Snakes Don't Hiss Quotes

I don't purchase people with money, or hiss like a snake to attract their attention, all i do is to rest on my couch because i have the conviction that no human can progress with an exception without a power behind.

Adam’s father just stood there, looking. And they sat there, looking back. Ronan was coiled and simmering, one hand resting on his door. “Don’t,” said Adam. But Ronan merely hit the window button. The tinted glass hissed down. Ronan hooked his elbow on the edge of the door and continued gazing out the window. Adam knew that Ronan was fully aware of how malevolent he could appear, and he did not soften himself as he stared across the patchy dark grass at Robert Parrish. Ronan Lynch’s stare was a snake on the pavement where you wanted to walk. It was a match left on your pillow. It was pressing your lips together and tasting your own blood.

...I can't abide snakes." "I don't even think of her as a snake." "Ce'Nedra," he said patiently, "she's long and skinny, she wriggles, she doesn't have any arms or legs, and she's poisonous. By definition, she's a snake." "...I'm bitterly disappointed in you, Prince Kheldar. She's a sweet, loving, brave little creature, and you're insulting her." He looked at her for a moment, then rose to his feet and bowed floridly to the earthenware bottle. "I'm dreadfully sorry, dear Zith," he apologized. "I can't think what came over me. Can you possible find it in your cold little green heart to forgive me?" Zith hissed at him, a hiss ending in a curious grunt. "She says to leave her alone," Sadi told him. "Can you really understand what she's saying?" "In a general sort of way, yes. Snakes have a very limited vocabulary, so it's not all that difficult to pick up a few phrases here and there." The eunuch frowned. "She's been swearing a great deal lately, though, and that's not like her. She's usually a very ladylike little snake." "I can't believe I'm actually involved in this conversation," Silk said, shaking his head and going off down the hall toward the back of the house.

I wonder ... if people think of suicidal ideation as thoughts that are obviously sinister. If they assume the voice comes in a snake hiss or a demon's warped bass. Does it occur to them that it could sound like the friend who nudges you at a bad, crowded party and whispers, conspiratorially, "Hey, lets get out of here". Do [they] consider how well you have to know yourself to see that moment for what it is and whisper back, "You are not my real friend".

Here’s the thing about menopause, though, that I don’t entirely understand. We’ll exchange a few words like this? A seemingly slight disagreement? Only then rage fizzes up inside my rib cage. It burns and unspools, as berserk and sulfuric as those black-snake fireworks from childhood: one tiny pellet, with seemingly infinite potential to create dark matter—dark matter that’s kind of like a magic serpent and kind of like a giant ash turd. “Why do I have to be in charge of every single thing?” I hiss.

Solo For Ear-Trumpet The carriage brushes through the bright Leaves (violent jets from life to light); Strong polished speed is plunging, heaves Between the showers of bright hot leaves The window-glasses glaze our faces And jar them to the very basis — But they could never put a polish Upon my manners or abolish My most distinct disinclination For calling on a rich relation! In her house — (bulwark built between The life man lives and visions seen) — The sunlight hiccups white as chalk, Grown drunk with emptiness of talk, And silence hisses like a snake — Invertebrate and rattling ache…. Then suddenly Eternity Drowns all the houses like a sea And down the street the Trump of Doom Blares madly — shakes the drawing-room Where raw-edged shadows sting forlorn As dank dark nettles. Down the horn Of her ear-trumpet I convey The news that 'It is Judgment Day!' 'Speak louder: I don't catch, my dear.' I roared: 'It is the Trump we hear!' 'The What?' 'THE TRUMP!' 'I shall complain! …. the boy-scouts practising again.

I realize that it’s weird that this appendix is in the middle of the book instead of at the end where appendixes are supposed to be, but it works better here, and technically your appendix is in the middle of your body so it sort of makes sense. Probably God had the same issue when Adam was like, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but it sort of hurts when I walk. Is that normal? Is this thing on my foot a tumor?” And God was like, “It’s not a tumor. That’s your appendix. Appendixes go at the end. Read a book, dude.” Then Adam was all, “Really? Because I don’t want to second-guess you but it seems like a design flaw. Also that snake in the garden told me it doesn’t even do anything.” And God shook his head and muttered, “Jesus, that fucking snake is like TMZ.” And then Adam was like, “Who’s Jesus?” and God said, “No one yet. It’s just an idea I’m throwing around.” And then God zapped Adam’s appendix off his foot and stuck it in Adam’s midsection instead in case he decided to use it later. But the next day Adam probably asked for a girlfriend and God was like, “It’s gonna cost you a rib,” and Adam was all, “Don’t I need those? Can’t you just make her out of my appendix?” And the snake popped out and hissed, “Seriously, why are you so attached to this appendix idea? Don’t those things occasionally explode for no reason whatsoever?” and God was like, “THIS IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS, JEFFERSON. I’M STARTING TO QUESTION WHY I EVEN MADE YOU.” And Adam was like, “Wait … what? They explode?” And God was all, “I’M NOT NEGOTIATING WITH YOU, ADAM.” And that’s why appendixes go in the middle and should probably be removed.

Is that it?” he demanded, in sudden rage. “Is that all that matters? Not that I am in love and tumbled like a fool into sin. Not that I can never be happy, married to a snake and in love with a heartbreaker, but only, only, that Mistress Anne Boleyn’s reputation must be without blemish.” At once she flew at him, her hands spread like claws, and he caught her wrists before she could rake his face. “Look at me!” she hissed. “Didn’t I give up my only love, didn’t I break my heart? Didn’t you tell me then that it was worth the price?” He held her away but she was unstoppable. “Look at Mary! Didn’t we take her from her husband and me from mine? And now you have to give up someone too. You have to lose the great love of your life, as I have lost mine, as Mary lost hers. Don’t whimper to me about heartbreak, you murdered my love and we buried it together and now it is gone.” George

Our fatalism goes beyond, even if it springs from, the Hindu acceptance of the world as it is ordained to be. I must tell you a little story – a marvellous fable from our Puranas that illustrates both our resilience and our self-absorption in the face of circumstance.’ I sat up against my bolsters and assumed the knowingly expectant attitude of those who are about to tell stories or perform card tricks. ‘A man, someone very like you, Arjun – a symbol, shall we say, of the people of India - is pursued by a tiger. He runs fast, but his panting heart tells him he cannot run much longer. He sees a tree. Relief! He accelerates and gets to it in one last despairing stride. He climbs the tree. The tiger snarls below him, but he feels that he has at last escaped its snapping jaws. But no – what’s this? The branch on which he is sitting is weak, and bends dangerously. That is not all: wood-mice are gnawing away at it; before long they will eat through it and it will snap and fall. The branch sags down over a well. Aha! Escape? Perhaps our hero can swim? But the well is dry, and there are snakes writhing and hissing on its bed. What is our hero to do? As the branch bends lower, he perceives a solitary blade of grass growing on the wall of the well. On the top of the blade of grass gleams a drop of honey. What action does our Puranic man, our quintessential Indian, take in this situation? He bends with the branch, and licks up the honey.’ I laughed at the strain, and the anxiety, on Arjun’s face. ‘What did you expect? Some neat solution to his problem? The tiger changes its mind and goes away? Amitabh Bachhan leaps to the rescue? Don’t be silly, Arjun. One strength of the Indian mind is that it knows some problems cannot be resolved, and it learns to make the best of them. That is the Indian answer to the insuperable difficulty. One does not fight against that by which one is certain to be overwhelmed; but one finds the best way, for oneself, to live with it. This is our national aesthetic. Without it, Arjun, India as we know it could not survive.

How did you get in?” he asked and then immediately shook his head and waved the question away. “Never mind. I really don't want to know. However, if on Monday I find that the walls have been spray painted, I'll know who to point the finger at.” “Paint is not my medium,” I sniffed, offended. “Oh really? What exactly is your medium?” He locked the door behind us as we stepped out into the night. “Wood,” I clipped, wondering why I was telling him. Let him think I was a graffitti artist. Who the hell cared. “You do,” a little voice taunted mildly. And I did. “And what exactly do you do with wood?” “I carve it.” “People, bears, totem poles, what?” “Totem poles?!” I was incredulous. “Is that supposed to be some kind of slam to my ethnicity?” “Your ethnicity? I thought you told me you weren't Native American.” “I don't know what the hell I am, but that still sounded like a slam, Sherlock!” “Why don't you know what you are, Blue? Haven't you ever tried to find out? Maybe that would make you less hostile!” Wilson seemed frustrated. He stomped ahead of me, almost talking to himself. “Absolutely impossible! Having a conversation with you is like trying to converse with a snake! You are vulnerable and tearful one moment and hissing and striking the next. I frankly don't know how to reach you, or even if I want to! I only said totem poles because they are usually carved from wood, all right?” He turned and glared at me. “Cranky when you stay up past your bedtime, aren't you?” I mumbled.

JinYeong hissed with laughter and snaked out a hand to steal a round of pineapple. I let him: if you haven't seen a vampire gleefully chowing down on a round of pineapple with both canines like an oversized fruit bat, don't judge me.

Lucky for you, Hook,” Peter Pan says, “I’m feeling generous today.” He gestures to the twins and Bash takes the Crocodile while Kas helps me to my feet. Peter Pan straightens my jacket, smooths down the tattered lapel. “You’ll leave my island. You have two days. You’ll take Cherry with you. If either of you sets foot on my island again, I will string you both up from my tower and watch you hang.” I bristle beneath his commands. “This is my home. You can’t—” “I can. I will. And you will do as I tell you.” He curls his hand around the curved tine of my hook and in an instant, it bends back into a snake and slithers up my arm. “For fuck’s sake!” The snake hisses at me and I knock it away. “And take the Crocodile with you too,” Pan says. Bash shoves Roc back at me and I catch him around the waist. “The Crocodile” —I leverage him up and lean him against my hip— “isn’t my problem.” “He is now,” Vane says. “Don’t forget to feed and water him.” The twins laugh.

What section of the library can you get bitten by a snake?” she asked. “I don’t know.” “Hissssssstory,” she said with a hiss.

Angry Birds by Maisie Aletha Smikle Angry birds from whence does your anger come? Who taught toothless birds to chirp like mad dogs and hiss like rattle snake? Did their anger come from the eggs from which they were hatched? Did their anger come from an envious psychotic owner? Who was envious of the birds' sweet dispensation And went on a selfish rampage Converting birds dogs chickens and cats into insanity With no regard for animals or humanity Sweet gentle toothless birds Converted into rambling mad dogs Barking and howling at nothing and at everything Annoying even the quiet ants Oh sweet gentle birds Filled with toxic angry madness Don't disturb the sleeping ants Or the living who rest in peace Ramble at the cemetery You have killed them with your rambling noise Now they lie six feet under Thanking God they are not up yonder To hear such despicable rambling Who placed angry birds in tree tops? Who placed angry birds on window sills? With the intention to kill The quiet holy spirit And things gentle and quiet Oh sweet gentle birds They have stolen your melodious melody They have envied your charm They have envied your quiet beauty And have converted you into angry birds to kill the calm And the imperishable precious beauty of quiet tranquility

About an hour or so after I opened the library, people began coming in. Our library was quite popular. While part of the reason was because we were one of only four libraries in Nevaria, I believed a bigger reason was because news had spread that Kari often frequented this place. It had officially become common knowledge. Several of those people who’d come to the library fled after the snake suddenly dropped down from the rafters and flicked its tongue at them. I bopped the thing on the head after this happened several times, then gave it a stern lecture, but that didn’t seem to deter it. At some point, I just couldn’t take anymore and tried to pull the thing from the rafters. “You’re being a pest! Get down now!” The snake hissed. “Don’t take that tone with me! I told you to behave yourself, and you didn’t! Your rafter privileges have been revoked!