Savage Friendship Quotes

The capacity for friendship is God's way of apologizing for our families.

...writers are a savage breed, Mr. Strike. If you want life-long friendship and selfless camaraderie, join the army and learn to kill. If you want a lifetime of temporary alliances with peers who will glory in your every failure, write novels.

When the birds were trilling and the leaves were swelling, an Indian came striding into Plymouth. Tall, almost naked, and very handsome, he raised his hand in friendship. “Welcome, Englishmen,” said Samoset, Massasoit’s ambassador. The Pilgrims murmured in astonishment. The “savage” spoke English. He was friendly and dignified. They greeted him warmly, but cautiously. Samoset departed and returned a week later with Massasoit and Squanto. For the next few days, in a house still under construction, Squanto interpreted while Governor Carver and Massasoit worded a peace treaty that would last more than fifty years. After the agreement, Massasoit went back to his home in Rhode Island, but Squanto stayed on at Plymouth. The wandering Pawtuxet had at last come home.

What is friendship, if not a chance to indulge in mutual self-pity?

Do you know what the worst thing about literature is? . What? I said. That you end up being friends with writers. And friendship, treasure though it may be, destroys your critical sense. Once, said Don Pancracio, Monteforte Toledo dropped this riddle in my lap: a poet is lost in a city on the verge of collapse, with no money, or friends, or anyone to turn to. And of course, he neither wants nor plans to turn to anyone. For several days he roams the city and the country, eating nothing, or eating scraps. He's even stopped writing. Or he writes in his head: in other words, he hallucinates. All signs point to an imminent death. His drastic disappearance foreshadows it. And yet the poet doesn't die.

I believe that no matter how rough the world becomes, there will always be teachers and students learning from each other, and even when savage and violent powers obstruct our freedoms, there will always be earnest and heartfelt first loves and friendships being born. While writing, I was focused on and absorbed in giving expression to those moments. I believe those are the moments that define our lives. We may be the protagonists of tragedy, but we are also the heroes of our most beautiful and thrilling experiences.

My grin was feral, matching my savage best friend’s.

So where power is in the hands of a savage and uneducated tyrant, anyone who is greatly his superior will doubtless be an object of fear to the ruler, and never able to be on terms of genuine friendship with him.

Adam searched out old friends from the neighborhood. They drank beer together in the garden of the Stag & Hounds, trading stories and trying their best to ignore the inescapable truth - that the ties that once bound them were loosening by the year and might soon be gone altogether.

We human beings are a mystery to ourselves. We are rational and irrational, civilized and savage, capable of deep friendship and murderous hostility, free and in bondage, the pinnacle of creation and its greatest danger. We are Rembrandt and Hitler, Mozart and Stalin, Antigone and Lady Macbeth, Ruth and Jezebel. “What a work of art,” says Shakespeare of humanity. “We are very dangerous,” says Arthur Miller in After the Fall. “We meet . . . not in some garden of wax fruit and painted leaves that lies East of Eden, but after the Fall, after many, many deaths.

If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan’s breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country’s phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be. In a countryman, this sudden flame of friendship would have seemed far too premature, a thing to be much distrusted; but in this simple savage those old rules would not apply.

The savage lives within himself; social man lives always outside himself; he knows how to live only in the opinion of others, it is, so to speak, from their judgement alone that he derives the sense of his own existence. It is not my subject here to show how such a disposition gives birth to so much indifference to good and evil coupled with such beautiful talk about morality; or how, as everything is reduced to appearances, everything comes to be false and warped: honour, friendship, virtue, and often even vices themselves, since in the end men discover the secret of boasting about vices; or show how, as a result of always asking others what we are and never daring to put the question to ourselves in the midst of so much philosophy, humanity, civility and so many sublime maxims, we have only façades, deceptive and frivolous, honour without virtue, reason without wisdom, and pleasure without happiness.

book called The Birds, and it sounded just like mine. He was getting all worked up and cross, saying Hitchcock had taken the film from his, and not mine. Then he apparently took Counsel’s Opinion, who said it was no good him doing anything, so luckily he is not to go on with his claim, so-called. But at least three fools in America have made ‘claims’, saying they have written books or stories about savage birds, and my heart began to sink, in case some awful great Main case started up in the US (like that Rebecca thing) and I had to fly out, and give evidence. These brutes just do it for publicity and money, and film people like Hitchcock don’t care; it makes more publicity, and any claim always comes back on the author. There seems to be no protection for well-known authors when this happens, because after all it’s only one’s word against somebody else’s, that one has never read their stupid stories! And as these people are always insolvent, there is no hope of making a counter-claim against them, or getting them to pay costs if they bring a case. Actually, I don’t think anything will come from it all, but I can’t help remembering that awful Rebecca lawsuit. That person’s story was rotten, and not a bit like Rebecca at all, but they were still able to file a lawsuit, and one had to go to America, and do all that witness business.

If there was any politician in America who reflected the Cold War and what it did to the country, it was Richard Nixon—the man and the era were made for each other. The anger and resentment that were a critical part of his temperament were not unlike the tensions running through the nation as its new anxieties grew. He himself seized on the anti-Communist issue earlier and more tenaciously than any other centrist politician in the country. In fact that was why he had been put on the ticket in the first place. His first congressional race in 1946, against a pleasant liberal incumbent named Jerry Voorhis, was marked by red-baiting so savage that it took Voorhis completely by surprise. Upon getting elected, Nixon wasted no time in asking for membership in the House Un-American Activities Committee. He was the committee member who first spotted the contradictions in Hiss’s seemingly impeccable case; in later years he was inclined to think of the case as one of his greatest victories, in which he had challenged and defeated a man who was not what he seemed, and represented the hated Eastern establishment. His career, though, was riddled with contradictions. Like many of his conservative colleagues, he had few reservations about implying that some fellow Americans, including perhaps the highest officials in the opposition party, were loyal to a hostile foreign power and willing to betray their fellow citizens. Yet by the end of his career, he became the man who opened the door to normalized relations with China (perhaps, thought some critics, he was the only politician in America who could do that without being attacked by Richard Nixon), and he was a pal of both the Soviet and Chinese Communist leadership. If he later surprised many long-standing critics with his trips to Moscow and Peking, he had shown his genuine diplomatic skills much earlier in the way he balanced the demands of the warring factions within his own party. He never asked to be well liked or popular; he asked only to be accepted. There were many Republicans who hated him, particularly in California. Earl Warren feuded with him for years. Even Bill Knowland, the state’s senior senator and an old-fashioned reactionary, despised him. At the 1952 convention, Knowland had remained loyal to Warren despite Nixon’s attempts to help Eisenhower in the California delegation. When Knowland was asked to give a nominating speech for Nixon, he was not pleased: “I have to nominate the dirty son of a bitch,” he told friends. Nixon bridged the gap because his politics were never about ideology: They were the politics of self. Never popular with either wing, he managed to negotiate a delicate position acceptable to both. He did not bring warmth or friendship to the task; when he made attempts at these, he was, more often than not, stilted and artificial. Instead, he offered a stark choice: If you don’t like me, find someone who is closer to your position and who is also likely to win. If he tilted to either side, it was because that side seemed a little stronger at the moment or seemed to present a more formidable candidate with whom he had to deal. A classic example of this came early in 1960, when he told Barry Goldwater, the conservative Republican leader, that he would advocate a right-to-work plank at the convention; a few weeks later in a secret meeting with Nelson Rockefeller, the liberal Republican leader—then a more formidable national figure than Goldwater—Nixon not only reversed himself but agreed to call for its repeal under the Taft-Hartley act. “The man,” Goldwater noted of Nixon in his personal journal at the time, “is a two-fisted four-square liar.

There are many faces to the horrors of war-- decimation, mutilation, barbarity, and, of course, death itself. But one of the most savage and dehumanizing consequences of armed conflict is the prison system that springs up to house enemy combatants--and ordinary citizens too. These hellish camps encapsulate the lowest depths of human depravity; ruled by violence and degeneracy, political prisoners are forced to endure unthinkable conditions and unchecked cruelty--all without any chance of reprieve. Uta Christensen's latest novel, Caught: Surviving the Turbulent River of Life, chronicles this appalling consequence of war, weaving a narrative of atrocity that, despite its artful inventions and complex characters, is so starkly based on grim realities... that one cannot help but shudder. Caught tells the story of Janos, a young German boy kidnapped by the Nazis during WWII--and forced into a Russian prison camp. There, Janos must survive against all odds, fighting off starvation and death at every turn as the years march on... and he becomes a man. It is, in fact, within the hardships of this very crucible, that Janos thrives, overcoming the frailties and ignobilities of existence to discover friendship, compassion, and love--making him into the apotheosis of an upstanding, self-reliant citizen: a true model to all his fellow countrymen. Told in flashbacks, Caught: Surviving the Turbulent River of Life explores the intricate nature of suffering and memory, delving into the complexities of how the past--even the most vicious episodes--informs the present... and the very nature of the self. Uta Christensen, with striking prose and a poetic sensibility, brings the darker chapters of history to life in such a way that one is instantly captivated by a concurrent horror and pity, a sense of tragedy, but too a catharsis in overcoming, in human resilience and beauty itself. A truly breathtaking novel, Caught is a tour de force of literary perfection; poignant, unremitting, and painfully real, this book is essential reading for all those willing to face hard truths--and grow from them.

Do I love him?” she wondered aloud to the empty room. “Is it possible to love a man after knowing him for so little time?” At the time of his request to court her, their match had felt sensible, forged by friendship, respect, and even passion, but she’d never considered love to be part of the equation. Becoming his mate had been driven by her affection and hope for more in the future. Now, it seemed that future had come sooner than expected.

A close friendship with someone who has treated me well and given me anything I could see in even my fondest dreams. You’ve given me everything but the stars.” “Perhaps I should give you those too.

She scrunched her nose in response to his teasing. He’d become more open and playful over the recent weeks as their friendship progressed. “I

It is an easy thing to overlook true love. Our eyes are searching for event and objects Found in movies, Novels, And journals bursting with dreams. We glance above the murky reality. Our hearts do not notice the consistent presence Of loyalty, Friendship, And dishes again scrubbed clean

We’re all at least a little fucked up, Tory,” he said roughly. “But the people who love us don’t give a shit about that. Better still – they love us even more for it.” My gaze snagged on the friendship bracelet I’d made for him all those months ago and my heart felt full as I smiled at him. “I missed you, asshole,” I said in a low voice. “Missed you too, savage.

His grin was sort of sparkly, catching the sunshine coming through the skylights. If I were a cat, I would have rolled around, basking in the brightness coming off him, then curled up in a ball and taken the best nap ever. This warmth must have been what Delilah had felt when she and Ivan were becoming close. I now understood why she’d crushed on him before Rhys. Ivan was unfailingly kind. He stood between my friend and the boy who kept breaking her heart. He jumped with me, and his hands felt like a campfire. That was not to mention his physical attributes, which were plentiful. The tattoos, the shaggy hair, the Russian accent, his height and lean muscles…Ivan was a boy girls tripped over their own feet to be closer to. Luckily for me, I had my sister’s experience to show me this was just who Ivan was. He was good at friendship—maybe too good for the sake of the trail of girls he left swooning in his wake.

I don’t know what to say,” I uttered. He lifted a shoulder. “There is nothing to say, Evelyn. I wouldn’t take back my friendship with Delilah even if I could. I thought I’d been careful with her feelings, but I hadn’t been careful enough, which I regret.” He heaved a long sigh. “I wasn’t going to ask you for more than you can give.” “I don’t know what I can give…” “But you know you can’t give me anything.” I rubbed the aching hollowness in my chest. “This shouldn’t matter. We don’t know each other.” He scoffed, and it wasn’t the nicest sound. “Just because you haven’t been paying attention to me doesn’t mean I haven’t paid attention to you.” He was right, of course. Beyond Delilah’s crush and his subsequent rejection, Ivan had not been on my radar. He’d had to put himself in my path for me to notice him, and I had no idea how long he’d been noticing me. His mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t at all happy. “It’s all right. I understand now. I’ll leave you alone.” “You don’t have to leave me alone, it’s just—” “No.” He shook his head. “No, I have to leave you alone.

I miss my best friends so much from long distance friendships. Long distance friendships are worth it to do it anyways too. Love my best friends even though they live far away from me.

Tbh, I have trust issues in general within people! Mostly, I do trust people respects, cares, supports everything about me! Also, as long as people respects/follows my boundaries that I want in a friendship or anything then I can easily trust people for life! It's ok for me to have trust issues too! I'm 100% Savage&so emotional queen for life!

I go through so much toxic friendships, toxic relationships, bullying&more so much in my life! I’m very emotional and 100% Savage Queen for life! I’m so grateful, so thankful and so lucky to have my fam, my close friends, my best friends, my mutual friends, my therapists&my loved ones who are so aware of my mental health issues that I go through so much! They’re always emotionally being there for me no matter what to sympathize and empathize my feelings, my thoughts, my situations &my opinions! Love them so much too as my fav loved ones!

Latin not Lethal (The Sonnet) Yes I am latino and proud, That doesn't make me a thug. Yes I am brown in color and loud, That doesn't mean I'm a lethal bug. Some of us can't speak English, That doesn't make us second-rate. We care for family as much as you, In friendship we walk to the world's end. Savage imperialists walked on our corpses, While they snatched our lands and homes. Yet you call us illegal and dangerous, Showing no remorse or desire to atone! None of us can undo the past I know. Our kids may walk together, let's make sure.

Greene wrote a robust public letter to Chaplin, published in the New Statesman,6 describing him as the finest of all screen artists, savaging Senator Joseph McCarthy, and upbraiding the American Catholic church, including Cardinal Spellman, for encouraging a persecution of the sort Catholics themselves had suffered in the past. Chaplin did not go back to the United States, settling instead in Switzerland, where Greene visited him. Their friendship was close, and Greene had a hand in Chaplin’s 1964 bestseller My Autobiography, both as editor of the manuscript and as a director of the Bodley Head, which published it.7

Their words to wind are scattered; and their mouths are stopped with dust." From this follows not (as many of the cut-and-dried philosophers would say) a savage silence and mutual hostility, but rather one of those rich silences that make the mass and bulk of all friendship; the silence of men rowing the same boat or fighting in the same battle-line.