Raleigh Quotes

Tell me why the stars do shine, Tell me why the ivy twines, Tell me what makes skies so blue, And I'll tell you why I love you. Nuclear fusion makes stars to shine, Tropisms make the ivy twine, Raleigh scattering make skies so blue, Testicular hormones are why I love you.

I wish I loved the human Race, I wish I loved its silly face, and when I'm introduced to one, I wish I thought "what jolly fun"!

When you fall in love with a work of art, you’d die to meet the artist. I am a student of the galleries of Pacific sunsets, full moon rises on the ocean, the clouds from an airplane, autumn forests in Raleigh, first fallen snows. And I’m dying to meet the artist.

Who did she know in Raleigh who took the time off to fix a house? Or read Whitman or Eliot, finding images in the mind, thoughts of the spirit? Or hunted dawn from the bow of a canoe? These weren't the things that drove society, but she felt they shouldn't be treated as unimportant. They made living worthwhile.

But Love is a durable fire in the mind ever burning Never sick, never old, never dead From itself, never turning.

Romance goes like this: Boy gets girl. Boy loses girl. Boy gets girl again. The end. It can't be any other way.

The world itself is but a large prison, out of which some are daily led to execution.

I hear Raleigh's new accounting business isn't doing well. Maybe up in New York or somewhere it's a good thing, but in Jackson, Mississippi, people just don't care to do business with a rude, condescending asshole.

I wish I loved the Human Race; I wish I loved its silly face; I wish I liked the way it walks; I wish I liked the way it talks; And when I’m introduced to one, I wish I thought “What Jolly Fun!

When I write, I can be heard. And known. But nobody has to look at me. Nobody has to see me at all.

Ms. Kendrick, are you listening to me?” Headmaster Raleigh asked. Not in the least. “Yes, sir.” The sir seemed to appease him somewhat.

All we are, all we can be, are the stories we tell," he says, and he is talking as if he is talking only to me. "Long after we are gone, our words will be all that is left, and who is to say what really happened or even what reality is? Our stories, our fiction, our words will be as close to truth as can be. And no one can take that away from you.

Why do people want everyone to act just like they do? Talk like they do. Look like they do. Act like they do. And if you don't— If you don't, people make the assumption that you do not FEEL what they feel. And then they make the assumption— That you must not feel anything at all.

And then, just as quickly, the clouds returned, leaving us to walk by faith, not by sight.

With a hand on the back of his neck, Raleigh pulled him down until their foreheads touched. “I love you. I want to suffocate you in your sleep with your pillow sometimes, but I love you.” Steven chuckled and nipped Raleigh’s full bottom lip. “I love you too, Cony.” Running his fingers through the back of the thick black hair, Steven urged Raleigh forward. “Please don’t murder me in my sleep.” Their lips met.

Fain would I climb, yet fear I to fall.

What is our life? A play of passion. Our mirth the music of division. Our mother's wombs the tyring houses be, Where we are drest for this short Comedy. Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is, That sits and marks still who doth act amiss, Our graves that hide us from the searching sun, Are like drawn curtains when the play is done. Thus march we playing to our latest rest, Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

Courage is contagious: When one person of courage stands up, others are affected and stand up with him

And what people see the most is his silence, because some kinds of silence is actually visible.

Sir Walter Raleigh had envisioned: “Whosoever commands the seas commands the trade of the world; whosoever commands the trade of the world commands the riches of the world.

Even such is Time * Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-1618) *These lines are said to have been composed by Sir Walter Raleigh on the night before his execution.

There was a pretty fair bike shop in McLean, and Bernstein drove there to kill a couple of hours and look halfheartedly for a replacement for his beloved Raleigh. But his mind was on Jeb Magruder. He had picked up a profoundly disturbing piece of information that day: Magruder was a bike freak. Bernstein had trouble swallowing the information that a bicycle nut could be a Watergate bugger.

I wish I loved the Human Race; I wish I loved its silly face; I wish I liked the way it walks; I wish I liked the way it talks: And when I’m introduced to one I wish I thought What Jolly Fun! —Sir Walter A. Raleigh

I am reminded that I no longer have to wonder, or look back at what was left behind. Because I know who and what I am, and I know where I am going. And I know that when I finally get there, you'll be coming to join me. Because we'll always wind up at the same place when the sun goes down for good, Raleigh. We are all together in this incomprehensible wait.

Sometimes there is nothing to hold me together.

False love, desire, and beauty frail, adieu! Dead is the root whence all these fancies grew.

But really, if you ask me, there is only one kid of plot. One. Stuff happens. That's it.

There are many, many different worlds to live in. And sometimes there is no connection from one to another.

PASSIONS are likened best to floods and streams: The shallow murmur, but the deep are dumb;

I was terrified of him but at the same time wanted him to desire me. I wanted him to care for me and protect me.

On the East Coast, sunrise will steal the breath right out of your body.

Raleigh

My past might be the scattered shrapnel of a detonated grenade, but Raleigh is the truth of my Now.

The Wood is that that makes the gallows tree; The Weed is that that strings the hangman's bag; The Wag, my pretty knave, betokens thee.

I wrapped my arms around him, threading my fingers through his hair, wanting to be as close as humanly possible to this person I loved so much.

Alex isn’t safe enough to be right for me, and I’m not whole enough to be right for him, either. That’s really all there is to it.

I have provided a possible explanation for Antiochus's insane foolhardiness when left in command of the Athenian Fleet, because Thucidides's bald account is so unbelievable (unless one assumes that both Antiochus and Alkibiades were mentally defective) that any explanation seems more likely than none. Alkibiades himself is an enigma. Even allowing that no man is all black and all white, few men can ever have been more wildly and magnificently piebald. Like another strange and contradictory character Sir Walter Raleigh, he casts a glamour that comes clean down the centuries, a dazzle of personal magnetism that makes it hard to see the man behind it. I have tried to see. I have tried to fit the pieces into a coherent whole; I don't know whether I have been successful or not; but I do not think that I have anywhere falsified the portrait.

Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum, Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati. Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,— “From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care, Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are.

Will read a poem by Sir Walter Raleigh at his grandmother's funeral. "Pondering the joys we had, listen & keep very still. If the lowing from the hill or the tolling of the bell do not serve to break the spell, listen: you may be allowed to hear my laughter from a cloud.

I imagine us being together. I imagine having you to myself, that you were mine. It's so easy to picture walking down the hallway at Raleigh with your hand in mine because I know it would be easy. It would be so much fucking better because I wouldn't be alone anymore. I could fall in love with you, Alex. I could see myself doing that.” I nod, trying not to stumble over the terrifying words. “It wouldn’t take much

Even such is Time, which takes in trust Our youth, our joys, and all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days.

It was a boy with a clean record, a winning smile and a glorious halo who broke me. Ironically, it’s the boy with the rap sheet, a body full of ink and the dangerous glint in his eye who’s putting me back together.

When the grand twelve million jury of our sins and sinful fury, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Christ pleads his death, and then we live. Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader, unblotted lawyer, true proceeder.

Our taste must always be, more or less, the victim of our limitations, but we should beware of glorying in it, and, above all, we should beware of mistaking the aversions of timidity and sensibility for critical judgments.

Thou mayest be sure that he that will in private tell thee of thy faults is thy friend, for he adventures thy dislike and hazards thy hatred; for there are few men that can endure it, every man for the most part delighting in self-praise, which is one of the most universal fallies that bewitcheth mankind

It occurred to me that a lot of beauty has to do with believing it yourself. That half of what we see is just the way it is presented.

Know how to live with the time that is given you.

Modesty is good. But take your credit. You can't always count on other people to offer it.

Because it was a selfish prayer, and selfish prayers don't get answered.

It's not about what makes you feel better or worse. If it's the right thing to do and you know it, you should do it.

Anger sends out a strange energy, like a force field in a science fiction movie. It repels. It destroys.

Old elbows," she told me. "A woman's elbows always give her age away.

Thou may be sure that he who will tell thee of thy faults is thy friend, for he ventures thy dislike and doth hazard thy hatred.

These were such friendly people, they didn't notice how crabby we were, and before you knew it everyone was as happy as they were.

A professional man of letters, especially if he is much at war with unscrupulous enenemies, is naturally jealous of his privacy... so it was, I think, with Dryden.

You can not know any better and still know you don't like something" -Ruby

And broken things can be fixed.

You’re the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever witnessed with my own two eyes. I am watching you just as much as you’re watching me…and I don’t trust myself to look away.

...Raleigh was later to write, after a duel the hangman was the one who bestowed the garland on the victor.

As she walked up the street, Raleigh couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just struck a deal with the devil.

Shakespeare was not even able to perform a function that we consider today as perfectly normal and ordinary a function as reading itself. He could not, as the saying goes, “look something up.” Indeed the very phrase—when it is used in the sense of “searching for something in a dictionary or encyclopedia or other book of reference”—simply did not exist. It does not appear in the English language, in fact, until as late as 1692, when an Oxford historian named Anthony Wood used it. Since there was no such phrase until the late seventeenth century, it follows that there was essentially no such concept either, certainly not at the time when Shakespeare was writing—a time when writers were writing furiously, and thinkers thinking as they rarely had before. Despite all the intellectual activity of the time there was in print no guide to the tongue, no linguistic vade mecum, no single book that Shakespeare or Martin Frobisher, Francis Drake, Walter Raleigh, Francis Bacon, Edmund Spenser, Christopher Marlowe, Thomas Nash, John Donne, Ben Jonson, Izaak Walton, or any of their other learned contemporaries could consult.

You know how they say there's only one thing in the universe that's constant?' Jonas started. 'Change. Change is the only constant in the universe. And left alone, all things return to chaos.

Stories abound of Waters confirming black and white children together in the Cathedral of the Sacred Heart in Raleigh, of his insisting on having white and black acolytes at masses at which he presided, and of his requiring the diocesan newspaper to cover the activities of black Catholics and their parishes with as much interest as they covered those of white Catholics in the diocese.

What was costly was not the shot but coming back without good pictures to choose from. The light was perfect, orange gray, casting long shadows. The city seemed to reveal more the darker it got.

Back at the office, Woodward went to the rear of the newsroom to call Deep Throat. Bernstein wished he had a source like that. The only source he knew who had such comprehensive knowledge in any field was Mike Schwering, who owned Georgetown Cycle Sport Shop. There was nothing about bikes - and, more important, bike thieves - that Schwering didn't know. Bernstein knew something about bike thieves: the night of the Watergate indictments, somebody had stolen his 10-speed Raleigh from a parking garage. That was the difference between him and Woodward. Woodward went into a garage to find a source who could tell him what Nixon's men were up to. Bernstein walked into a garage to find an eight-pound chain cut neatly in two and his bike gone. -- Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward

Sir Walter Raleigh, said to have written on a window with a diamond to Queen Elizabeth: "Fain would I climb, but yet fear I to fall." Queen Elizabeth: "If thy heart fail thee, then climb not at all.

Boys are not supposed to cry. Because when they do, things get worse. Then suddenly you have two problems. You have whatever it was that made you cry in the first place, and then you also have the problem that you are a boy crying. And someone is bound to let you know this is worse. So now you have two problems.

Some people, like teachers and librarians and other adults, like to say that names are not important. Like sticks and stones. But they are wrong. Every word you choose means something you think it means, and more.

I am like a leaf on a river, riding along the top of the water, not quite floating, not quite drowning. So I can't stop, and I can't control the direction I am going. I can feel the water, but I never know which way I am heading. But I might feel lucky this day and avoid the sticks and branches scratching and pulling at me.

But just because you can't see something doesn't mean it's not there. And just because you don't remember something doesn't mean you don't miss it. And just because you are used to something doesn't mean it's normal" -Ruby

She crooks an eyebrow at me, and I mirror her expression, making her smile. Fuck. Me. Dead. I made her smile. … God, how am I ever going to be worthy of this girl? I have no clue, but I'm gonna figure it out if it kills me.

Just…stop. Quit hiding from the hard stuff. I’m not fucking hiding from it. Not anymore. If you can’t just be real for one second, then I’ll do it for the both of us. My life is a fucking mess right now. I have so much shit going on, and I’ve been trying my best to forget that you even exist, but I can’t, okay? I like you. I care about you.

She holds the bills between her fingers. Her training tells her to be polite, but his self-satisfied largesse irritates her. "What does the gentleman think I will do with his extra baht?" she asks. "Buy a pretty piece of jewelry? Take myself out to dinner? I am property, yes? I am Raleigh's." She tosses the money at his feet. "It makes no difference if I am rich or poor. I am owned." The man pauses, one hand on the sliding door. "Why not run away, then?" "To where?

Break you?” he whispers. “I don’t break the things I love, Argento. I fix them. I repair them. I treasure them. I do ridiculous, insane, very illegal things to make sure I don’t lose them. I sure as hell don’t break them. I also do not wear boots.

Passengers in the row behind muttered the Lord’s Prayer. Ella, however, had no plans to make her final peace with God or die in the clouds. She had a battle to conduct on the ground, after she’d cleared baggage claim at the Raleigh-Durham International Airport.

Is this the part where you pretend you’re late for something, make your excuses and you leave?” I whisper. Alex huffs out a shallow, soft burst of laughter. “No, Dolcezza. This is the part when I realize you’ve stolen my fucking soul and I have no chance of ever getting it back.

The better country club operated on the principle that Raleigh mattered, that its old families were fine ones, and that they needed a place where they could enjoy one another’s company without being pawed at. Had we not found this laughable, our country club might have felt desperate.

Well, the earring tells us he was bohemian,” she explained. “An earring on a man meant the same then as it does now—that the wearer was a little more fashionably racy than the average person. Drake and Raleigh were both painted with earrings. It was their way of announcing that they were of an adventurous disposition.

the Pednosophers who, by one name or another, actually did exist in late 16th century London. It numbered among its members Marlowe and Raleigh. (‘Its president is in the Azores,’ says Cotton, of Raleigh. And so he was.) Probably only one reader in a million will detect this obscure reference. I pray it’s the reviewer for The New York Times.

I'm constantly having to give people geography and history lessons on how my grandmother's hometown is 65 percent Afro-Puerto Rican, on how the majority of slaves were dropped off in the Caribbean and Latin America, on how just because our Black comes with bomba and mofongo doesn't mean it isn't valid. And it seems I'm always defending the parts of me that I've inherited from my mother: the roots that come from this country, the facts that Aunt Sarah tells me about our people in the Raleigh area, the little sayings she slips into her emails that I know come from her mother, and her mother's mother, and her mother's mother's mother, to the first African mother who touched foot on this here land. The same wisdom I whisper to Babygirl every now and then, a reminder of where, and who, we are from. This stuff is complicated. But it's like I'm some long-division problem folks keep wanting to parcel into pieces, and they don't hear me when I say: I don't reduce, homies. The whole of me is Black. The whole of me is whole.

Your life is fucked up, too. But I see you, Silver. I see you looking at me, and I can feel the want in you. This playing around, tiptoeing around the truth is just fucking…it's fucking pointless. You like me, too. You care about me, too. You don't know why yet, but I can show you. I'm a risk. I'm a danger. I'm not a fucking safe bet by anyone's standards. But I can be good for you if you let me. At least I think I can. You're the first fucking person in this entire world who’s ever made me want to fucking try.

It is said that Deucalion and Pyrrha created men by throwing stones over their heads behind them:— Inde genus durum sumus, experiensque laborum, Et documenta damus qua simus origine nati. Or, as Raleigh rhymes it in his sonorous way,— "From thence our kind hard-hearted is, enduring pain and care, Approving that our bodies of a stony nature are.

Because there is a need to hear one story and to tell another.

In fact, being a unique individual is as much of a farce as trying to be like everyone else. Maybe more.

The Engine Is The Heart Of An Airplane But The Pilot Is Its Soul.

Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Raleigh brought from the new world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption, the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will, understanding, all. That is to say, he brought the poison a hundred years before another person whose name I forget brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look at our public

Anderson forces a laugh. "Of course." He smiles, but inside he is seething. He'll have to deal with Raleigh. And now perhaps Carlyle as well. He's been sloppy. He eyes the ngaw with disgust. He's been waving his latest interest in front of everyone. Grahamites, even, and now this. It's too easy to get comfortable. To forget all the lines of exposure. And then one day in a bar, someone slaps you in the face.

For me, it feels like… I don’t know, like the sun after a storm, maybe. For so long it seemed like it wasn’t there, but when the clouds pass, the sun just covers everything. Warms everything. That’s how I think it feels for me.

The best test for measuring LDL particles is the NMR Lipoprofile test from Liposcience in Raleigh, North Carolina. NMR is the acronym for “nuclear magnetic resonance” and it is the best commercial lab test using this state-of-the-art technology to determine the nature of your LDL particles—whether they are mostly the large, fluffy Pattern A kind (the good ones) or the small, dense Pattern B type (the bad ones). Your LDL-P number is far more relevant to heart health than your LDL-C will ever be.

He that doth not as other men do, but endeavoureth that which ought to be done, shall thereby rather incur peril than preservation; for whoso laboureth to be sincerely perfect and good shall necessarily perish, living among men that are generally evil.

Why the hell would I intrigue you, for Christ’s sake?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re still standing. Because, after everything you went through, you didn’t fucking break.” He’s so close to me now. Closer than he’s ever been before. I’m unsteady on my feet, and my heart is rioting against my ribs, as though it’s trying to break free from its cage and flee the scene of a crime. “Strength is drawn to strength, Silver, and I think there’s a chance that you might be the strongest person I have ever met.

Unlike my father and millions of Chinese, everyone in America—every man, woman and child, whether rich or poor— has the freedom to choose, freedom to shape his or her own destiny. Don’t you agree that you can better manage your own life than other people can?

We have, then, three Books wholly and one partially written before, and two after, the Preface; and only one of the first four is consistent with it, while the two later are entirely in agreement with it. In the first group, the adventure which fits into the scheme in the Letter is the first of all, which is a significant fact. If Spenser were somewhat hastily reconstructing his scheme he would naturally test its coherence with what he had already written in the first Book and perhaps re-write certain passages. He may have forgotten the details of Books II and III or Raleigh's urgency may have left no time for the adjustment of the details. These discrepancies are all connected with the twelve days' Feast and Gloriana's appointment of the knights, and this part may well have been suggested by Raleigh. He probably intended the poem not only to make Spenser's fortune at court but also to reinstate himself in the Queen's favour. In the circumstances he would wish to make the reference to the Queen as clear and as flattering as possible.

His words have the finality of true authority. Reflexively, Emiko starts to bow, acquiescing to his wishes. She stops short. You are not a dog, she reminds herself. You are not a servant. Service has gotten you abandoned amongst demons in a city of divine beings. If you act like a servant, you will die like a dog. She straightens. "So sorry, I must go north, Raleigh-san. Soon. How much would it cost? I will earn it." "You're like a goddamn cheshire." Raleigh stands suddenly. "You just keep coming back to pick over the dead.

All, or the greatest part of men that have aspired to riches or power, have attained thereunto either by force or fraud, and what they have by craft or cruelty gained, to cover the foulness of their fact, they call purchase, as a name more honest. Howsoever, he that for want of will or wit useth not those means, must rest in servitude and poverty.

SHAKESPEARE What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more (Hamlet) There is no one kind of Shakespearean hero, although in many ways Hamlet is the epitome of the Renaissance tragic hero, who reaches his perfection only to die. In Shakespeare's early plays, his heroes are mainly historical figures, kings of England, as he traces some of the historical background to the nation's glory. But character and motive are more vital to his work than praise for the dynasty, and Shakespeare's range expands considerably during the 1590s, as he and his company became the stars of London theatre. Although he never went to university, as Marlowe and Kyd had done, Shakespeare had a wider range of reference and allusion, theme and content than any of his contemporaries. His plays, written for performance rather than publication, were not only highly successful as entertainment, they were also at the cutting edge of the debate on a great many of the moral and philosophical issues of the time. Shakespeare's earliest concern was with kingship and history, with how 'this sceptr'd isle' came to its present glory. As his career progressed, the horizons of the world widened, and his explorations encompassed the geography of the human soul, just as the voyages of such travellers as Richard Hakluyt, Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Francis Drake expanded the horizons of the real world.

There were absolutely amazing photographs everywhere, on everyone's Facebook page and everyone's iPhone and Instagram, just floating around in cyberspace for eternity. People took hundreds and thousands of digital pictures; one or two, even twenty or a hundred, were bound to be great. All anyone had to do was click through them all and post the ones they liked, deleting the rest. But using film meant you never knew what was going to be a good picture, let alone a great one, until you were standing there looking at a contact sheet with a magnifying glass and deciding which to print. Maybe nobody cared anymore, but then again, writers probably felt the same way when word processors were invented. Anyone with a story and a keyboard could write their memoir now, write the great American novel, or tweet a 140-character trope that gets retweeted and it read by hundreds of people every hour of every day.

Swaggering in the coffee-houses and ruffling it in the streets were the men who had sailed with Frobisher and Drake and Sir Humphrey Gilbert, Hawkins, and Sir Richard Granville; had perhaps witnessed the heroic death of Sir Philip Sidney, at Zutphen; had served with Raleigh in Anjou, Picardy, Languedoc, in the Netherlands, in the Irish civil war; had taken part in the dispersion of the Spanish Armada, and in the bombardment of Cadiz; had filled their cups to the union of Scotland with England; had suffered shipwreck on the Barbary Coast, or had, by the fortune of war, felt the grip of the Spanish Inquisition; who could tell tales of the marvels seen in new-found America and the Indies, and, perhaps, like Captain John Smith, could mingle stories of the naive simplicity of the natives beyond the Atlantic, with charming narratives of the wars in Hungary, the beauties of the seraglio of the Grand Turk, and the barbaric pomp of the Khan of Tartary.

Dio, che stupido era stato a lasciarsi andare alla collera! Non era così che sarebbe riuscito a proteggerla. Perché, se non poteva averla, almeno avrebbe fatto di tutto per tenerla sotto la sua ala protettrice, come un pulcino indifeso. Per la verità, più che un pulcino indifeso in quel momento gli parve una gatta pronta a graffiare. Quando si decise a parlare, la sua voce uscì controllata e bassa. «Camille, state prendendo questa storia del giornalismo troppo seriamente…» La lingua di lei scattò come una lama acuminata. «Dal momento che mi pagate per farlo, dovreste esserne soddisfatto.» Già. Frank scosse la testa, irritato dalla logica inattaccabile di lei, poi si alzò e si sedette al suo fianco, abbastanza da poterne respirare il calore e il profumo. Per un istante temette che se ne andasse, ma invece rimase ferma, le mani in grembo, lo sguardo basso. «Voi non potete capire, Mr Raleigh…» «Cosa, di grazia?» «Cosa questo lavoro significhi per me…» Lui deglutì, cercando di non rispondere in modo affrettato, cercando di assorbire ogni più piccolo particolare di lei. Le mani sottili, la nuca bianca disegnata da alcuni riccioli sfuggiti allo chignon, il profilo perfetto, le lunghe ciglia, il seno armonioso che si muoveva al ritmo del respiro accelerato. Sospirando, si passò la mano fra i capelli e distolse lo sguardo prima che gli saltassero in testa delle pessime idee. «In effetti, non riesco a capire cosa significhi per voi. Non è che un lavoro, in fondo. Spiegatemelo, vi prego, Miss Brontee.» Con lentezza Camille si girò verso di lui, gli occhi che brillavano. «Ecco… significa tutto.»

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