Shrinking Violet Quotes

His hands skim my bare arms. “Just bounce a little when you walk,” he says, kissing my forehead, “and pretend you’re afraid of their guns” —another kiss between my eyebrows— “and act like the shrinking violet you could never be ”—a kiss on my cheek— “and you’ll be fine.

I use their expectations against them. That will be their weakness. Not mine. Let them all underestimate me. Let them think they have the upper hand over the little girl. Let them relax while the adrenaline leaks out of their systems. Let them believe they're closing their grips on a shrinking violet. And when their guard is down and their pride is rising... let me kick their butts up around their ears.

Cake is for the weak,” Mom always says. Funny, I thought it was for birthdays.

Helen Sustained many falls throughout her life. But as you can see, she steps right up and keeps on going. Falling to her is as natural as sneezing to us

Maybe i'm not the book you dog-ear & keep with you always," te girl murmured, pulling her sleeves over her hands. "maybe i'm the book you forget to bookmark & leave on the train." - shrinking violets like us.

Violator: Noun, one who breaks rules, invades, insults, rapes Violence: Noun, a disturbance, disruption, destruction Violet: Noun, a plant, a swallow flower... purple, the color, also used to describe… an oversensitive person, a shy person ("shrinking violet") Violin: Noun, a musical instrument... a player of, a violinist

Enron followed the unwise practice of paying bonuses based on forecasted profits, not actual cash flows, a system that posed a problem remarkably similar to the R&D issues Gluck and his colleagues had solved at Northern Electric years earlier. In short: You can forecast anything. Delivering actual results is a different story. The emphasis on forecasts also neutralized Enron’s so-called risk-management group, which became a shrinking violet in the face of ever more outrageous estimates.

She isn’t simply unafraid of a good fight, she lives for it, and will often actively go looking for a fight. This is what differentiates your run-of-the-mill fighter from a crusader. The Warrior Princess Submissive is no shrinking violet. She is that dyed-in-the-wool Republican who attends the Democratic National Convention wearing a Rand Paul t-shirt. She is the African-American woman who invites herself to a Ku Klux Klan rally without a hood... and hands out business cards to everyone there. She is the woman who invites the Jehovah's Witnesses into her home and feeds them dinner, just for the opportunity to defend Christmas - even though she may be a Pagan. When the other girls in high school or college were trying out for the pep squad or cheerleading, she set her sights on the debate team. While her friends agonize over how to “fit in” socially, she is war gaming ideas on how to change society to fit her ideals and principles. Are you someone she considers to be immoral or evil? Run. She will eviscerate you.

I mean it. I know Stacy thinks just because you're shy, she can step all over you, but that's B.S.

We became a different kind of wallflower—not shrinking violets but judgmental pansies.

Alcenith Crawford (a divorced ophthalmologist): "We women doctors have un-happy marriages because in our minds we are the superstars of our families. Having survived the hardship of medical school we expect to reap our rewards at home. We had to assert ourselves against all odds and when we finally graduate there are few shrinking violets amongst us. It takes a special man to be able to cope. Men like to feel important and be the undisputed head of the family. A man does not enjoy waiting for his wife while she performs life-saving operations. He expects her and their children to revolve around his needs, not the other way. But we have become accustomed to giving orders in hospitals and having them obeyed. Once home, it's difficult to adjust. Moreover, we often earn more than our husbands. It takes a generous and exceptional man to forgive all that.

If I’d thought the hint of restrained danger he’d shown earlier was sexy, now he was downright hot. I understood why heroines in superhero movies were always swooning into their unitard-wearing heartthrobs’ arms after being rescued. It wasn’t that they were shrinking violets or weak girly-girls. It was just that seeing a man do something so extraordinary and supernatural to save you has a way of making your knees go weak in a very pleasant way. I’d always heard power was an aphrodisiac, but I hadn’t considered the possible implications of that when working for a magical company.

Hothouse Flowers" I hate the flower of wood or common field. I cannot love the primrose nor regret The death of any shrinking violet, Nor even the cultured garden's banal yield. The silver lips of lilies virginal, The full deep bosom of the enchanted rose Please less than flowers glass-hid from frost and snows For whom an alien heat makes festival. I love those flowers reared by man's careful art, Of heady scents and colors: strong of heart Or weak that die beneath the touch of knife, Some rich as sin and some as virtue pale, And some as subtly infamous and frail As she whose love still eats my soul and life.

Her pretty name of Adina seemed to me to have somehow a mystic fitness to her personality. Behind a cold shyness, there seemed to lurk a tremulous promise to be franker when she knew you better. Adina is a strange child; she is fanciful without being capricious. She was stout and fresh-coloured, she laughed and talked rather loud, and generally, in galleries and temples, caused a good many stiff British necks to turn round. She had a mania for excursions, and at Frascati and Tivoli she inflicted her good-humoured ponderosity on diminutive donkeys with a relish which seemed to prove that a passion for scenery, like all our passions, is capable of making the best of us pitiless. Adina may not have the shoulders of the Venus of Milo...but I hope it will take more than a bauble like this to make her stoop. Adina espied the first violet of the year glimmering at the root of a cypress. She made haste to rise and gather it, and then wandered further, in the hope of giving it a few companions. Scrope sat and watched her as she moved slowly away, trailing her long shadow on the grass and drooping her head from side to side in her charming quest. It was not, I know, that he felt no impulse to join her; but that he was in love, for the moment, with looking at her from where he sat. Her search carried her some distance and at last she passed out of sight behind a bend in the villa wall. I don't pretend to be sure that I was particularly struck, from this time forward, with something strange in our quiet Adina. She had always seemed to me vaguely, innocently strange; it was part of her charm that in the daily noiseless movement of her life a mystic undertone seemed to murmur "You don't half know me! Perhaps we three prosaic mortals were not quite worthy to know her: yet I believe that if a practised man of the world had whispered to me, one day, over his wine, after Miss Waddington had rustled away from the table, that there was a young lady who, sooner or later, would treat her friends to a first class surprise, I should have laid my finger on his sleeve and told him with a smile that he phrased my own thought. .."That beautiful girl," I said, "seems to me agitated and preoccupied." "That beautiful girl is a puzzle. I don't know what's the matter with her; it's all very painful; she's a very strange creature. I never dreamed there was an obstacle to our happiness--to our union. She has never protested and promised; it's not her way, nor her nature; she is always humble, passive, gentle; but always extremely grateful for every sign of tenderness. Till within three or four days ago, she seemed to me more so than ever; her habitual gentleness took the form of a sort of shrinking, almost suffering, deprecation of my attentions, my petits soins, my lovers nonsense. It was as if they oppressed and mortified her--and she would have liked me to bear more lightly. I did not see directly that it was not the excess of my devotion, but my devotion itself--the very fact of my love and her engagement that pained her. When I did it was a blow in the face. I don't know what under heaven I've done! Women are fathomless creatures. And yet Adina is not capricious, in the common sense... .So these are peines d'amour?" he went on, after brooding a moment. "I didn't know how fiercely I was in love!" Scrope stood staring at her as she thrust out the crumpled note: that she meant that Adina--that Adina had left us in the night--was too large a horror for his unprepared sense...."Good-bye to everything! Think me crazy if you will. I could never explain. Only forget me and believe that I am happy, happy, happy! Adina Beati."... Love is said to be par excellence the egotistical passion; if so Adina was far gone. "I can't promise to forget you," I said; "you and my friend here deserve to be remembered!

If a fountain could jet bouquets of chrome yellow in dazzling arches of chrysanthemum fireworks, that would be Canada Goldenrod. Each three-foot stem is a geyser of tiny gold daisies, ladylike in miniature, exuberant en masse. Where the soil is damp enough, they stand side by side with their perfect counterpart, New England Asters. Not the pale domesticates of the perennial border, the weak sauce of lavender or sky blue, but full-on royal purple that would make a violet shrink. The daisylike fringe of purple petals surrounds a disc as bright as the sun at high noon, a golden-orange pool, just a tantalizing shade darker than the surrounding goldenrod. Alone, each is a botanical superlative. Together, the visual effect is stunning. Purple and gold, the heraldic colors of the king and queen of the meadow, a regal procession in complementary colors. I just wanted to know why. In composing a palette, putting them together makes each more vivid; just a touch of one will bring out the other. In an 1890 treatise on color perception, Goethe, who was both a scientist and a poet, wrote that “the colors diametrically opposed to each other . . . are those which reciprocally evoke each other in the eye.” Purple and yellow are a reciprocal pair. Growing together, both receive more pollinator visits than they would if they were growing alone. It’s a testable hypothesis; it’s a question of science, a question of art, and a question of beauty. Why are they beautiful together? It is a phenomenon simultaneously material and spiritual, for which we need all wavelengths, for which we need depth perception. When I stare too long at the world with science eyes, I see an afterimage of traditional knowledge. Might science and traditional knowledge be purple and yellow to one another, might they be goldenrod and asters? We see the world more fully when we use both. The question of goldenrod and asters was of course just emblematic of what I really wanted to know. It was an architecture of relationships, of connections that I yearned to understand. I wanted to see the shimmering threads that hold it all together. And I wanted to know why we love the world, why the most ordinary scrap of meadow can rock us back on our heels in awe.

Then he watches the minute flicker of the pulse in her neck and imagines the vein, deep below the skin, dilating then shrinking, dilating then shrinking with the hot, thick blood sent shooting from the heart. The elastic, muscular stretch of it, every three-quarters of a second. He looks at the delta of veins at her wrist, the thin violet patterns on her eyelids, the trace of blue that runs through her cheek, the web of vessels at the curve of her instep. He wonders for the first time if they used just one person’s blood to revive her or whether it was the blood of lots of different people. And whether she is still her, if the very blood that pumps around her body doesn’t belong to her. At what point do you become someone else?

I raced around getting ingredients on the recipe Victoria had given me. I started making the dough for the Iraqi pita, which Violet on YouTube said would need two hours to rise. I used whole-wheat flour, though I'd never seen my mother touch anything but all-purpose or cake; I wasn't taking any chances. I'd do it right. I went to three different bodegas before I finally found mangoes for pickling. They were small and hard as rocks, but I'd try leaving them in a paper bag with a dozen apples to hurry up the ripening. If that didn't work, I'd read something about microwaving them until they were soft, but I was a little worried about ending up with mango mousse. I bought Meyer lemons, thinking the sweetness could be nice, but as soon as I got home, I thought of my mother, her mouth shrinking into a knot: You used Meyer lemons? Like she'd never understand why I did the things I did. I went back out, got snowed on again, bought real lemons on the corner, and then went home and pickled them with ginger, paprika, garlic, and salt. I hoped they'd taste like they'd been marinating for months but I was starting to have a bad feeling. Things weren't exactly working out. I cut myself twice, accidentally, trying to use the mandoline to slice the onions "as thin as a breath." I made a bed of them that looked like a lattice. I sprinkled thyme on top. The whole thing looked like the side of a house in Scotland where roses grew like weeds. I hoped my mother liked Scotland, but I'd never asked her. I minced garlic until my hand was shaking.

I don't regret this at all, but I'm not a shrinking violet of a girl who's been suddenly mesmerized by your magical, mystical cock." "It is pretty spectacular, isn't it?" "I'm not about to say anything to add to that ego,

It's funny, but Shakespeare, with all its passion, never does too well at the box office. And d'you know why? Because most people are fools. They shrink like violets from good, honest passion, which, if only they'd be honest and admit it, is all they feel themselves in the name of love. They will wrap sex up in pretty, piffling declarations of love. The big, tough hero must carry his mate off into the bush, but by heaven, if he doesn't say, afterwards, 'I love you, darling' — cut! The censor is swooning. Or the public are.

A shrinking violet from a historical bodice ripper who needed saving all the time?

She designed the cakes and I worked out the recipes. The first year we each created a signature cake. Genie's was called the Goddess: really tall, all white on the outside, wrapped in mountains of coconut and whipped cream, with a passion-fruit heart." "And yours was called the Shrinking Violet. Unassuming on the outside but pretty special once you worked your way in." She reached over and squeezed my wrist. "Wish I'd thought of that. You'd understand if you knew my sister." By now I was a little drunk. "One year Genie came up with Melting Cakes. You know, like flourless chocolate, the kind that are melted in the middle? They were gorgeous neon colors, and I made the flavors intense- blood orange, blueberry, lime, hibiscus, and caramel.

ناراحتی ناشی از خجالتی‌بودن یه مسئله واقعیه و کمک به دیگران برای رفع این ناراحتی یه هدف شرافتمندانه است. ولی مصرف دارو برای اضطراب اجتماعی - برای این احساس که احمق، کسالت آور یا دوست نداشتنی هستیم - مثل فریاد زدن در باد یا جلوی باران ایستادن می‌مونه. مثل این می‌مونه که بخواهید برای زنده‌بودن درمانی پیدا کنید.

من تصمیم گرفتم که بپذیرم، به قول توسعه‌دهنده‌های نرم‌افزار، که خجالتی بودن یه ویژگیه نه یه باگ.

هیچ‌کس شما رو به خاطر این که خجالتی به نظر نمی‌رسید تشویق نمی‌کنه، احتمالاً به خاطر این که اونا بیشتر نگران این هستند که خودشون هم اینجوری دیده شوند.

هیچ‌کس شما رو به خاطر این که خجالتی به نظر نمی‌رسید تشویق نمی‌کنه، احتمالاً به خاطر این که اونا بیشتر نگران این هستند که خودشون هم همین‌طور دیده شوند.

The new Violet isn’t a shrinking Violet. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway. Maybe one day it will feel true.

Shrinking Violet The violet shrinks not due of shyness, but because it's in proximity to other people who block its light.

An outsider might claim that this made sense, that Shauna was giving the sister and brother some space during this tender reunion. That outsider wouldn’t know Shauna from Cher. Shauna was wonderfully consistent. She was prickly, demanding, funny, bighearted, and loyal beyond all reason. She never put on masks or pretenses. If your thesaurus had an antonym section and you looked up the phrase “shrinking violet,” her lush image would stare back at you. Shauna lived life in your face. She wouldn’t take a step back if smacked across the mouth with a lead pipe. Something

Jansson’s lesson is not that shy people should come out of their shells; it is that they should learn to become non-neurotic introverts. For Moomins may sulk and skulk fleetingly, but most of the time they are neither needy nor neurotic. Their response to a problem is to think deeply and then make something – a hut, a painting, a poem, a boat carved out of bark – as a way of whittling meaning out of a terrifying world.

No, they weren't fucking. At least not yet, although I'm sure that's where it was leading. Alex was pleasuring Chase." Jasmine was no shrinking violet, but she had no clue as to why she'd suddenly begun to speak in euphemisms. "You can't see me right now, but I'm giving you the side eye at your Victorian turn of phrase." Stephanie's comment made her laugh. "Not the dreaded side eye." "Hell, yes, and you know what that means, right?" "Yes. You think I'm being a big goober." "For lack of a better word. But moving on, I have a question. How is it you saw all this and they didn't see you?" "I think they were too involved in each other to notice me at the door." "You think?" Stephanie paused for a moment. "Or you know?" "I didn't ask and they haven't brought it up, not really." "Not really?" "Chase made a kind of weird comment this morning, but it was nothing." "Why do I have the feeling you're deluding yourself?

Aunt Clara something of a wallflower, a shrinking violet often eclipsed by the spirited nature of her younger sister, my grandmother Oma.

Although Levels 1 through 6 are available to us in virtually all of our joint choice-making situations, unfortunately we take on either Level 1 or Level 6 responsibility in the vast majority of cases.

Have a seat right here, ma'am! Please watch your step. If you'll have a seat, I'll bring your food to you." "Thank you! It's so nice that you have a restaurant that can accommodate our baby stroller." "Would you like me to bring you a spoon, along with chopsticks?" "Please! That would be great." "Oh my gosh, that girl isn't the shrinking violet she looks like either! That is some confident and conscientious service for someone her age!" "The ideal for customer service is 100 percent satisfaction from all customers... but the reality of limited time and manpower makes it difficult. When things are at their most crowded, you must calm yourself... Consider everything a customer may want, and then prioritize what is most important for whom!" "Now is when I have to make the best use of everything I learned over Stagiare Week!

I blame the shape of my body on my dad, but since I don’t even know who he is, I can only guess. Mom doesn’t know either. She says she was young and stupid, that she went to a couple of wild parties when she was a teenager and did a few things she shouldn’t have. No shit. It doesn’t take Scooby Doo and his gang to figure that out.

I often dream about the mask I’d wear to school. It has long auburn hair, not the shoulder-length ultra-thick mop that I sport. It has bright blue eyes instead of my musty green and full red lips. If it comes with a bodysuit, I’d wear that, too, flat tummy, long legs and smaller, firmer boobs. Then the guys would notice me for sure.

I’m only trying to help you,” Mom adds some sugar to her voice. Then why does it always end up about you?

When we first moved to Miami, I tossed and turned half the night. After about the third night of me waking up bleary-eyed, Mom bought me a hot pink radio and told me to let the music help me fall asleep. After the first night, I was hooked. The radio really gave me peace and settled my worries about being in a new city, having to make new friends.

The only good thing about Mom marrying Rob Fandango, radio bigwig, is that he owns a top-40 station. But while he whisks Mom off to celebrity-wannabe parties every weekend, I’m holed up in my room, downloading all the latest tunes on my iPod and scanning the dial for the next overnight sensation.

Might as well admit it: I’m shy. Not the kind where you blush when someone compliments you, but the kind that results in feelings of nausea when meeting new people.

The Love Shack won’t be the same without you,” Rob says. “I have no clue who to replace you with.” Me! I want to shout. I can do the show blindfolded! But instead, I stand there deader than a stuffed moose.

Go change before Pamela gets here. That outfit makes you look lazy.” Oh, but a miniskirt and tube top is more appropriate. Mom has five of those sleazy shirts. She thinks the more skin you show, the better.

I slide off my favorite jeans and black Rapfest tee and peer into my closet, searching for the best Pamela Oberlong outfit. Why we have to impress the Mary Kay lady every time she comes is beyond me.

I’m glad this is my last year of high school. If I can help it, I won’t sign up for any college classes that start before noon. Luckily, I got in early decision at the University of Miami and avoided the whole college search hassle. So many people at school have been freaking out for months about whether they’ll get into any of their top choices. My top choice was to get out of the house. Come August, I’ll no longer have Mom breathing down my neck all the time.

I darken the letters. D-I-S-A-P-P-O-I-N-T-E-D. It’s a very long word, a word that does not easily fall off your tongue.

Well into his thirties he dreamed of having to go to school as a grown-up, opening his desk, and rummaging inside to hide his face, “suffering over again with increased intensity the shyness and sense of disgrace of my boyhood.” And yet Wallace came to be grateful for what he called his “constitutional shyness,” which he felt had given him long periods of solitary study and a hesitancy over words that led him to avoid the verbosity that marred so many scholarly works.

And the Enemy, the Destroyer, senses the surface truth that this Jesus is a threat, so he targets Him for destruction. Lucifer shows up in the desert to tempt a weakened Jesus using a trusted strategy—he will appeal to the same primal lust for power and control that bulldozed Adam and Eve into an unthinkable betrayal. But Jesus is having none of that. The Enemy is banished from His presence, where he stays until he sniffs an opportunity to launch a second assault in a lonely garden. In Mel Gibson’s brilliant portrayal of this tipping-point confrontation in The Passion of the Christ, the weight of the assault is palpable. Jesus is alone and tormented to the point of death on the eve of His crucifixion. The serpent moves through the Gethsemane garden toward the exposed feet of Jesus—now perilously within striking range. Everything hangs in the moment. And then, in a shocking burst of violence, Jesus stomps on the serpent’s head.3 It is sudden and brutal and … revelatory. It turns out that Jesus—sweating blood, abandoned, and apparently beaten—is no shrinking violet. The Great Surprise is that He cannot be leveraged and that He is no victim of circumstances. In this, He is not at all the way most Americans describe Him.