Quasimodo Quotes

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To a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire Quasimodo says. "Why was I not made of stone like thee?
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
The women laughed and wept; the crowd stamped their feet enthusiastically, for at that moment Quasimodo was really beautiful. He was handsome — this orphan, this foundling, this outcast.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback Of Notre Dame)
It’s hard to look in charge when you’re hunched over like Quasimodo.
Rick Riordan (The Red Pyramid (The Kane Chronicles, #1))
Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra trafitto da un raggio di sole: ed e subito sera Everyone stands alone at the heart of the world, pierced by a ray of sunlight, and suddenly it’s evening
Salvatore Quasimodo (Tutte le poesie)
But alas, if I have not maintained my victory, it is God's fault for not making man and the devil of equal strength.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
My misfortune is that I still resemble a man too much. I should liked to be wholly a beast like that goat. - Quasimodo
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
So you're giving up? That's it? Okay, okay. We'll leave you alone, Quasimodo. We just thought, maybe you're made up of something much stronger.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
Oh! Everything I loved!
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
He therefore turned to mankind only with regret. His cathedral was enough for him. It was peopled with marble figures of kings, saints and bishops who at least did not laugh in his face and looked at him with only tranquillity and benevolence. The other statues, those of monsters and demons, had no hatred for him – he resembled them too closely for that. It was rather the rest of mankind that they jeered at. The saints were his friends and blessed him; the monsters were his friends and kept watch over him. He would sometimes spend whole hours crouched before one of the statues in solitary conversation with it. If anyone came upon him then he would run away like a lover surprised during a serenade.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
You asked me why I saved you. You have forgotten a villain who tried to carry you off one night,- a villain to whom the very next day you brought relief upon their infamous pillory. A drop of water and a little pity are more than my whole life can ever repay. You have forgotten that villain; but he remembers." ~Quasimodo to Esmeralda~
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
Why was I not made of stone like thee? --Quasimodo[to a gargoyle on the ramparts of Notre Dame as Esmeralda rides off with Gringoire].
Victor Hugo
I'm nothing but envious that you've been happily married for two years. Try hauling your cookies on a new blind date every Friday, only to have your, already extremely low, expectations dashed as you meet men who look like Quasimodo and have Homer Simpson's IQ. 
Jane Green (Dune Road)
Or, donner la grosse cloche en mariage à Quasimodo, c'était donner Juliette à Roméo.
Victor Hugo (Notre-Dame de Paris: Tome 1)
He loved Arthur and he loved Guenever and he hated himself. The best knight of the world: everybody envied the self-esteem which must surely be his. But Lancelot never believed he was good or nice. Under the grotesque, magnificent shell with a face like Quasimodo's, there was shame and self-loathing which had been planted there when he was tiny, by something which it is now too late to trace.
T.H. White (The Once & Future King (SparkNotes Literature Guide))
Finally, there was the impediment of his nature. In the secret parts of his peculiar brain, those unhappy and inextricable tangles which he felt at the roots, the boy was disabled by something which we cannot explain. He could not have explained either, and for us it is all too long ago. He loved Arthur and he loved Guenever and he hated himself. The best knight of the world: everybody envied the self-esteem which must surely be his. But Lancelot never believed he was good or nice. Under the grotesque, magnificent shell with a face like Quasimodo’s, there was shame and self-loathing which had been planted there when he was tiny, by something which it is now too late to trace. It is so fatally easy to make young children believe that they are horrible.
T.H. White (The Once and Future King (The Once and Future King, #1-4))
He baptized his adopted child, and named him Quasimodo, either because he wished to mark in this way the day upon which the child was found, or because he wished to show by this name how imperfect and incomplete the poor little creature was. Indeed, Quasimodo, one eyed, hunchbacked, and knock kneed, was hardly more than half made.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
This is what people were looking at all day? How embarrassing! I looked like Quasimodo! My guests were exceptional actors.
Cameo Renae (In My Dreams (In My Dreams, #1))
Ognuno sta solo sul cuor della terra trafitto da un raggio di sole: ed e subito sera. (Everyone stands along on the heart of the earth transfixed by a sun ray: and suddenly it is evening.)
Salvatore Quasimodo
Quasimodo then lifted his eye to look upon the gypsy girl, whose body, suspended from the gibbet, he beheld quivering afar, under its white robes, in the last struggles of death; then again he dropped it upon the archdeacon, stretched a shapeless mass at the foot of the tower, and he said with a sob that heaved his deep breast to the bottom, 'Oh-all that I've ever loved!' The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Victor Hugo
That's what got her, of course. That everyone thought it so unbelievable that she could possibly attract a man like him. It shouldn't upset her because it was true. She couldn't. Not in this world, in this lifetime. Yet she didn't appreciated everyone else acting as if they were the most improbable twosome since Quasimodo hit on Esmeralda.
Jo Leigh (Ms. Match (The Wrong Bed #49))
The Sea Still Sounds (Già da più notti s’ode ancora il mare) Even more so at night the sea still sounds, Lightly, up and down, along the smooth sands. Echo of an enclosed voice in the mind, that returns in time; and also that assiduous lament of the gulls; birds perhaps of the summits that April drives towards the plain; already you are near to me in that voice; and I wish there might yet come to you from me, an echo of memory, like this dark murmur of the sea.
Salvatore Quasimodo
I loved to say quasi. I was saying it now a lot, instead of sort of, or kind of, and it had become a tic. "I am quasi ready to go," I would announce. Or, "I'm feeling a bit quasi today." Murph called me Quasimodo. Or Kami-quasi. Or wild and quasi girl.
Lorrie Moore (A Gate at the Stairs)
A minute afterwards he appeared upon the upper platform, still bearing the gipsy [sic] in his arms, still running wildly along, still shouting 'Sanctuary!' and the crowd still applauding. At last he made a third appearance on the summit of the tower of the great bell. From thence he seemed to show exultingly to the whole city the fair creature he had saved; and his thundering voice, that voice which was heard so seldom, and which he never heard at all, thrice repeated with frantic vehemence, even in the very clouds, 'Sactuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary! The Hunchback of Notre Dame
Victor Hugo
No, you listen! All my life, you've told me that the world is a dark, cruel place. But now I see that the only thing dark and cruel about it is people like you!
Salvatore Quasimodo
We shall not attempt to give the reader an idea of that tetrahedron nose-that horse-shoe mouth-that small left eye over-shadowed by a red bushy brow, while the right eye disappeared entirely under an enormous wart-of those straggling teeth with breaches here and there like the battlements of a fortress-of that horny lip, over which one of those teeth projected like the tusk of an elephant-of that forked chin-and, above all, of the expression diffused over the whole-that mixture of malice, astonishment, and melancholy. Let the reader, if he can, figure to himself this combination.
Victor Hugo
I promise I won’t do ‘things’ to you,” I told her, giving my inner sexual deviant a chance to speak up. He didn’t, and I felt my whole body relax. There were plenty of women in the world. Plenty of them willing to share their body with me for a night. This woman could not be one of them. “Like you even could do ‘things’ to me,” she huffed, gracing me with a look that led me to believe she thought me quite the Quasimodo. “Believe me.” I waited for her eyes to meet mine again. When they did, the green in them actually looked molten. I didn’t blink as I stretched closer. “If I wanted to – if I put my mind to it, my body into action – I could do all kinds of things to you.
Nicole Williams (Hate Story)
Who came up with the password Quasimodo?” Spade muttered as he got out of his car. “Hello, Spade,” I called out, shaking the debris off the rake I’d made from thin strips of metal and a truck axle. Spade stared up at me, revulsion and disbelief competing on his handsome face. “Lucifer’s hairy ball sack. You’ve become a Morlock.
Jeaniene Frost (Destined for an Early Grave (Night Huntress, #4))
Poetry is the revelation of a feeling that the poet believes to be interior and personal but which the reader recognizes as his own. –
Salvatore Quasimodo
هادىء هو الصوت القديم وانا لاصوات سريعة الزوال اصغى لسلوان الليل العميق فى الماء المطعم بالانجم
Salvatore Quasimodo
War, I have always said, forces men to change their standards, regardless of whether their country has won or lost. Poetics and philosophies disintegrate "when the trees fall and the walls collapse ". At the point when continuity was interrupted by the first nuclear explosion, it would have been too easy to recover the formal sediment which linked us with an age of poetic decorum, of a preoccupation with poetic sounds. After the turbulence of death, moral principles and even religious proofs are called into question. Men of letters who cling to the private successes of their petty aesthetics shut themselves off from poetry's restless presence. From the night, his solitude, the poet finds day and starts a diary that is lethal to the inert. The dark landscape yields a dialogue. The politician and the mediocre poets with their armour of symbols and mystic purities pretend to ignore the real poet. It is a story which repeats itself like the cock's crow; indeed, like the cock's third crow.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Furono trovati tra tutte quelle carcasse raccapriccianti due scheletri di cui uno teneva l'altro strettamente abbracciato. Uno di questi due scheletri, che era quello di una donna, aveva ancora qualche brandello di una veste la cui stoffa doveva essere stata bianca e intorno al collo una collana di adrézarach con un sacchettino di seta, ornato di vetri verdi, che era aperto e vuoto. Quegli oggetti avevano così poco valore che senza dubbio il boia non li aveva voluti. L'altro, che teneva questo primo scheletro strettamente abbracciato, era lo scheletro di un uomo. Fu notato che aveva la colonna vertebrale deviata, la testa nelle scapole, e una gamba più corta dell'altra. Non aveva però alcuna rottura di vertebre alla nuca, ed era evidente che non era stato impiccato. L'uomo al quale apparteneva era dunque andato là, e là vi era morto. Quando si cercò di staccarlo dallo scheletro che abbracciava, si disfece in polvere. " - Notre-Dame de Paris, V. Hugo
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre-Dame)
Dammi il mio giorno; ch'io mi cerchi ancora un volto d'anni sopito che un cavo d'acque riporti in trasparenza, e ch'io pianga amore di me stesso. Ti cammino sul cuore, ed è un trovarsi d'astri in arcipelaghi insonni, notte, fraterni a me fossile emerso da uno stanco flutto; un incurvarsi d'orbite segrete dove siamo fitti coi macigni e l'erbe.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Seven Versions" 1. The Kiss Massive languor, languor hammered; Sentient languor, languor dissected; Languor deserted, reignite your sidereal fires; Holier languor, arise from love. The wood’s owl has come home. 2. Beyond Sunlight I can’t shakle one of your ankles as if you were a falcon, but nothing can prevent me from following, no matter how far, even beyond sunlight where Jesus becomes visible: I’ll follow, I will wait, I will never give up until I understand why you are going away from me. 3. A Man Wound His Watch In the darkness the man wound his watch before secreting it under his pillow. Then he went to sleep. Outside, the wind was blowing. You who comprehend the repercussions of the faintest gesture—you will understand. A man, his watch, the wind. What else is there? 4. For Which There Is No Name Let me have what the tree has and what it can never lose, let me have it and lose it again, blurred lines the wind draws with the darkness it gets from summer nights, formless indescribable darkness. Either give me back my gladness, or the courage to think about how it was lost to me. Give me back, not what I see, but my sight. Let me meet you again owning nothing but what is in the past. Let me inherit the very thing I am forbidden. And let me continue to seek, though I know it is futile, the only heaven that I could endure: unhurting you. 5. The Composer People said he was overly fond of the good life and ate like a pig. Yet the servant who brought him his chocolate in bed would sometimes find him weeping quietly, both plump pink hands raised slightly and conducting, evidently, in small brief genuflective feints. He experienced the reality of death as music. 6. Detoxification And I refuse to repent of my drug use. It gave me my finest and happiest hours. And I have been wondering: will I use drugs again? I will if my work wants me to. And if drugs want me to. 7. And Suddenlty It’s Night You stand there alone, like everyone else, the center of the world’s attention, a ray of sunlight passing through you. And suddenly it’s night. Franz Wright, iO: A Journal of New American Poetry, Vol I Issue I . (May 15th, 2011) The individual sections of “Seven Versions” ia based, loosely—some very loosely—on poems by Rene Char, Rumi, Yannis Ritsos, Natan Zach, Günther Eich, Jean Cocteau, and Salvatore Quasimodo.
Franz Wright
In 1482, Quasimodo was about twenty years of age; Claude Frollo, about thirty-six. One had grown up, the other had grown old.
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)
«Mater dulcissima, ora scendono le nebbie, il Naviglio urta confusamente sulle dighe, gli alberi si gonfiano d'acqua, bruciano di neve; non sono triste nel Nord: non sono in pace con me, ma non aspetto perdono da nessuno, molti mi devono lacrime da uomo a uomo. So che non stai bene, che vivi come tutte le madri dei poeti, povera e giusta nella misura d'amore per i figli lontani. Oggi sono io che ti scrivo.» - Finalmente, dirai, due parole di quel ragazzo che fuggì di notte con un mantello corto e alcuni versi in tasca. Povero, così pronto di cuore lo uccideranno un giorno in qualche luogo. - «Certo, ricordo, fu da quel grigio scalo di treni lenti che portavano mandorle e arance, alla foce dell'Imera, il fiume pieno di gazze, di sale, d'eucalyptus. Ma ora ti ringrazio, questo voglio, dell'ironia che hai messo sul mio labbro, mite come la tua. Quel sorriso m'ha salvato da pianti e da dolori. E non importa se ora ho qualche lacrima per te, per tutti quelli che come te aspettano, e non sanno che cosa. Ah, gentile morte, non toccare l'orologio in cucina che batte sopra il muro tutta la mia infanzia è passata sullo smalto del suo quadrante, su quei fiori dipinti: non toccare le mani, il cuore dei vecchi. Ma forse qualcuno risponde? O morte di pietà, morte di pudore. Addio, cara, addio, mia dulcissima mater.»
Salvatore Quasimodo
ايها الخريف الرائق جمعت نفسى وانحنيت على مائك لاشرب الافق تحليقا ناعما لاشجار وفجوات الم ولادة مبرح وجدنى متحدا بك وفى داخلك انفجرت ما انا معافى شىء هوى لاقيمة له لتلملم اجزاءه الارض
Salvatore Quasimodo
We have here very high towers; a man who should fall from one would be dead before he touched the pavement; when it shall please you to have me to fall, you will not have to even utter a word, a glance will suffice.
Victor Hugo
…Grant me, sad renewal, the odour of childhood, that welcomed meagre joy, already sick with a secret love of telling stories to the waters.
Salvatore Quasimodo
Esmeralda [in Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre Dame] is afraid to look up at Quasimodo while she gladly pets his nanny-goat with its horns and hooves, so that Quasimodo groans, ‘My misfortune is that I still resemble a man too much. I would like to be entirely a beast, like this she-goat.’ If the Bohemian beauty had taken Quasimodo as an entirely separate species and not as a deformed specimen of humanity, no doubt she would have learned to cuddle up to him without disgust, just like a cute little lamb, which, if she were to judge it by classical ideals for the young male human figure, would appear to her like a hideous monster.
Fabrice Hadjadj (The Resurrection: Experience Life in the Risen Christ)
How you are more distant than the moon,
Salvatore Quasimodo
Quasimodo allora alzò nuovamente lo sguardo sull’egiziana di cui vedeva il corpo, appeso alla forca, fremere da lontano sotto l’abito bianco negli ultimi spasimi dell’agonia, poi li abbassò sull’arcidiacono disteso ai piedi della torre senza più forma umana, e disse con un singhiozzo dal profondo del petto: «Oh! Tutto ciò ce ho amato!»" -Notre-Dame de Paris, V. Hugo
Victor Hugo (The Hunchback of Notre Dame)
born in England. He is remembered for character roles such as Henry VIII (The Private Life of Henry VIII, 1933) and Captain Bligh (Mutiny on the Bounty, 1935); he also played Quasimodo in The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1939). launce n. another term for SAND EEL. early 17th cent.: early variant of LANCE (because of its shape). Linked entries: SAND EEL ■ LANCE ■ Laun·ce·lot variant spelling of LANCELOT. Linked entries: LANCELOT ■ launch 1 v. [trans.]
Erin McKean (The New Oxford American Dictionary)
People are bound to recognize the name Quasimodo.” “Why is that?” “Because he rings a bell.
J.A. Konrath (Jack Daniels Series (Jack Daniels Mystery #1-3))
This is the basic position. It’s important to maintain your space. No noodle arms, got it?” “Got it.” She stiffened her arms, all the better to keep him at a distance. “Let’s go through the basic box step slow. I’ll count it off.” She drew in a breath and blew it out slowly through her mouth. “Five. Six. Seven. Eight. One-two-three. One—that was my foot.” “I know that was your foot.” She pulled her arms away and rubbed the back of her neck with her cold hand. She couldn’t think when he was so close. Didn’t like the way he made her feel, all agitated and nervous and awkward. Why was she doing this to herself? “Let’s try again.” “I don’t think I can do it.” “You’ll get it.” He took her in his arms. Meridith took another calming breath. Focus. He counted them off and took them slowly through the box step. This time she made it around without treading on him. “You got it. Again.” They repeated the box step a dozen more times, faltering a few times when she stepped on his foot or knocked him with her knee. “Again,” he said over and over each time she misstepped. When they were almost up to tempo, Meridith started feeling more confident. She could do this. One-two-three, one-two-three. She was doing this. “Straighten up, Quasimodo.” Did he have to be so rude? She shot him a glare. If it was posture he wanted, it was posture he’d get. She pulled herself up to her full five foot three. In her concentration on posture, her steps suffered, and she trod on his foot. He stopped. “Too much give in your arms. When they’re loose, I can’t lead you. You can’t feel where you need to go. Close your eyes.” “What?” “Close your eyes. Communication between partners is through subtle movements. I’m waiting.” She sighed hard but closed her eyes. Suddenly all the periphery details now took center stage. The feel of his fingers on her back, his thumb aligned under her arm. The roughness of his palm against hers. The manly smell of him. “Maintain resistance.” No problem there. “Your arms are like spaghetti, Meri.” “Meridith.” She stiffened her arms. Her mouth felt as dry as sand. She didn’t like that he could see her and she couldn’t see him. “Better. Let’s go through the box step again with your eyes closed. Feel me guiding you with my arms.” He counted them off, and they started around the box slowly. Her feet knew what to do by now, and he was right. She could feel him guiding her if she kept her arms rigid. They went around and around the square.
Denise Hunter (Driftwood Lane (Nantucket, #4))