini ondan kıskanmaya başlar. Oysa sürekli denetleme ve gözetlemeyle hangi aşk yürütülebilir?

Othello'nun kötülük bilmeyen, çocuk gibi saf bir ruhu vardı; saftı ama, ihanete dayanamıyordu; bağışlayamıyor değil, dayanamıyordu. Gerçek kıskanç ise bambaşkadır; onun nelere katlanıp sineye çekeceği ve bağışlayabileceği güç kestirilir. Herkesten çabuk bağışlayan kıskanç kimseler ve kadınlar iyi bilir bunu... Bir kıskanç (tabii kıyameti kopardıktan sonra) aşağı yukarı kanıtlanmış bir ihaneti -mesela gözüyle gördüğü kucaklaşma ya da öpüşmeleri- bağışlayabilir, elinden gelir bu. Yeter ki o sırada bu ihanetin "son defa" olduğuna, rakibinin hemen o anda dünyanın öbür ucuna gideceğine ya da kendisinin sevgilisini korkunç rakibin ulaşamayacağı bir yere kaçıracağına inanabilsin. Şüphesiz, barışma bir saatten fazla sürecek değildir, çünkü rakibi gerçekten o anda yok olsa bile ertesi gün yenisini icat eder, sevgilisini ondan kıskanmaya başlar. Oysa sürekli denetleme ve gözetlemeyle hangi aşk yürütülebilir?

The English letter ‘O’ is similar to zero (0) in appearance. Iago’s [I am Ego = ‘I’ ‘a’m e‘go’] name starts with an egoistic ‘I’ and ends with an ‘O’ or zero. His ‘ego’ and envy lead him towards nothingness or zero! On the other hand, Othello’s name both starts and ends with ‘O’. It may be interpreted as- Othello has started his career from a ‘zero’, becomes successful, Iago’s deception makes him jealous or mad and he ultimately becomes a ‘zero’ by killing Desdemona and himself. However, Othello must not be called a ‘murderer’ because Iago has used Othello as a weapon to murder Desdemona and also led Othello towards death!

¿Vueling dispone de servicio de atención al cliente?~{APOYO} El tiempo de respuesta de Vueling+1-855-542-9367 (EE.UU.} o +52-800-953-0167 (MX) varía, pero suele tardar hasta 30 días laborables en contestar reclamaciones. En algunos casos, la respuesta puede llegar en una o dos semanas, mientras que otros experimentan demoras mayores. Para agilizar el proceso, proporciona toda la documentación necesaria al presentar tu reclamación. Puedes consultar el estado en su Centro de Atención al Cliente o llamar a su servicio de atención.

(Brabantio:) A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blushed at herself. And she, in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything, To fall in love with what she feared to look on! It is a judgment maimed and most imperfect That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o’er the blood, Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her.

Cassio: Welcome, Iago. We must to the watch. Iago: Not this hour, lieutenant. ’Tis not yet ten o’ th’ clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona—who let us not therefore blame; he hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove. Cassio: She’s a most exquisite lady. Iago: And, I’ll warrant her, full of game. Cassio: Indeed, she’s a most fresh and delicate creature. Iago: What an eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. Cassio: An inviting eye, and yet methinks right modest. Iago: And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love? Cassio: She is indeed perfection. Iago: Well, happiness to their sheets!

Cassio: Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! Iago: As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound. There is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.

Desdemona: I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise.— Come, how wouldst thou praise me? Iago: I am about it, but indeed my invention comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze: it plucks out brains and all. But my muse labors, and thus she is delivered: If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one’s for use, the other useth it. Desdemona: [...] O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself? Iago: She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, Never lacked gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish, and yet said “Now I may,” She that being angered, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly, She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod’s head for the salmon’s tail, She that could think and ne’er disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind, She was a wight, if ever such wight were— Desdemona: To do what? Iago: To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.

Othello: Why of thy thought, Iago? Iago: I did not think he had been acquainted with her. Othello: O yes, and went between us very oft. Iago: Indeed? Othello: Indeed? Ay, indeed! Discern’st thou aught in that? Is he not honest? Iago: Honest, my lord? Othello: Honest—ay, honest. Iago: My lord, for aught I know. Othello: What dost thou think? Iago: Think, my lord? Othello: “Think, my lord?” By heaven, thou echo’st me As if there were some monster in thy thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something. I heard thee say even now, thou lik’st not that, When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou cried’st “Indeed?” And didst contract and purse thy brow together As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Show me thy thought.

Othello: If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind, To pray at fortune. Haply, for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or for I am declined Into the vale of years,--yet that's not much-- She's gone. I am abused; and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses.

(Iago:) There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs: One of this kind is Cassio: In sleep I heard him say 'Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves;' And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry 'O sweet creature!' and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots That grew upon my lips: then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd, and kiss'd; and then Cried 'Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!

(Iago:) O wretched fool. That livest to make thine honesty a vice! O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. I thank you for this profit; and from hence I'll love no friend, sith love breeds such offence. Othello: Nay, stay: thou shouldst be honest. Iago: I should be wise, for honesty's a fool And loses that it works for.