Stag And Doe Quotes

That’s the stag,” Celaena breathed. “The Lord of the North.” “Why does he get a fancy title? What about the swan and the dragon?” Celaena snorted, but the smile faded when she stared at the familiar constellation. “Because the stag remains constant—no matter the season, he’s always there.” “Why?” Celaena took a long breath. “So the people of Terrasen will always know how to find their way home. So they can look up at the sky, no matter where they are, and know Terrasen is forever with them.

but he does not want to talk about it, he wants a stillness at the end of it.

Does the stag in his hour of victory need a diploma from the hind?

And no, he does not want to meet again, in a year—when we part, it is with a dry bow and Good-bye.

where what cannot be seen is inferred by what the visible does.

If I pass a mirror, I turn away, I do not want to look at her, and she does not want to be seen.

Because this painting has never been restored there is a heightened poignance to it somehow; it doesn’t have the feeling of unassailable permanence that paintings in museums do. There is a small crack in the lower left, and a little of the priming between the wooden panel and the oil emulsions of paint has been bared. A bit of abrasion shows, at the rim of a bowl of berries, evidence of time’s power even over this—which, paradoxically, only seems to increase its poetry, its deep resonance. If you could see the notes of a cello, when the bow draws slowly and deeply across its strings, and those resonant reverberations which of all instruments’ are nearest to the sound of the human voice emerge—no, the wrong verb, they seem to come into being all at once, to surround us, suddenly, with presence—if that were made visible, that would be the poetry of Osias Beert. But the still life resides in absolute silence. Portraits often seem pregnant with speech, or as if their subjects have just finished saying something, or will soon speak the thoughts that inform their faces, the thoughts we’re invited to read. Landscapes are full of presences, visible or unseen; soon nymphs or a stag or a band of hikers will make themselves heard. But no word will ever be spoken here, among the flowers and snails, the solid and dependable apples, this heap of rumpled books, this pewter plate on which a few opened oysters lie, giving up their silver. These are resolutely still, immutable, poised for a forward movement that will never occur. The brink upon which still life rests is the brink of time, the edge of something about to happen. Everything that we know crosses this lip, over and over, like water over the edge of a fall, as what might happen does, as any of the endless variations of what might come true does so, and things fall into being, tumble through the progression of existing in time. Painting creates silence. You could examine the objects themselves, the actors in a Dutch still life—this knobbed beaker, this pewter salver, this knife—and, lovely as all antique utilitarian objects are, they are not, would not be, poised on the edge these same things inhabit when they are represented. These things exist—if indeed they are still around at all—in time. It is the act of painting them that makes them perennially poised, an emergent truth about to be articulated, a word waiting to be spoken. Single word that has been forming all these years in the light on the knife’s pearl handle, in the drops of moisture on nearly translucent grapes: At the end of time, will that word be said?

Yes. You do understand, you do. I knew you would. It was that analogy you made to the Quran that got me thinking in the first place. Metaphors: knowledge existing in several states simultaneously and without contradiction. The stag and the doe and the trap. Instead of working with linear strings of ones and zeroes, the computer could work with bundles that were one and zero and every point in between, all at once. If, if, if you could teach it to overcome its binary nature." "That sounds very complicated indeed." "It should be impossible, but it isn't." Alif began typing furiously. "All modern computers are pedants. To them the world is divided into black and white, off and on, right and wrong. But I will teach yours to recognize multiple origin points, interrelated geneses, systems of multivalent cause and effect.

She smiled at him more frequently as they chatted about nothing in particular, pointing out various flowers and the occasional woodland animal to each other. They saw plump squirrels in the trees, pheasants in the brush, and a horned stag and his shy, delicate does gliding soundlessly through the shadows. On three separate occasions, he caught her gazing at him longer than she should. He felt distracted, entranced, and painfully alive as he watched her in the mellow autumn afternoon, dazzled by the coppery richness of her golden hair. Her innocence captivated him, and her guileless simplicity healed him somehow. He felt like a man whose fever had broken, flush with the euphoria of the first, tenuous return of strength- still weak, but buoyant with the hope of an eventual return to wholeness.

What does one say to a dragon?

(Battle with Maleger) As pale and wan as ashes was his looke, His bodie leane and meagre as a rake, And skin all withered like a dryed rooke, Thereto as cold and drery as a Snake, That seem’d to tremble euermore, and quake: All in a canuas thin he was bedight, And girded with a belt of twisted brake, Vpon his head he wore an Helmet light, Made of a dead mans skull, that seem’d a ghastly sight. Maleger was his name, and after him, There follow’d fast at hand two wicked Hags, With hoarie lockes all loose, and visage grim; Their feet vnshod, their bodies wrapt in rags, And both as swift on foot, as chased Stags; And yet the one her other legge had lame, Which with a staffe, all full of litle snags She did support, and Impotence her name: But th’other was Impatience, arm’d with raging flame. So braue returning, with his brandisht blade, He to the Carle himselfe againe addrest, And strooke at him so sternely, that he made An open passage through his riuen brest, That halfe the Steele behind his back did rest; Which drawing backe, he looked euermore When the hart bloud should gush out of his chest, Or his dead corse should fall vpon the flore; But his dead corse vpon the flore fell nathemore. Ne drop of bloud appeared shed to bee, All were the wounde so wide and wonderous, That through his carkasse one might plainely see: Halfe in a maze with horror hideous, And halfe in rage, to be deluded thus, Againe through both the sides he strooke him quight, That made his spright to grone full piteous: Yet nathemore forth fled his groning spright, But freshly as at first, prepard himselfe to fight. His wonder farre exceeded reasons reach, That he began to doubt his dazeled sight, And oft of error did himselfe appeach: Flesh without bloud, a person without spright, Wounds without hurt, a bodie without might, That could doe harme, yet could not harmed bee, That could not die, yet seem’d a mortall wight, That was most strong in most infirmitee; Like did he neuer heare, like did he neuer see. His owne good sword Mordure, that neuer fayld At need, till now, he lightly threw away, And his bright shield, that nought him now auayld, And with his naked hands him forcibly assayld. He then remembred well, that had bene sayd, How th’Earth his mother was, and first him bore; She eke so often, as his life decayd, Did life with vsury to him restore, And raysd him vp much stronger then before, So soone as he vnto her wombe did fall; Therefore to ground he would him cast no more, Ne him commit to graue terrestriall, But beare him farre from hope of succour vsuall. Vpon his shoulders carried him perforse Aboue three furlongs, taking his full course, Vntill he came vnto a standing lake; Him thereinto he threw without remorse, Ne stird, till hope of life did him forsake; So end of that Carles dayes, and his owne paines did make.

Not a doe ready to bolt, but a stag, weighing the options of fighting or fleeing, of standing its ground, lowering its head, and charging.

A man-beast?” Portia asked, her eyes widening. “Oh, I do like the sound of this.” She put pencil to paper again. Brooke leaned over her shoulder. “Are you taking notes for your novel or adding to your list?” “That depends,” she said coolly, “on what manner of beast we’re discussing.” She looked to Denny. “Some sort of large, ferocious cat, I hope? All fangs and claws and fur?” “Once again I must disappoint you,” Denny replied. “No fangs, no claws. It’s a stag.” “Oh, prongs! Even better.” More scribbling. “What do they call this . . . this man-beast? Does it have a name?” “Actually,” said Denny, “most people in the region avoid speaking of the creature at all. It’s bad luck, they say, just to mention it. And a sighting of the beast . . . well, that’s an omen of death.” “Excellent. This is all so inspiring.” Portia’s pencil was down to a nub. “So is this a creature like a centaur, divided at the waist? Four hooves and two hands?” “No, no,” Cecily said. “He’s not half man, half beast in that way. He transforms, you see, at will. Sometimes he’s a man, and other times he’s an animal.” “Ah. Like a werewolf,” Portia said. Brooke laughed heartily. “For God’s sake, would you listen to yourselves? Curses. Omens. Prongs. You would honestly entertain this absurd notion? That Denny’s woods are overrun with a herd of vicious man-deer?” “Not a herd,” Denny said. “I’ve never heard tell of more than one.” “We don’t know that he’s vicious,” Cecily added. “He may be merely misunderstood.” “And we certainly can’t call him a man-deer. That won’t do at all.” Portia chewed her pencil thoughtfully. “A werestag. Isn’t that a marvelous title? The Curse of the Werestag.” Brooke turned to Luke. “Rescue me from this madness, Merritt. Tell me you retain some hold on your faculties of reason. What say you to the man-deer?” “Werestag,” Portia corrected. Luke circled the rim of his glass with one thumb. “A cursed, half-human creature, damned to an eternity of solitude in Denny’s back garden?” He shot Cecily a strange, fleeting glance. “I find the idea quite plausible.

As the sun set, Red and Billy Don sat on the rickety front porch of Red’s mobile home and pondered what they had learned that afternoon. Red suspected, if he was being accurate, that he was the only one really doing any pondering. Billy Don was just sitting there, not thinking about much at all, the same way a dog does. He could keep that behavior up for hours. Just sit and not think. Occasionally Billy Don would lift his beer to his mouth, but that didn’t require a whole bunch of brain cells.

At dawn, King Lír rose up and saddled his horse. Before he mounted, he said to Schmendrick and Molly, “I would like it if you came to see me one day.” They assured him that they would, but still he lingered with them, twisting the dangling reins about his fingers. “I dreamed about her last night!” he said. Molly cried, “So did I!” and Schmendrick opened his mouth, and then closed it again. King Lír said hoarsely, “By our friendship, I beg you—tell me what she said to you.” His hands gripped one hand of each of theirs, and his clutch was cold and painful. Schmendrick gave him a weak smile. “My lord, I so rarely remember my dreams. It seems to me that we spoke solemnly of silly things, as one does—grave nonsense, empty and evanescent—” The king let go of his hand and turned his half-mad gaze on Molly Grue. “I’ll never tell,” she said, a little frightened, but flushing oddly. “I remember, but I’ll never tell anyone, if I die for it—not even you, my lord.” She was not looking at him as she spoke, but at Schmendrick. King Lír let her hand fall as well, and he swung himself into the saddle so fiercely that his horse reared up across the sunrise, bugling like a stag. But Lír kept his seat and glared down at Molly and Schmendrick with a face so grim and scored and sunken that he might well have been king as long as Haggard before him. “She said nothing to me,” he whispered. “Do you understand? She said nothing to me, nothing at all.” Then his face softened, as even King Haggard’s face had gone a little gentle when he watched the unicorns in the sea. For that moment he was again the young prince who had liked to sit with Molly in the scullery. He said, “She looked at me. In my dream, she looked at me and never spoke.” He rode away without good-bye, and they watched after him until the hills hid him: a straight, sad horseman, going home to be king.

What about that one?” Ansel said. “That’s the stag,” Celaena breathed. “The Lord of the North.” “Why does he get a fancy title? What about the swan and the dragon?” Celaena snorted, but the smile faded when she stared at the familiar constellation. “Because the stag remains constant—no matter the season, he’s always there.” “Why?” Celaena took a long breath. “So the people of Terrasen will always know how to find their way home. So they can look up at the sky, no matter where they are, and know Terrasen is forever with them.

A stag, a beautiful stag as white as starlight, with evergreen eyes and antler so tall, Basia is afraid they will get stuck in the trees, When he walks, he leaves no marks on the woodland soil, and when Liska reaches out to touch his head, her hand goes through him as though he is made of mist. This is the strangest part of it all: every time Liska meets the stag, she tries to touch him. Every time, her hand passes through. Until one night, one rainy spring night, it does not.

In the patch of forest across the road, there were two deer grazing, a stag and a doe. Jack watched them in awe, took in their grace and vulnerability as though they were good omens sent personally to him. They were two reasons to live, to reasons to believe he could defy the odds history had stacked against him.

AMANDA: We're being so bad, so terribly bad, we'll suffer for this, I know we shall. ELYOT: Can't be helped. AMANDA: Starting all those awful rows all over again. ELYOT: No, no, we're older and wiser now. AMANDA: What difference does that make? The first moment either of us gets a bit nervy, off we'll go again. ELYOT: Stop shilly-shallying, Amanda. AMANDA: I'm trying to be sensible. ELYOT: You're only succeeding in being completely idiotic. AMANDA: Idiotic indeed! What about you? ELYOT: Now look here Amanda AMANDA[stricken]: Oh my God! ELYOT [rushing to her and kissing her]: Darling, darling, I didn't mean it. AMANDA: I won't move from here unless we have a compact, a sacred, sacred compact never to quarrel again. ELYOT: Easy to make but difficult to keep. AMANDA: No, no, it's the bickering that always starts it. The moment we notice we're bickering, either of us, we must promise on our honor to stop dead. We'll invent some phrase or catchword, which when either of us says it, automatically cuts off all conversation for at least five minutes. ELYOT: Two minutes dear, with an option of renewal. AMANDA: Very well, what shall it be? ELYOT [hurriedly]: Solomon Isaacs. AMANDA: All right, that'll do. ELYOT: Come on, come on. AMANDA: What shall we do if we meet either of them on the way downstairs? ELYOT: Run like stags. AMANDA: What about clothes? ELYOT: I've got a couple of bags I haven't unpacked yet. AMANDA: I've got a small trunk. ELYOT: Send the porter up for it. AMANDA: Oh this is terrible - terrible - ELYOT: Come on, come on, don't waste time. AMANDA: Oughtn't we to leave notes or something? ELYOT: No, no, no, we'll telegraph from somewhere on the road. AMANDA: Darling, I daren't, it's too wicked of us, I simply daren't. ELYOT [seizing her in his arms and kissing her violently]: Now will you behave? AMANDA: Yes, but Elyot darling - ELYOT: Solomon Isaacs!

to the worthy. We have been wondering what Snape’s Patronus is. When it appears, at the book’s midpoint, it is the light that Harry has needed. Voldemort cannot touch this. It provides the guidance that Dumbledore doesn’t. There is comfort in this light, which takes the image of Lily Potter, the mate to James Potter’s silver stag. Snape and Harry have been strengthened by love from the same person. The silver doe tells us: follow the mother’s story.

James and Lily Potter have Patronuses that reflect one another. James’ is a stag, and Lily’s is a doe.

According to the FBI, there are two categories of serial killer keepsakes: the “souvenir” and the “trophy.” The first presumably serves the same function that a statuette of the Eiffel Tower does for a tourist who has just vacationed in Paris—it reminds the killer of how much fun he had and allows him to relive the experience in fantasy until he can do it again. Trophies, on the other hand, are analogous to the mounted moose head or stag antlers that a hunter might proudly display over the fireplace—prideful evidence of the killer’s lethal skill.