Stitch Jones Quotes

Highway: Just because we're holding hands doesn't mean we'll be taking warm showers together until the wee hours of the morning." Sgt Gunnery Highway to Stitch Jones in Heartbreak Ridge

I guess this is how love is when it comes undone. No matter how tight you knit the stitches, a sharp tug on a loose thread will transform your warm sweater into a mangled heap of yarn that you can't reuse or repair.

The most interesting thing was the talk from the customers. Nobody can buy a hat without gossiping. Sophie sat in her alcove and stitched and heard [...] that Wizard Howl’s castle had moved round to the cliffs again, really that man, whisper, whisper, whisper… The voices always dropped low when they talked of Wizard Howl, [...] Then there would be a fleeting, fearful whisper about the Witch of the Waste. Sophie began to feel that Wizard Howl and the Witch of the Waste should get together.

Society is going to have to deal with us not as nice little fairies who have hairdressing salons, but as people capable of violence. We’re not going to put up with Dan Whites anymore.

I guess I’ll always miss him. It gets easier every year, but then suddenly, out of nowhere, a smell or a sound or an old song will bring it all rushing back and it hurts as if he died this morning. Somehow, you just have to keep going.

THE BLUE DRESS Her blue dress is a silk train is a river is water seeps into the cobblestone steps of my sleep, is still raining is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles is goodbye in a flooded, antique room, is goodbye in a room of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the ring-ting-ring of water dripping from the mouths of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the Mississippi river is a hallway, is leaks like tears from windowsills of a drowned house, is windows open to waterfalls is a bed is a small boat is a ship, is a currant come to carry me in its arms through the streets, is me floating in her dress through the streets is the moon sees me floating through the streets, is me in a blue dress out to sea, is my mother is a moon out to sea.

Zoe had dressed up for their meeting with Dr. Marriott in a long Indian skirt stitched with beads and tiny mirrors, a T-shirt embossed with CAT WOMAN STRIKES AGAIN! and a short-sleeved pink hoodie. To top it off, she wore a bracelet made from typewriter keys. She was sure Dr. Marriott would love it, seeing as typewriters were right up his alley.

The oligarchs are not philosophers; they pay people to be philosophers for them, and so the regnant ideology of the terminal phase of the American Empire is a mish-mash of Darwin, Nietzsche, and Foucault, as stitched together by Hollywood directors like Guillermo del Toro, (whose name translates into English as “of the bull”) and Bryan Singer for mass consumption. What they share is Nietzsche’s penchant for the transvaluation of all values (die Umwertung aller Werte) which entails role reversal as well.

winter stars stitched into puddles

But no matter how deeply she dug inside herself, trying to scrounge up even a shred of loathing, so she could use it to cauterize the bleeding and stitch the tattered pieces of herself back together, there was none to be found, and that may have been the worst hurt of all.

Warden wore his comparatively new tan suit of Forstmann tropical worsted with the saddle-stitched lapels that had cost him $120 tourist prices, and that he saved for great occasions. But all the way into town he was furious with himself for coming. His hand hurt him and was swollen fatly and that also was her fault. He wished furiously he had stayed with Pete and the guys, forgetting how miserable he had been with them. He wished furiously he had left her and the rest of these middle-class society women to the gigolos who were neurotic enough themselves to be able to understand them. He wished furiously a lot of things. Once he even wished furiously he was dead and in hell. He knew then that he was in love. - From Here to Eternity ; James Jones.

Supermodernism. the fact that we don't build places just to live in anymore. We build places to go through. To wait in. To be transient [. . .] Supermodern spaces. Places to go through. And now look at this bloody city [Los Angeles]. Two hundred thousand fucking miles of road. Not even a city. A dozen towns stitched together by motorways.

I suppose I had not been particularly subtle. For the first time, I had taken care with my appearance; after the encounter by the Underground lake, I had forced Twig and Thistle to take me to the tailor to stitch me a new gown. To stitch me some armor. I had had the tailor modify a gown made of a beautiful cream and gold silk taffeta. It was fashioned like a chemise, the skirt gathered beneath what little bosom I had before flowing out behind me in a train. The entire construction was held together by diaphanous straps at my shoulders, leaving my arms bare. Diamonds were craftily sewn into the bodice- hundreds, thousands, a myriad- twinkling like stars in a night sky. Twig and Thistle arranged my hair into a coronet of braids about my head, fitted with more little diamonds that sparkled brightly against my dark locks.

And in the funny world that I lived in, that all of us lived in, pain was the bridge that we met on, and that was progress.