Riff Raff Quotes

That's why I've just gone on … collecting this particular kind of stuff – what you might call riff-raff. There's not a book here, Lawford, that hasn't at least a glimmer of the real thing in it – just Life, seen through a living eye, and felt. As for literature, and style, and all that gallimaufry, don't fear for them if your author has the ghost of a hint of genius in his making.

The riff-raff that exists in every society rises to the surface in any time of transition, and is utterly devoid not only of any goal, but even the slightest indication of an idea, and merely gives expression to restlessness and impatience as forcefully as it can. Meanwhile, the riff-raff, without being aware of it, almost always falls under the sway of that small band of ‘advanced people’ which acts with a definite goal, and which points all this rabble in whatever direction they please, provided that they in turn don’t consist of utter idiots as well, which, however, also happens.

A Prayer to Keep Away the Riff Raff   1 Corinthians 15:33 Do not be misled: “Bad company corrupts good character.”   Deuteronomy 1:13 Choose some wise, understanding and respected men from each of your tribes, and I will set them over you.

Since Madam Conk makes impermissible use of such things as the happenings at Azuma Bridge; since she hires underlings to spy and eavesdrop on us; since she triumphantly retails to all and sundry the products of her espionage; since by the employment of rickshaw-folk, mere grooms, plain rogues, student riff-raff, crone daily-help, midwives, witches, masseurs, and other trouble-makers she seeks to trouble a man of talent; for all these reasons even a cat must do what can be done to prevent her getting away with it.

Even at that time the hope of leaving behind messages in bottles on the flood of barbarism bursting on Europe was an amiable illusion: the desperate letters stuck in the mud of the spirit of rejuvenesence and were worked up by a band of Noble Human-Beings and other riff-raff into highly artistic but inexpensive wall-adornments. Only since then has progress in communications really got into its stride. Who, in the end, is to take it amiss if even the freest of free spirits no longer write for an imaginary posterity, more trusting, if possible, than even their contemporaries, but only for the dead God?

In this world, as in our own, nearly all the chief means of production, nearly all the land, mines, factories, railways, ships, were controlled for private profit by a small minority of the population. These privileged individuals were able to force the masses to work for them on pain of starvation. The tragic farce inherent in such a system was already approaching. The owners directed the energy of the workers increasingly towards the production of more means of production rather than to the fulfilment of the needs of individual life. For machinery might bring profit to the owners; bread would not. With the increasing competition of machine with machine, profits declined, and therefore wages, and therefore effective demand for goods. Marketless products were destroyed, though bellies were unfed and backs unclad. Unemployment, disorder, and stern repression increased as the economic system disintegrated. A familiar story! As conditions deteriorated, and the movements of charity and state-charity became less and less able to cope with the increasing mass of unemployment and destitution, the new pariah-race became more and more psychologically useful to the hate-needs of the sacred, but still powerful, prosperous. The theory was spread that these wretched beings were the result of secret systematic race-pollution by riff-raff immigrants, and that they deserved no consideration whatever. They were therefore allowed only the basest forms of employment and the harshest conditions of work. When unemployment had become a serious social problem, practically the whole pariah stock was workless and destitute. It was of course easily believed that unemployment, far from being due to the decline of capitalism, was due to the worthlessness of the pariahs.

Well, anyhow, the practical outcome of all these damn democratic ideas, is that men of our quality -- yes, damn it! we have a quality -- excuse themselves from the hard and thankless service they owe -- not to the crowd, Dick, but to the race. (Much good it will do is to shirk like that in the long run.) We will not presume, we say, no. We shrug our shoulders and leave the geese, the hungry sheep, the born followers, call them what you will, to the leaders who haven't our scruples. The poor muts swallow those dead old religions no longer fit for human consumption, and we say 'let 'em.' They devour their silly newspapers. They let themselves be distracted from public affairs by games, by gambling, by shows and coronations and every soft of mass stupidity, while the stars in their courses plot against them. We say nothing. Nothing audible. We mustn't destroy the simple faith that is marching them to disaster. We mustn't question their decisions. That wouldn't be democratic. And then we sit here and say privately that the poor riff-raff are failing to adapt themselves to those terrible new conditions -- as if they had had half a chance of knowing how things stand with them. They are shoved about by patriotisms, by obsolete religious prejudices, by racial delusions, by incomprehensible economic forces. Amid a growth of frightful machinery...

The main reason Britons sought exile in France was to escape scandal (and be able to carry on in their scandalous ways): it was the place to go for the upper-class bankrupt, bigamist, cardsharp and homosexual. They sent us their ousted leaders and dangerous revolutionaries; we sent them our posh riff-raff. Another reason for continental exile was expressed by the painter Walter Sickert in a letter from Dieppe in 1900: 'It is bloody healthy here & fucking cheap ("Fucking" used here as an adverb, not a substantive gerund).

The despot subdues his subjects, some of them by means of others, and thus is he protected by those from whom, if they were decent men, he would have to guard against himself; just as, in order to split wood, one has to use a wedge of the wood itself. Such are his archers, his guards, his halberdiers; not that they do not suffer occasionally at his hands, but this riff-raff, abandoned alike by God and man, can be led to endure evil if permitted to commit it, not against him who exploits them, but against those who like themselves submit, but are helpless.

The Gender Sonnet Woman means not weakling, but wonder. Woman means not obstinate, but original. Woman means not man-slave, but mother. Woman means not amorous, but amiable. Woman means not neurotic, but nimble. Man mustn't mean medieval, but moral. Man mustn't mean abusive, but affable. Man mustn't mean nefarious, but noble. Trans doesn't mean titillating, but tenacious. Trans doesn't mean riff-raff, but radiant. It doesn't mean abhorrent, but affectionate. It ain't nasty and sick, but nerved and sentient. Gender has no role in society except in bed. Person is known by character, not dongs 'n peaches.

And at the risk of sounding like Andy Rooney on Sixty Minutes, have you ever wondered why we say fiddle-faddle and not faddle- fiddle? Why is it ping-pong and pitter-patter rather than pong-ping and patter-pitter? Why dribs and drabs, rather than vice versa? Why can't a kitchen be span and spic? Whence riff-raff, mish-mash, flim-flam, chit-chat, tit for tat, knick-knack, zig-zag, sing-song, ding-dong, King Kong, criss-cross, shilly-shally, see-saw, hee-haw, flip-flop, hippity-hop, tick-tock, tic-tac-toe, eeny-meeny-miney-moe, bric-a-brac, clickety-clack, hickory-dickory-dock, kit and kaboodle, and bibbity-bobbity-boo? The answer is that the vowels for which the tongue is high and in the front always come before the vowels for which the tongue is low and in the back.

I drink to the health of the child prodigy who finally met the gentleman with the golden ass. Vive little Sébastien, he’ll grow up. And the Schubert song that you said you only played for me, you little viper, you played it for him, your fingers melting on the notes like butter. You’re selling yourself. You’re giving yourself to a fur-trader, a man who’s going to kill seals on their sacred ground, who’s going to set traps for wolves in the wildest, most beautiful depths of the forests, who burns their territory — a merchant whom Jesus himself chased out of the temple! You’re the one who is riff-raff, not the man who kisses me on the mouth at the public pool! That’s what happens when you think you’re delicate, different from the others: you get yourself recognized by a pig. You’ve been recognized, now go lick his feet and anything else you want.

(from) ARTAUD THE MOMO- In the humus of the plot with wheels, on the breathing humus of the plot of this void, between hard and soft. Black, violet, rigid, recreant and that's all. Which means that there is a bone, where god sat down on the poet, in order to sack the ingestion of his lines, like the head farts that he wheedles out of him through his cunt, that he would wheedle out of him from the bottom of the ages, down to the bottom of his cunt hole, and it's not a cunt prank that he plays on him in this way, it's the prank of the whole earth against whoever has balls in his cunt. And if you don't get the image, --and that's what i hear you saying in a circle, that you don't get the image which is at the bottom of my cunt hole,-- it's because you don't know the bottom, not of things, but of my cunt, mine, although since the bottom of the ages you've all been lapping there in a circle as if badmouthing an alienage, plotting an incarceration to death. ge re ghi regheghi geghena e reghena a gegha riri Between the ass and the shirt, between the gism and the under-bet, between the member and the let down, between the membrane and the blade, between the slat and the ceiling, between the sperm and the explosion, 'tween the fishbone and 'tween the slime, between the ass and everyone's seizure of the high-pressure trap of an ejaculation death rattle is neither a point nor a stone burst dead at the foot of a bound nor the severed member of a soul (the soul is nothing more than an old saw) but the terrifying suspension of a breath of alienation raped, clipped, completely sucked off by all the insolent riff-raff of all the turd-buggered who had no other grub in order to live than to gobble Artaud momo there, where one can fuck sooner than me and the other get hard higher than me in myself if he has taken care to put his head on the curvature of that bone located between anus and sex, of that hoed bone that i say in the filth of a paradise whose first dupe on earth was not father nor mother who diddled you in this den, but I screwed into my madness.

If there was one last place in which it was possible to escape the riff-raff of humanity, it was Heaven.

Stop worrying about your twin, son. He needs to learn to stand on his own two feet. And you need to hold onto what makes you happy.

You’ll never be free. As long as you keep lying, you’ll never be free.

Protected by plate armor and the pride of chivalry, the noble felt himself invulnerable and invincible and became increasingly contemptuous of the foot soldier. He believed that commoners, being excluded from chivalry, could never be relied upon in war. As grooms, baggage attendants, foragers, and road-builders—the equivalent of engineer corps—they were necessary, but as soldiers in leather jerkins armed with pikes and billhooks, they were considered an encumbrance who in a sharp fight would “melt away like snow in sunshine.” This was not simple snobbism but a reflection of experience in the absence of training. The Middle Ages had no equivalent of the Roman legion. Towns maintained trained bands of municipal police, but they tended to fill up their contingents for national defense with riff-raff good for nothing else. Abbeys had better use for their peasants than to employ their time in military drill. In any epoch the difference between a rabble and an army is training, which was not bestowed on foot soldiers called up by the arrière-ban. Despised as ineffective, they were ineffective because they were despised.

Frank and the Transylvanians might be participants in a glam rock concert. Frank indulges in sexually provocative posturing while wearing women’s underwear, and has bisexual romps with Janet and Rocky. This, alongside Magenta and Riff Raff’s possibly incestuous relationship and their deliberately mysterious and grotesque presence, could be seen as an extension of the glam-rock personas of the early 1970s. Eddie, on the other hand, is a leather-jacketed, motorbike-riding character, originally played in the United States by Meatloaf, but often characterised as looking and sounding like Elvis. This characterisation relies on the folk or country blues associations of a nostalgic rock’n’roll sound in ‘Whatever Happened to Saturday Night’. This is regarded as passé within glam rock and he is killed. Janet and Brad are associated with the lighter pop sound of ‘Damn it Janet’, which from a rock aesthetic might be regarded as superficial. Brad is made to appear insignificant and foolish, while Janet’s musical language adapts as the plot develops. Rocky’s ‘The Sword of Damocles’, draws on associations of sensuality through the use of rumba patterns and prefigures his overwhelming sexual activity.

There are two types of gambling: one is gentlemanly; the other is plebeian, greedy, the gambling for all sorts of riff-raff. The sharp distinction is strictly observed here and – how vile, in essence, is this distinction! A gentleman, for instance, may stake 5 or 10 louis d’or, rarely more than that; however, he may also stake a thousand francs if he is very rich, but simply for the sake of the game itself, simply for the sake of amusement, simply to observe the process of winning or losing; he must on no account show any interest in his winnings. When he wins he may, for instance, laugh out loud, or make a remark to one of the onlookers, and he may even stake again and then double it, but only out of curiosity, in order to observe the workings of chance, to calculate, but not for the plebeian desire to win. In a word, he must look upon all these gaming tables, roulette and trente et quarante,4 only as an amusement organized solely for his pleasure. He must not even suspect the greed and traps on which the bank depends. And it would not at all be a bad thing if, for instance, he were of the opinion that all the other gamblers, all this scum trembling over a gulden, were precisely the same sort of rich men and gentlemen as he, and that they were playing solely for the sake of diversion and amusement.

built a stone wall around the nation so tall, so deep, so strong, that the scum and riff-raff of the old world cannot get into our gates,

Hitler was determined to murder Jews rather than export them, he was quite capable of modifying his policy to embarrass the Allies if they gave him the opportunity. Goebbels wrote in his diary, 13 December 1942: ‘I believe both the British and the Americans are happy that we are exterminating the Jewish riff-raff.

This is the Lord of glory, dying amidst the scorn of the people He came to redeem. Think of Him in heaven with all authority in His hands and the angelic host around Him. Then look at Him hanging on a cross with the riff-raff of humanity sneering and gaping at him. When I realize that there He took my sin, the pollution and filthiness of my life, as if it were His very own, and then poured it into oblivion as far as the east is from the west, I say, “Lord Jesus, Thy love to me was wonderful!

Whenever I seek the deepest contrast to me, the incalculable baseness of the instincts, I always find my mother and sister — to believe that I am related to such riff-raff would be a blasphemy against my divinity. The treatment I have experienced at the hands of my mother and sister, up until this very moment, introduces in me unspeakable horror: here there is at work a perfect hell machine that, with impeccable accuracy, picks the very moment at which it can inflict a bloody wound, at my highest moments, . . . since then every power is lacking to defend oneself against such a poisonous worm . . . the physiological contiguity makes possible such a pre-established disharmony . . . But I confess that the deepest objection to the 'eternal recurrence,' my most terrible thought, is always my mother and my sister.

the homeland differed from its counterpart in 1918 as it had been cleansed of Jews and all criminal riff-raff.

They fought one with the other till all fell mortally wounded, the Great Duke of modern days alone surviving; when a new character rushed in—a doctor, with a nostrum to cure all complaints; and applying it to their noses, with some words of a cabalistic character, which sounded like, “Take some of this riff-raff up thy sniff-snaff,” he set each dead hero on his feet, ready to fight another day.