Pot Kettle Black Quotes

Why am I so drawn to you?" He muttered, almost to himself. "Why is it so hard to let go? I thought... at first... it was Ariella, that you remind me of so much. But it's not." Though he didn't smile, his eyes lightened a shade. "You're far more stubborn than she ever was." I sniffed. "That's like the pot calling the kettle black," I whispered, and a faint, tiny grin finally crossed his face, before his expression clouded and he lowered his head, touching his forehead to mine. "What do you want of me, Meghan?" he asked, a low thread of anguish flickering below the surface. Tears blurred my vision, all the fear and heartache of the past few days rising to the surface. "Just you," I whispered. "I just want you." -Ash and Meghan

If the universe is meaningless, so is the statement that it is so. If this world is a vicious trap, so is its accuser, and the pot is calling the kettle black.

Oh, that's the pot calling the kettle black. Amusement flowed through the connection as Seth said, Or it's the pot calling the pot a pot.

He couldn’t be serious. He was not accusing Marc of wanting me dead! If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black, I’d…I’d…pound the shit out of the pot myself!

Oh, hey, kettle, I’m pot and wow, you’re black.” - Owen

You need more sleep.” “Skillet, pan.” “What?” “You know, the skillet says the pan’s the same deal.” He thought a moment. “I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.” “Whatever, kitchen stuff can’t talk anyway.

You're supposed to be a spirit of intellect. I don't understand why you're obsessed with sex." Bob's voice got defensive. "It's an academic interest, Harry." "Oh yeah? Well maybe I don't think it's fair to let your academia go peeping in other people's houses." "Wait a minute. My academia doesn't just peep -" I held up a hand. "Save it. I don't want to hear it." He grunted. "You're trivializing what getting out for a bit means to me, Harry. You're insulting my masculinity." "Bob," I said, "you're a skull . You don't have any masculinity to insult." "Oh yeah?" Bob challenged me. "Pot kettle black, Harry! Have you gotten a date yet? Huh? Most men have something better to do in the middle of the night than play with their chemistry sets.

Contemplating Clodia I find scarcely a drop in my heart of that compassion which Epicurus enjoins us to extend toward the erring.

Y’know, I kind of prefer it when the dead stay dead.’ ‘Pot. Kettle. Black,’ Owen said. ‘Yeah,’ agreed Jack with a shrug. ‘The difference is, I do it with style.

Today the teacher called me a sadist. I tried to say that was like the pot calling the kettle black but came out with something closer to “That is like a pan saying to a dark pan, ‘You are a pan.

I have been keeping something from you?” she challenged. “I rather think that to be the pot calling the kettle black.

What was that about?” “She’s a famous boyfriend stealer.” “Okay, one”—I held up a finger—“I’m not your boyfriend. I’m half of your binary pairing.” She pushed me so hard I had to take a step back or fall over. “You’re the one to my zero?” “I’m your mate. A boyfriend can be stolen. A mate can’t.” I held up a second finger. “Two, she’s not my type.” She crossed her arms and leaned on one hip. “Is there a three?” “Three.” I made a W. “Knew it.” “You need new friends if you can’t trust the ones you have.” “Did you text the kettle to tell him he was black, Mr. Pot?

Maybe they had existed, all of them: Gabriel and God, Samyaza and his crew and all their enormous biting babies. Who knows? The Elioud dismissed the Book of Enoch as absurd, which was kind of the pot calling the kettle black, Eliza had always thought, but wasn't that what religions did? Squint at one another and declare "My unprovable belief is better than your unprovable belief. Suck it.

Nicholas shrugged. “Who knows what he’s got locked away in his head. Considering the countless lies he’s told, you can never really know.” “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” He smirked. “Perhaps.

was left wondering what I was supposed to do with the wall I’d built around my heart, because there was no way Deck could scale that sucker, and it probably wasn’t fair to ignore him because of what all his club brothers had done to me. That would be the pot calling the kettle black for sure.

And more to the point, I have no idea what I want to do. It shouldn't be a surprise. I've had years to think about it. That and just the other day I was pestering Wolf about what he wanted to do--talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But that's just it, I guess. I've never had to think about it. I have very diligently kept all of my options open. The AP classes, the killer GPA, the SAT scores in the 99th percentile, the varsity letters from swim team, the debate club, the fundraising... I've taken on everything and succeeded at it. There is not one weak spot that can be pointed to in my resume, not a single thing that would make an administrator say, "Yes, but what about her..." Except maybe this. Except the part where it's suddenly clear to me why I've been struggling so much with my college essays, with articulating who I am in so few words. How can a person even know who they are if they don't know what they want?

Man measures his strength by his destructiveness. What is his religion? An excuse for hating ME. What is his law? An excuse for hanging YOU. What is his morality? Gentility! an excuse for consuming without producing. What is his art? An excuse for gloating over pictures of slaughter. What are his politics? Either the worship of a despot because a despot can kill, or parliamentary cockfighting. I spent an evening lately in a certain celebrated legislature, and heard the pot lecturing the kettle for its blackness, and ministers answering questions. When I left I chalked up on the door the old nursery saying—"Ask no questions and you will be told no lies.

At one-thirty in the deep dark morning, the cooking odors blew up through the windy corridors of the house. Down the stairs, one by one, came women in curlers, men in bathrobes, to tiptoe and peer into the kitchen- lit only by fitful gusts of red fire from the hissing stove. And there in the black kitchen at two of a warm summer morning, Grandma floated like an apparition, amidst bangings and clatterings, half blind once more, her fingers groping instinctively in the dimness, shaking out spice clouds over bubbling pots and simmering kettles, her face in the firelight red, magical, and enchanted as she seized and stirred and poured the sublime foods. Quiet, quiet, the boarders laid the best linens and gleaming silver and lit candles rather than switch on electric lights and snap the spell. Grandfather, arriving home from a late evening's work at the printing office, was startled to hear grace being said in the candlelit dining room. As for the food? The meats were deviled, the sauces curried, the greens mounded with sweet butter, the biscuits splashed with jeweled honey; everything toothsome, luscious, and so miraculously refreshing that a gentle lowing broke out as from a pasturage of beasts gone wild in clover. One and all cried out their gratitude for their loose-fitting night clothes.

I know he accused Nick of making me dependent on him for everything, which is the pot calling up the kettle to have a long talk about being black. My mom loved Nick, but right or wrong, my parents had spent my life making me think that I couldn’t do anything without them. At twenty-one years old, I was still very much a child. I didn’t know how to write a check, but, somehow, I was paying for everything. I knew that I was making money, but I didn’t think of myself as the family breadwinner. I just thought my money was their money. Honestly, what I knew for sure was that it stopped my family from having as many fights, so I felt lucky that I could be the one to help keep the peace.

From Tomorrow to Yesterday The tree trunks move in time with the rhythm of her rubber soles on the wet path, where the air is still cool after the night rain. The woodland floor is white with anemones; in one place, growing close to the roots of an ancient tree, they make her think of an old, wrinkled hand. She could go on and on without getting tired, without meeting anyone or thinking of anything in particular, and without coming to the edge of the woods. As if the town did not begin just behind the trees, the leafy suburb with its peaceful roads and its houses hidden behind close-trimmed hedges. She doesn't want to think about anything, and almost succeeds; her body is no more than a porous, pulsating machine. The sun breaks through the clouds as she runs back, its light diffused on the gravel drive and the magnolia in front of the kitchen window. His car is no longer parked beside hers, he must have left while she was in the woods. He hadn't stirred when she rose, and she'd already been in bed when he came home late last night. She lay with her back turned, eyes closed, as he undressed, taking care not to wake her. She leans against one of the pillars of the garage and stretches, before emptying the mailbox and letting herself into the house. She puts the mail on the kitchen table. The little light on the coffeemaker is on; she switches it off. Not so long ago, she would have felt a stab of irritation or a touch of tenderness, depending on her mood. He always forgets to turn off that machine. She puts the kettle on, sprinkles tea leaves into the pot, and goes over to the kitchen window. She observes the magnolia blossoms, already starting to open. They'll have to talk about it, of course, but neither of them seems able to find the right words, the right moment. She pauses on her way through the sitting room. She stands amid her furniture looking out over the lawn and the pond at the end of the garden. The canopies of the trees are dimly reflected in the shining water. She goes into the bathroom. The shower door is still spotted with little drops. As time went on they have come to make contact during the day only briefly, like passing strangers. But that's the way it has been since the children left home, nothing unusual in that. She takes off her clothes and stands in front of the mirror where a little while ago he stood shaving. She greets her reflection with a wry smile. She has never been able to view herself in a mirror without this moue, as if demonstrating a certain guardedness about what she sees. The dark green eyes and wavy black hair, the angularity of her features. She dyes her hair exactly the color it would have been if she hadn't begun to go gray in her thirties, but that's her only protest against age.

Sometimes I wish you were less bloody-minded,” Alexander says. He had managed to receive a three-day furlough. They’re in Leningrad—the last time they’re in Leningrad together, their last everything. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” He grunts. “Yes. I wish the kettle were less black.” He snorts in frustration. “There are women,” he says, “I know there are, who listen to their men. I’ve seen them. Other men have them—” She tickles him. He does not seem amused. “All right. Tell me what to do,” she says, lowering her voice two notches. “I will do exactly as you say.” “Leave Leningrad and go back to Lazarevo instantly,” Alexander tells her. “Go where you will be safe.” Rolling her eyes, she says, “Come on. I know you can play this game.” “I know I can,” Alexander says, sitting on her parents’ old sofa. “I just don’t want to. You don’t listen to me about the important things…” “Those aren’t the important things,” Tatiana says, kneeling in front of him and taking hold of his hands. “If the NKVD come for me, I will know you are gone and I will be happy to stand against the wall.” She squeezes his hands. “I will go to the wall as your wife and never regret a second I spent with you. So let me have this here with you. Let me smell you once more, taste you once more, kiss you once more,” she says. “Now play my game with me, sorrowful as it is to lie down together in wintry Leningrad. Play the miracle with me—to lie down with you at all. Tell me what to do and I will do it.” Alexander pulls on her hand. “Come here.” He opens his arms. “Sit on top of me.” She obeys. “Now take your hands and place them on my face.” She obeys. “Put your lips on my eyes.” She obeys. “Kiss my forehead.” She obeys. “Kiss my lips.” She obeys. And obeys. “Tania…” “Shh.” “Can’t you see I’m breaking?” “Ah,” she says. “You’re still in one piece then.

Just because it's the pot calling the kettle black, doesn't make the claim any less legitimate.

Barack Obama has spent two decades of his public life advocating for radical anti–Second Amendment zealots’ most extreme anti-gun policies. In his five years in the Oval Office, he has surrounded himself with anti-gun radicals and empowered them to defy federal law and risk innocent lives in pursuit of their agenda of destroying the Second Amendment. He has wealthy, Second Amendment–hating allies right along with him. Through their unified campaign for power and their efforts to impose a vision of a nearly gun-free American on an unwilling nation, they have insulted gun owners, lied to them, impugned their motives, and accused them of spreading misinformation—a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if ever there was one.

Rattling Kettle Haikus (Yiddish/English) .האַקן אַ טשײַניק .ניט האַקן מיר קיין טשײַניק .אַ ברירה פון די טשײַניק Hakn a tshaynik. Hak mir nisht keyn tshaynik. It's the kettle's choice. .וי, שוואַרץ שמאַרטז .די פאַן פאַך די טשײַניק שוואַרץ .קוק אין דער שפּיגל Oy, Black Schmack. Pot's calling the kettle black. Look in the mirror.

I think you’re being melodramatic.” “Aren’t you like the pot calling the kettle black or something?” I asked. “Pardon me, oh great one. I forgot my place as a mere footnote in the history of Sitia.” Talk about being melodramatic. “Is he—” I cut Devlen off. “Annoying? Yes, all the time.” He studied Leif. “You are more...subdued at our house.” “That’s ’cause I’m too busy keeping your daughter out of trouble.” “I take it Reema has Leif wrapped around her little finger?” I asked Devlen. “Hey,” Leif said. “Yes. He needs a child of his own to learn how to not give in to her every demand.” I agreed. “That would certainly mature him. Unless it backfires and Leif regresses. Then poor Mara would have two children to deal with.” “I’m standing right here, ya know.

I heard you were wrong earlier.” Anna raised an eyebrow at the brunette. “Popcorn kettle black.” “What the fuck?” Tara laughed. “Popcorn kettle black,” Anna said very seriously. Everyone burst into belly laughs, except for Anna. “What?” she asked very sternly. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black,” I said once I had regained enough breath to speak properly again. “What the hell does popcorn kettle black mean?” Paige giggled. “It’s a saying,” Anna said defensively. “My mom used to say it when someone was being a hypocrite.” “You’re right about the meaning,” Rolly said with a smile at the redhead. “But they’re right, it’s the pot calling the kettle black.” “My life is a lie,” Anna said seriously,

A huge fireplace and Dutch oven of fieldstone filled one wall. Over them hung a long muzzle-loading rifle, powder horn, and bullet pouch. On the mantel were candle molds, a coffee mill, an iron and trivet, and a rusty kettle. An iron cauldron, big enough to boil a missionary in, swung at the end of a long arm in the fireplace, and below it, like so many black offspring, were a cluster of small pots. A wooden butter churn held the door open, and clusters of Indian corn hung from the molding at aesthetic intervals. A colonial scythe stood in one corner, and two Boston rockers on a hooked rug faced the cold fireplace, where the unwatched pot never boiled. Paul

They had to park the Jeep, load the engine parts into the dinghy, and row across the bar, so by the time they reached the Misty Day Spence was already there, leaning against the cradle, puffing on a cigarette. Mr. Jones frowned when he saw him. “How old are you?” he asked. “Sixteen,” said Spence. “Why?” “Do you know what your lungs are going to look like by the time you’re fifty?” Spence shrugged, then nodded toward the ever-present pipe that hung from Mr. Jones’s lip. “No worse than yours, I guess,” he said. Mr. Jones looked puzzled. “He means your pipe,” Denny prompted. “Yeah,” said Spence, “and don’t give me any of that crap about a pipe being not as bad as a cigarette. They’re all the same.” Mr. Jones took his pipe out of his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, “you’ve got a point there. Kind of like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it?” Spence nodded. “Tell you what I’m going to do,” said Mr. Jones. “I’ll make you a little wager. I’ll bet I can give up smoking my pipe if you can give up your cigarettes.” Denny bit her lip to keep from smiling. Spence took another drag on his cigarette and stared at Mr. Jones skeptically. “Of course, if you don’t think you’ve got the willpower,” said Mr. Jones. Spence dropped his cigarette and crushed it into the ground. “I can quit anytime I want,” he said, then looked up. “But I don’t want to.” “Oh, sure,” said Denny. “That’s what they all say.” Spence looked at her and narrowed her eyes. “Who asked you?” he said. “You just don’t think you can do it,” Denny went on. “You’re afraid Mr. Jones is gonna show you up.” “Oh, yeah?” said Spence. He pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, smiled wryly at Denny, and tossed them basketball style into Mr. Jones’s trash barrel, then reached a hand out to Mr. Jones. “You got a deal, old man,” he said. Mr. Jones shook his hand and nodded, then stuck the pipe back in his mouth. “You don’t mind if I just kind of let it hang here, do you, for old times’ sake?” Spence shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, “as long as you don’t light up.” “I’m a man of my word,” said Mr. Jones. “No flame will ever touch this pipe again.” Spence nodded and stalked off toward the shed. Denny giggled. “You’re awful,” she said. Mr. Jones winked. “What’s awful?” he said. “I’m doing him a favor.

effect are base lies, I'll have you and your friend know! However—" he yawned again "—I've been up all day and so, purely coincidentally, I do find myself just a bit sleepy at the moment. The which being so, I think I should take myself off to bed. I'll see you all in the morning." "Good night, Alistair," she said, and smiled as he sketched a salute and disappeared into the night with a chuckle. "You two are really close, aren't you?" Benson observed quietly after McKeon had vanished. Honor raised an eyebrow at her, and the blond captain shrugged. "Not like me and Henri, I know. But the way you look out for each other—" "We go back a long way," Honor replied with another of her half-smiles, and bent to rest her chin companionably on the top of Nimitz's head. "I guess it's sort of a habit to watch out for each other by now, but Alistair seems to get stuck with more of that than I do, bless him." "I know. Henri and I made the hike back to your shuttles with you, remember?" Benson said dryly. "I was impressed by the comprehensiveness of his vocabulary. I don't think he repeated himself more than twice." "He probably wouldn't have been so mad if I hadn't snuck off without mentioning it to him," Honor said, and her right cheek dimpled while her good eye gleamed in memory. "Of course, he wouldn't have let me leave him behind if I had mentioned it to him, either. Sometimes I think he just doesn't understand the chain of command at all!" "Ha!" Ramirez' laugh rumbled around the hut like rolling thunder. "From what I've seen of you so far, that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Dame Honor!" "Nonsense. I always respect the chain of command!" Honor protested with a chuckle. "Indeed?" It was Benson's turn to shake her head. "I've heard about your antics at—Hancock Station, was it called?" She laughed out loud at Honor's startled expression. "Your people are proud of you, Honor. They like to talk, and to be honest, Henri and I encouraged them to. We needed to get a feel for you, if we were going to trust you with our lives." She shrugged. "It didn't take us long to make our minds up once they started opening up with us." Honor felt her face heat and looked down at Nimitz, rolling him gently over on his back to stroke his belly fur. She concentrated on that with great intensity for the next several seconds, then looked back up once her blush had cooled. "You don't want to believe everything you hear," she said with commendable composure. "Sometimes people exaggerate a bit." "No doubt," Ramirez agreed, tacitly letting her off the hook, and she gave him a grateful half-smile. "In the meantime, though," Benson said, accepting the change of subject, "the loss of the shuttle beacon does make me more anxious about Lunch Basket." "Me, too," Honor admitted. "It cuts our operational safety margin in half, and we still don't know when we'll finally get a chance to try it." She grimaced. "They really aren't cooperating very well, are they?" "I'm sure it's only because they don't know what we're planning," Ramirez told her wryly. "They're much too courteous to be this difficult if they had any idea how inconvenient for us it is." "Right. Sure!" Honor snorted, and all three of them chuckled. Yet there was an undeniable edge of worry behind the humor, and she leaned back in her chair, stroking Nimitz rhythmically, while she thought. The key to her plan was the combination of the food supply runs from Styx and the Peeps' lousy communications security. Her analysts had been right about the schedule on which the Peeps operated; they made a whole clutch of supply runs in a relatively short period—usually about three days—once per month. Given

The pot callin’ the kettle black,” Roman shot my way. “Ain’t nothin’ shady. Nita doesn’t share any DNA with us. Our mother died. My father remarried. His hoe ass wife cheated and here came Nita. He made us swear we’d never tell her. Our daddy raised her like she was his own.

Whatever colour the pots, the kettle may indeed be black.

I followed her through the house into a surprisingly large kitchen with yellow and white checkered curtains hanging in the windows. A green ceramic frog with a dish scrubber in his mouth sat on the side of the sink and a cheery red tea kettle was on the spotless white stove. All together it looked like a completely normal kitchen—there was nothing witchy about it at all except for a huge black pot hanging from the rack over the oven. Gwendolyn saw me eyeing it and grinned. “That’s Grams’ gumbo pot. She always says you can’t make good authentic roux in anything but cast iron.” “Oh,” I said. “I thought—” “That we were hunched over the cauldron cackling and brewing spells?” She arched an eyebrow at me. “Sorry,” I said. “I guess there’s a lot about witches I don’t know.” “That’s okay—apparently there’s a lot about vamps I don’t know,” she said, opening a spotless white refrigerator. She brought out a mason jar and held it up.