Pigeon English Quotes

...you all want to be the sea. But you're not the sea, you're just a raindrop.

I pretended like all the oranges rolling everywhere were her happy memories and they were looking for a new person to stick to so they didn't get wasted.

When there's a star on a flag it stands for freedom. The star points in all directions, it means you can go anywhere you want. That's why I love stars, because they stand for freedom.

Hair by Toni & Guy. Personality by Ronald McDonald

That's when Poppy kissed me. I didn't have time to get ready. She just kissed me there and then, right on the lips. It felt lovely. I wasn't even scared this time. It was warm and not too wet. I didn't get any tongue. Her breath smelled like Orange Tic Tacs.

Her laughing was like a wave in the sea, when it landed on you it made you laugh as well.

There is always something wrong with redheads. The hair is kinky, or it's the wrong color, too dark and tough, or too pale and sickly. And the skin - it rejects the elements: wind, sun, everything discolors it. A really beautiful redhead is rarer than a flawless forty-carat pigeon-blood ruby - or a flawed one, for that matter. But none of this was true of Kate. Her hair was like a winter sunset, lighted with the last of the pale afterglow. And the only redhead I've ever seen with a complexion to compare with hers was Pamela Churchill's. But then, Pam is English, she grew up saturated with dewy English mists, something every dermatologist ought to bottle.

Mr. Frimpong is the oldest person from church. That's when I knew why he sings louder than anybody else: it's because he's been waiting the longest for God to answer. He thinks God has forgotten him. I only knew it then. Then I loved him but it was too late to go back.

Both the two of us knew it. We watched the lie go up big and slow between us, then it burst like a spit bubble. They always burst before too long.

I spent the day with the pigeons, on a bench in Trafalgar Square, my bag of belongings huddled to my chest in case someone thought of taking them, and a pile of breadcrumbs at my feet. I let the pigeons congregate around me ... Eventually a local warden came up to me and said , "Sir, we ask people not to feed the pigeons," with such an expression of civic determination that I pretense not to understand English. Instead, I listed my way through various "eh?" sounds until, having exhausted his two words of French and three of Spanish, he concluded that since I was neither nationality, I wasn't worth the bother.

If Agnes dies I'll just swap places with her. She can have my life. I'll give it to her and I'll die instead. I wouldn't mind because I've already lived for a long time. Agnes has only lived for one year and some. I hope God lets me. I don't mind going to Heaven early. If he wants me to swap places, I will.

Vilis still doesn't pass to me but I don't care. Where he comes from (Latvia) they burn black people into tar and make roads out of them.

It's like the Boss always says: they're just meat wrapped around a blazing star. We don't mourn the wrapping once it's discarded, we celebrate the freeing of the star.

If you are landing it doesn't really matter who is sitting beside you but while you are taking off, it is very important you know who is around you. Eagles don't flock with pigeons.

P.M.+H.O. I.D.S.T. It means me and Poppy belong together. That's what the top letters stand for: P.M. is for Poppy Morgan and H.O. is for Harrison Opoku. When you put + between them it means those two people go together like a sum. That's what Poppy told me. I.D.S.T. stands for If Destroyed Still True. That means if somebody rubs them out they still count. Nobody can destroy it, it lasts forever.

My room is now my headquarters. Nobody's allowed in without the password and I haven't even told anybody what the password is (it's pigeon, after my pigeon. Nobody else can find out if you only think it).

Why, then, do you go there at such a season?" my editor asked me once, sitting in a Chinese restaurant in New York, with his gay English charges. "Yes, why do you ?" they echoed their prospective benefactor. "What is it like there in winter ?" I thought of telling them about acqua alta; about the various shades of gray in the window as one sits for breakfast in one's hotel, enveloped by silence and the mealy morning pall of newlyweds' faces; about pigeons accentuating every curve and cornice of the local Baroque in their dormant affinity for architecture; about a lonely monument to Francesco Querini and his two huskies carved out of Istrian stone, similar, I think, in its hue, to what he saw last, dying, on his ill-fated journey to the North Pole, now listening to the Giardini's rustle of evergreens in the company of Wagner and Carducci; about a brave sparrow perching on the bobbing blade of a gondola against the backdrop of a sirocco-roiled damp infinity. No, I thought, looking at their effete but eager faces; no, they won't do. "Well, I said, "it's like Greta Garbo swimming.

Violence always came too easy to you, that's the problem. It always felt too good. Remember the first time you trod on an ant, and with an infant stamp made the moving still, the present past? Wasn't that a sickly sweet epiphany? Such power in your feet and at your fingertips such temptation! It would take some act of charity to give all that good stuff away. You'd need to be something greater that just another invention of a spiteful god.

I put my alligator tooth down the rubbish pipe. I heard it fall down to the bottom and disappear. It was an offering for the volcano god. It was a present for God himself. If I gave him my best good luck then he'd save us from all the bad things, the sickness and chooking and dead babies, he'd bring us all back together again. He'd have to or it wouldn't be fair. It was a good swap, nobody could say it wasn't. I knew it would work. Thank you pigeon for showing me the right star.

We prefer when you walk around instead of through us. We like to be left in peace while we're eating and performing our courtship rituals. We ask only for the same rights as you: we just want to live our lives, make a place for ourselves, room to shit and room sleep, room to raise our children. Don't poison us just because we make a mess. You make a mess, too. There's enough of everything to go round if we all stick to our fair share. Leave us be and there'll be no trouble. Be kind to us and we'll return the favour when the time for favours comes. Until then, peace be with you.

By the next afternoon, a shepherd boy had heard his shouts and he’d been hauled up the cliffs and confined to an empty pigeon house, the sole survivor of his doomed mission. Gone cracked, though, from the ordeal. Ranting in perfect English about dragons and a young woman who could fly. No one believed him. A few people swore the airships had suffered lightning strikes, although the night had seemed so clear. A few more vowed they’d spotted them off the bluffs and fired at them, and that had brought them down. Whatever it had been, everyone seemed certain of two things. It had not been a dragon, and it had not been the poor, tormented Duke of Idylling.

What your problem is, you're all just a raindrop. One of an endless number. If only you'd just accept it, things would be so much easier. Say it with me: I am a drop in the ocean. I am neighbour, nation, north, and nowhere. I am one among many and we all fall together. Or maybe I'm just a rat with wings and I don't know what I'm talking about.

And for the real noble a whole private dialect is set apart. The common names for an axe, for blood, for bamboo, a bamboo knife, a pig, food, entrails, and an oven are taboo in his presence, as the common names for a bug and for many offices and members of the body are taboo in the drawing-rooms of English ladies. Special words are set apart for his leg, his face, his hair, his belly, his eyelids, his son, his daughter, his wife, his wife's pregnancy, his wife's adultery, adultery with his wife, his dwelling, his spear, his comb, his sleep, his dreams, his anger, the mutual anger of several chiefs, his food, his pleasure in eating, the food and eating of his pigeons, his ulcers, his cough, his sickness, his recovery, his death, his being carried on a bier, the exhumation of his bones, and his skull after death. To address these demigods is quite a branch of knowledge, and he who goes to visit a high chief does well to make sure of the competence of his interpreter. To complete the picture, the same word signifies the watching of a virgin and the warding of a chief; and the same word means to cherish a chief and to fondle a favourite child.

My mind veers back to roasted pigeon. And from pigeon, I travel effortlessly, unrestrainedly back to France...the pots of rillettes fragrant with garlic, the boned forelegs of ham yellowed with bread crumbs, the blood puddings curled up like snakes, the terrines and pâtés, the sausages from Lyon and Arles, the jowls of salmon cooked à la génoise, the hundreds of cheeses resplendent beneath their glass bells, the perfumed melons and honeyed apricots

To make a tarte of strawberyes," wrote Margaret Parker in 1551, "take and strayne theym with the yolkes of four eggs, and a little whyte breade grated, then season it up with suger and swete butter and so bake it." And Jess, who had spent the past year struggling with Kant's Critiques, now luxuriated in language so concrete. Tudor cookbooks did not theorize, nor did they provide separate ingredient lists, or scientific cooking times or temperatures. Recipes were called receipts, and tallied materials and techniques together. Art and alchemy were their themes, instinct and invention. The grandest performed occult transformations: flora into fauna, where, for example, cooks crushed blanched almonds and beat them with sugar, milk, and rose water into a paste to "cast Rabbets, Pigeons, or any other little bird or beast." Or flour into gold, gilding marchpane and festive tarts. Or mutton into venison, or fish to meat, or pig to fawn, one species prepared to stand in for another.

Why, then, do you go there at such a season?" my editor asked me once, sitting in a Chinese restaurant in New York, with his gay English charges. "Yes, why do you ?" they echoed their prospective benefactor. "What is it like there in winter ?" I thought of telling them about acqua alta; about the various shades of gray in the window as one sits for breakfast in one's hotel, enveloped by silence and the mealy morning pall of newlyweds' faces; about pigeons accentuating every curve and cornice of the local Baroque in their dormant affinity for architecture; about a lonely monument to Francesco Querini and his two huskies carved out of Istrian stone, similar, I think, in its hue, to what he saw last, dying, on his ill-fated journey to the North Pole, now listening to the Giardini's rustle of evergreens in the company of Wagner and Carducci; about a brave sparrow perching on the bobbing blade of a gondola against the backdrop of a sirocco-roiled damp infinity. No, I thought, looking at their effete but eager faces; no, they won't do. "We;;, I said, "it's like Greta Garbo swimming.

Why do we like being Irish? Partly because It gives us a hold on the sentimental English As members of a world that never was, Baptised with fairy water; And partly because Ireland is small enough To be still thought of with a family feeling, And because the waves are rough That split her from a more commercial culture; And because one feels that here at least one can Do local work which is not at the world's mercy And that on this tiny stage with luck a man Might see the end of one particular action. It is self-deception of course; There is no immunity in this island either; A cart that is drawn by somebody else's horse And carrying goods to somebody else's market. The bombs in the turnip sack, the sniper from the roof, Griffith, Connolly, Collins, where have they brought us? Ourselves alone! Let the round tower stand aloof In a world of bursting mortar! Let the school-children fumble their sums In a half-dead language; Let the censor be busy on the books; pull down the Georgian slums; Let the games be played in Gaelic. Let them grow beet-sugar; let them build A factory in every hamlet; Let them pigeon-hole the souls of the killed Into sheep and goats, patriots and traitors. And the North, where I was a boy, Is still the North, veneered with the grime of Glasgow, Thousands of men whom nobody will employ Standing at the corners, coughing.

Pigeons wrapped in the leaves of vines. Oysters in crisp pastry cases. Whole Gloucester salmon in aspic. Yarmouth lobsters cooked in wine and herbs. Glazed tarts of pippin apples. Paper-thin layers of buttery pastry spread with greengages, apricots, peaches, cherries, served with great gouts of golden cream. "Well," I say, "it's gruel for us tonight, with a smidgeon of salt and pepper." Whereupon he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a twist of greased paper, and opens it. Immediately I smell the tang of heather honey. "For you, Ann." In his grimed palm sits an oozing chunk of honeycomb as big as a plover's egg. I clap my hands in delight, my tongue waggling with greed. As we eat our gruel I make the clots of chewy wax last as long as possible, pushing them around and around my mouth, pressing them against my molars, sucking on them 'til they slip sweetly down my throat.

I saw her when I came back... Her eyes were closed and everything. I had to stop. I just watched her. It was very relaxing. I had to keep proper still. I had to be extra quiet or I'd ruin it. I didn't want it to stop. I could see her lips move but I couldn't hear the words. Sometimes she bent forward until her head was nearly on the ground. She made everything to proper slow. It made me sleepy from just watching it. I wanted to ask her what she was praying for but I swallowed the words back down again. ...you knew it had to be something good. I just watched from behind the wall. There was nobody else around. It was the best kind of quiet... When the head-tie girl finished praying she opened her eyes and stood up. I turned aroun sharp-sharp and went back down the corridor. I tried not to make a sound. I didn't want her to see me. I didn't want her to know I was there for if it ruined it. I waited until she was gone, then I came back to life. I held my breath when I went past the bit she was praying in. I walked around the outside so I didn't tread on it.

His mama named him Head?” Talon snorted derisively. “Damn, that’s cold. And here I thought this Cabeza had it bad.” “It was a nickname. His real name was Kukulcan Verastegui.” The Cabeza in front of her broke off into a fierce round of what sounded like Mayan cursing. She had no idea what he was saying, but it was raw and explosive as he gestured furiously to punctuate his tirade. She turned her frown to Talon. “What’s he saying?” Talon shrugged. “I’m from Britain, not Mexico. No idea.” “That pendejo is not me.” Cabeza broke off into a mixture of Mayan and Spanish and then returned to English, but this time his accent was much thicker and he rolled his Rs viciously. “His name, for the record, is Chacu. Ese cabrón hijo de la gran puta, pretending to be me. I should have cut his throat for my Act of Vengeance!” “The real question is, did you cut his throat today?” Hands on hips, Cabeza glared at Talon for asking such a thing. “No. He got away, along with the … what’s the word? Uh … Pigeon crap?” “Chicken shit?” Talon offered. “Si!… that was with him. They vanished before I could kill them.

Dom znači sigurnost, za sve. Samo ne zaboravi zaključati sve brave.

When there’s a star on a flag it stands for freedom. The star points in all directions, it means you can go anywhere you want. That’s why I love stars, because they stand for freedom.

What your problem is, you all want to be the sea. But you’re not the sea, you’re just a raindrop. One of an endless number. If only you’d just accept it, things would be so much easier. Say it with me: I am a drop in the ocean. I am neighbour, nation, north and nowhere. I am one among many and we all fall together.

Imagine being blindfolded and then taken hundreds of miles from home -- perhaps even to another country across the sea. And then suddenly having the blindfold removed and, despite not having the slightest idea where you are, racing home at top speed. Even if home is six hundred miles away. That is not normal. Just like the superpowers of comicbook heroes, the homing instinct of pigeons is something that scientists cannot explain. They have tried over the years, with theories about magnetic fields and the sun, but no one has satisfactorily managed it. It is a strangely comfy superpower though. The pigeon is not on a mission to save the world. It just wants to go home. From the age of six weeks, pigeons can be taught to "home" to the loft from which they make their first flight because they understand that is where they will find food, water and company. Pigeons can be picky in their journey -- they do not like to fly at night or to cross water, often flying along the coast to find the shortest point at which to cross a body like the English Channel. but they are ultimately single-minded in simply wanting to get back to where they belong. Amid the horrors of wartime, this longing has a particular resonance.

in 2001, one Norwegian enthusiast even implemented Internet Protocol with a set of carrier pigeons. (Observers reported a disappointing 56 percent packet loss rate: rephrased in English, five out of the nine pigeons appeared to have wandered off, or have been eaten.)

Tady je ďábel silnější, protože jsou tu hrozně vysoký budovy. Je tu hrozně mrakodrapů, stíněj nebe a Bůh nevidí, co se děje dole.

Mamka říká, že bezpečnostní kamery je jen další způsob, jímž nás Bůh sleduje. Když má pánbůh zástoj na druhým konci světa, jako když zrovna dělá zemětřesení nebo přílivovou vlnu, tak těmi kamerami nás furt vidí.

S tím mrtvým klukem jsem se kamarádil tak napůl, moc jsme se nevídali, protože byl starší a nechodil do mý školy. Dokázal jezdit na kole bez držení tak, že mu člověk ani nepřál, aby si natlouk. V duchu jsem se za něj pomodlil. Jen prostě, že mi je to líto. To je všechno, co si pamatuju. Upřeně jsem se na tu krev díval a sám sobě namlouval, že když se na to budu dívat dostatečně upřeně, dosáhnu toho, že se krev vrátí zpátky do toho kluka a že ho tak vlastně oživím. Něco podobnýho se už stalo. Tam, kde jsem bydlel předtím, než jsem se narodil. Česný, že to byl zázrak. Jenže tentokrát to nezabralo.

Už jsem jednou mrtvýho člověka viděl. Bylo to tam, jak jsme bydleli, na trhu v Kaneši. Paní, co tam prodávala pomeranče, srazil minibus; neviděl ho přijíždět nikdo. Já si představoval, že ty pomeranče, který se rozkutálely po zemi, jsou její šťastný vzpomínky a že hledají někoho jinýho, na koho by se mohly přilepit, aby nepřišly vniveč.

This is thine own. Thou drawest near, as turns a pigeon to his mate: Thou carest too for this our prayer.

Doing something bad on purpose is worse than doing it by mistake. You can mend a mistake but on purpose doesn’t just break you, it breaks the whole world bit by bit like the scissors on the rock. I didn’t want to be the one who broke the whole world.

For a while, homing pigeons were most notable for their use in military operations. When Napoleon was defeated at Waterloo in 1815, a swift-flying carrier pigeon delivered the message from present-day Belgium across the English Channel to Count Rothschild, of the Rothschild banking dynasty, who was apparently the first person in England to hear the news. The quick-thinking count made several critical financial decisions and amassed a considerable fortune based on his advance knowledge of the outcome of Napoleon’s last campaign.

The findings that were deemed believable enough to be published, however, revolutionized ethologists’ thinking. Ethologists began to speak less often of a chasm between man and ape; they began to speak instead of a dividing “line.” And it was a line that, in the words of Harvard primatologist Irven De Vore, was “a good deal less clear than one would ever have expected.” What makes up this line between us and our fellow primates? No longer can it be claimed to be tool use. Is it the ability to reason? Wolfgang Kohler once tested captive chimps’ reasoning ability by placing several boxes and a stick in an enclosure and hanging a banana from the high ceiling by a string. The animals quickly figured out that they could get to the banana by stacking the boxes one atop the other and then reaching to swat at the banana with a stick. (Once Geza Teleki found himself in exactly this position at Gombe. He had followed the chimpanzees down into a valley and around noon discovered he had forgotten to bring his lunch. The chimps were feeding on fruit in the trees at the time, and he decided to try to knock some fruit from nearby vines with a stick. For about ten minutes he leaped and swatted with his stick but didn’t manage to knock down any fruit. Finally an adolescent male named Sniff collected a handful of fruit, came down the tree, and dropped the fruit into Geza’s hands.) Some say language is the line that separates man from ape. But this, too, is being questioned. Captive chimpanzees, gorillas, and orangutans have been taught not only to comprehend, but also to produce language. They have been taught American Sign Language (ASL), the language of the deaf, as well as languages that use plastic chips in place of words and computer languages. One signing chimp, Washoe, often combined known signs in novel and creative ways: she had not been taught the word for swan, but upon seeing one, she signed “water-bird.” Another signing chimp, Lucy, seeing and tasting a watermelon for the first time, called it a “candy-drink”; the acidic radish she named “hurt-cry-food.” Lucy would play with toys and sign to them, much as human children talk to their dolls. Koko, the gorilla protegee of Penny Patterson, used sign language to make jokes, escape blame, describe her surroundings, tell stories, even tell lies. One of Biruté’s ex-captives, a female orangutan named Princess, was taught a number of ASL signs by Gary Shapiro. Princess used only the signs she knew would bring her food; because she was not a captive, she could not be coerced into using sign language to any ends other than those she found personally useful. Today dolphins, sea lions, harbor seals, and even pigeons are being taught artificial languages, complete with a primitive grammar or syntax. An African grey parrot named Alex mastered the correct use of more than one hundred spoken English words, using them in proper order to answer questions, make requests, do math, and offer friends and visitors spontaneous, meaningful comments until his untimely death at age 31 in 2007. One leading researcher, Ronald Schusterman, is convinced that “the components for language are present probably in all vertebrates, certainly in mammals and birds.” Arguing over semantics and syntax, psychologists and ethologists and linguists are still debating the definitions of the line. Louis Leakey remarked about Jane’s discovery of chimps’ use of tools that we must “change the definition of man, the definition of tool, or accept chimps as man.” Now some linguists have actually proposed, in the face of the ape language experiments, changing the definition of language to exclude the apes from a domain we had considered uniquely ours. The line separating man from the apes may well be defined less by human measurement than by the limits of Western imagination. It may be less like a boundary between land and water and more like the lines we draw on maps separating the domains of nations.

Dear fucking God, please stop all the bad shit happening. Thanks a fucking lot. Amen.

We categorize experiences. We try to stick each perception, every mental change in this endless flow, into one of three mental pigeon holes: it is good, bad, or neutral. Then, according to which box we stick it in, we perceive with a set of fixed habitual mental responses.

I wanted to tell her I loved her but it wouldn't come out. It felt too big. Even the word. It felt too big and stupid to say it now. I had to keep it in my belly for later. I had to swallow it back down.