Rupert Lowe Quotes

People talk about nightfall, or night falling, or dusk falling, and it’s never seemed right to me. Perhaps they once meant befalling. As in night befalls. As in night happens. Perhaps they, whoever they were, thought of a falling sun. That might be it, except that that ought to give us dayfall. Day fell on Rupert the Bear. And we know, if we’ve ever read a book, that day doesn’t fall or rise. It breaks. In books, day breaks, and night falls. In life, night rises from the ground. The day hangs on for as long as it can, bright and eager, absolutely and positively the last guest to leave the party, while the ground darkens, oozing night around your ankles, swallowing for ever that dropped contact lens, making you miss that low catch in the gully on the last ball of the last over.

That man," she said in low but still audible tones, "is an idiot." "Yes, madam, but he's all we've got." "I may be stupid," Rupert said, "but I'm irresistibly attractive." "Good grief, conceited too," she muttered. "And being a great, dumb ox," he went on, "I'm wonderfully easy to manage." She paused and turned to Beechey. "Are you sure there's no one else?

If you want to work your stinking job and pay into a pension plan for the rest of your days then fine; if you want to visit the supermarket once a week and feel great about yourself for finding the best offers on low fat microwave meals then fine; if you want to click around them computers all night, chatting to your Aunt Sally in Honolulu then fine; if you want to drink in moderation so you don’t end up shitting the bed then fine; if you want to continue the cycle of obedient drones then fine; if you want to resent how average your life has turned out in return for a salary that buys you nothing more than permanent misery then fine. All fine and dandy. Go right ahead. Just leave me the fuck out of it.

I'm the bride," Rebecca said from the doorway,bringing the room to momentary silence. Her remark brought every eye in the room to her, inculding Rupert's. "You forgot to say lucky bride, didn't you?" Rupert asked in a low voice as he stood beside her. That was the usual response of a new bride, she supposed,but it definitely didn't apply to her. "No,I didn't," she whispered back with a false smile. "But I managed to withhold the 'unlucky' that was on the tip of my tongue. You can thank me later.

At length, one evening towards the end of March, the mental clearness of Orange somewhat revived, and he felt himself compelled to get up and put on his clothes. The nurse, thinking that the patient was resting quietly, and fearing the shine of the lamp might distress him, had turned it low and gone away for a little: so it was without interruption, although reeling from giddiness, and scorched with fever, that Rupert groped about till he found some garments, and his evening suit. Clad in these, and throwing a cloak over his shoulders, he went downstairs. Those whom he met, that recognized him, looked at him wonderingly and with a vague dread; but he appeared to have his understanding as well as they, and so he passed through the hall without being stopped; and going into the bar, he called for brandy. The bar-tender, to whom he was known, exclaimed in astonishment; but he got no reply from Orange, who, pouring himself out a large quantity of the fiery liquor found it colder than the coldest iced water in his burning frame. When he had taken the brandy, he went into the street. It was a bleak seasonable night, and a bitter frost-rain was falling: but Orange went through it, as if the bitter weather was a not unwelcome coolness, although he shuddered in an ague-fit. As he stood on the corner of Twenty-third Street, his cloak thrown open, the sleet sowing down on his shirt, and the slush which covered his ankles soaking through his thin shoes, a member of his club came by and spoke to him. "Why, good God! Orange, you don't mean to say you're out on a night like this! You must be much better--eh?" he broke off, for Orange had given him a grey look, with eyes in which there was no speculation; and the man hurried away scared and rather aghast. "These poet chaps are always queer fishes," he muttered uneasily, as he turned into the Fifth Avenue Hotel. Of the events of terror and horror which happened on that awful night, when a human soul was paying the price of an astonishing violation of the order of the universe, no man shall ever tell. Blurred, hideous, and enormous visions of dives, of hells where the worst scum of the town consorted, of a man who spat on him, of a woman who struck him across the face with her umbrella, calling him the foulest of names--visions such as these, and more hateful than these, presented themselves to Orange, when he found himself, at three o'clock in the morning, standing under a lamp-post in that strange district of New York called "The Village." ("The Bargain Of Rupert Orange")

Good night, Major,” she said. Just when she would have turned and run inside he caught hold of her hand. “Tell me why your brother let you come all this way by yourself.” The words had the tone of an order, however politely they were framed, and Lily tried, without success, to withdraw her fingers from his grip. “I am almost nineteen years old,” she responded briskly. “I didn’t ask Rupert’s permission.” Guiltily, she thought of how she’d left Spokane, where Rupert lived now, without telling her adopted brother good-bye or thanking him for his many kindnesses. Another slow, smoldering grin spread across the major’s face. “So you ran away,” he guessed with distressing accuracy. “No,” Lily lied. “In any case, this is none of your business.” “Isn’t it?” Major Halliday turned her hand in his and began stroking the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist with the pad of his thumb. The motion produced a series of disturbing sensations within Lily, not the least of which was a warm heaviness in her breasts and a soft ache in the depths of her femininity. The door of the rooming house opened, and Mrs. McAllister, bless her nosy soul, peered out. “Time to come in, Lily. Say good-night to your young man.” Lily glared at Caleb. “He’s not my young man,” she said firmly. The day she took up with a soldier would be the day irises bloomed in hell. Caleb’s expression was as cocky as ever. “Not yet,” he replied, in a voice so low that even the landlady’s sharp ears could not have caught it. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lily.” Lily whirled in frustration and stomped into the house. It had been a perfectly horrible day, and she was glad it was over. After

even though Black and brown people are disproportionately poor, white Americans constitute the majority of low-income people who escape poverty because of government safety net programs. Nonetheless, the idea that Black people are the “takers” in society while white people are the hardworking taxpayers—the “makers”—has become a core part of the zero-sum story preached by wealthy political elites. Whether it’s the more subtle “47 percent” version from millionaire Mitt Romney or the more racially explicit Fox News version sponsored by billionaire Rupert Murdoch, it works. In 2016, the majority of white moderates (53 percent) and white conservatives (69 percent) said that Black Americans take more than we give to society. We take more than we give.