Suffolk Quotes

Perhaps I am the only person who, asked whether she were a witch or not, could truthfully say, "I do not know. I do know some very strange things have happened to me, or through me." Lady Alice Rowhedge

May you never face them, little one. But her prayed went unanswered. Frankie is a man now. Private Frank Mason Jr. of the Suffolk Regiment. Stationed in Algeria, bravely fighting the Nazis, just as his father fought the Germans before him.

Like most of the Jews in Suffolk they treated me very kindly, truly warm and welcoming, as if I were one of them which in an odd way I suppose I was. I found it odd and amazing when white people treated me that way, as if there were no barriers between us. It said a lot about this religion—Judaism—that some of its followers, old southern crackers who talked with southern twangs and wore straw hats, seemed to believe that its covenants went beyond the color of one’s skin.

he’s going out with Suffolk; you’ll have to

In a chapter headed ‘Independent Command: Suffolk,’ he downplayed Lee’s instructions to Longstreet, and in so doing advanced the Lost Cause assertion that the operation was a failure.

Nasci em Blunderstone, Suffolk, ou “por ali”, como dizem na Escócia. Fui filho póstumo. Os olhos de meu pai estavam fechados para a luz deste mundo havia seis meses quando os meus se abriram para ele.

He spends hours with the Englishman, who reminds him of a fir tree he saw in England, its one sick branch, too weighted down with age, held up by a crutch made out of another tree. It stood in Lord Suffolk’s garden on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the Bristol Channel like a sentinel. In spite of such infirmity he sensed the creature within it was noble, with a memory whose power rainbowed beyond ailment.

I have lived a great deal of my life near the sea: I feel its pull, its absence, if I don’t visit it at regular intervals, if I don’t walk beside it, immerse myself in it, breathe its air. I take excursions to the coasts near London–the tea-coloured waves of Suffolk, the flat, silty sands of Essex, the pebbly inclines of Sussex. I have, ever since childhood, swum in it as often as I can, even in the coldest water

And now Tash's library is being pulled down. The village in Suffolk where Olivia grew up doesn't have a mobile library anymore either. How are kids meant to discover the joy of books when there aren't any libraries for them to disappear into?

The most celebrated pocket borough was Dunwich, a coastal town in Suffolk that had once been a great port—the third biggest in England—but was washed into the sea during a storm in 1286. Despite its conspicuous nonexistence, it was represented in Parliament until 1832 by a succession of privileged nonentities.

back early from Vienna. For some reason, perhaps a nasty hunch, she had gone out to the cottage. Or they had gone there together. In the bedroom was my laundered blouse. Then came the scene in Suffolk or London, and her ultimatum – get rid of the girl, or march. So Tony had made the obvious decision. But here’s the point. He had made another choice too. He had decided to cast himself as the victim, the wronged, the deceived, the rightly furious. He had persuaded himself that he had said nothing

As if Singh were thinking of stepping into the Tudor corner store in his uniform and turban to chat casually with the owners about canes. Lord Suffolk was the best of the English, he later told Hana. If there had been no war he would never have roused himself from Countisbury and his retreat, called Home Farm, where he mulled along with the wine, with the flies in the old back laundry, fifty years old, married but essentially bachelor in character, walking the cliffs each day to visit his aviator friend.

Yet if I am not mistaken we are likely to be there well before Lord Leyton - well before even your little squadron...' 'What the Devil do you mean by my little squadron? It is a perfectly normal squadron, rather large than otherwise. Two ships of the line apart from Suffolk: a fifty-gun ship, two considerable sloops of war . . .' 'Hush, hush, Jack. Never fly into a passion, soul,' cried Stephen, seeing that his friend was seriously annoyed. 'Sure you must know after all this time that we use little as an endearment - a meliorative term, as one says my little Puss to a handsome Amazon that weighs fifteen stone in her shift.

We have to follow in the footsteps of such men, loving our enemies but also resisting their evil deeds. It is easy to walk “by the footsteps of the flock” because sheep can wear ruts into trails. But again, let us be careful to walk only by the path of Jesus’ sheep. Not all sheep have virtues to be imitated. Some can be very cruel. Any farmer will tell you about sheep that let their lambs die of starvation by withholding milk. Sometimes they even smash the lambs’ heads against a wall. Also, certain sheep of different breeds hate one another. Those of the Hampshire breed cannot tolerate those of the Suffolk breed. Avoid Christian sheep of this kind.

Simt o nevoie uriașă să fiu din nou cu ea, să o cunosc iarăși, să descopăr cine este persoana care a devenit. Persoana care a fost înainte să o întâlnesc prima oară. Pentru că asta e iubirea. Să te simți trist că nu ai făcut parte din trecutul unei persoane. Să fi fost cu ea când spăla pensulele cu care picta, când alerga prin lanurile de floarea soarelui, când stătea la birou și făcea calcule. Crăciunul când am mers la Suffolk la părinții ei, atunci m-a dus la locul ei secret. [...] Nu cred că o iubisem vreodată mai mult ca atunci. Îmi doream s-o fi cunoscut pe când era copil, când citea cu genunchii strânși la piept, iar părul îi era luminat de razele de soare care se strecurau prin ramuri.

There's a photograph I have of my mother in which her features are barely revealed. I recognize her from just her stance, some gesture in her limbs, even though it was taken before I was born. She is seventeen or eighteen, and snapped by her parents along the banks of their Suffolk river. She has been swimming, has climbed into her dress, and now stands on one foot, the other leg bent sideways in order to put on a shoe, her head tilted down so that her blond hair covers her face. I found it years later in the spare bedroom among the few remnants she had decided not to throw away. I have it with me still. This almost anonymous person, balanced awkwardly, holding on to her own safety. Already incognito.

In August 1992, when the dog days were drawing to an end, I set off to walk the county of Suffolk, in the hope of dispelling the emptiness that takes hold of me whenever I have completed a long stint of work. And in fact my hope was realized, up to a point; for I have seldom felt so carefree as I did then, walking for hours in the day through the thinly populated countryside, which stretches inland from the coast.

Every other Massachusetts town founded before 1660 was named after an English community. Of thirty-five such names, at least eighteen (57%) were drawn from East Anglia and twenty-two (63%) from seven eastern counties. Most were named after English towns within sixty miles of the village of Haverhill.2 As the Puritans moved beyond the borders of New England to other colonies, their place names continued to come from the east of England. When they settled Long Island, they named their county Suffolk. In the Connecticut Valley, their first county was called Hartford. When they founded a colony in New Jersey, the most important town was called the New Ark of the Covenant (now the modern city of Newark) and the county was named Essex. In general, the proportion of eastern and East Anglian place names in Massachusetts and its affiliated colonies was 60 percent—exactly the same as in genealogies and ship lists.

The best survey of the spirit and practice of the laws of Massachusetts Bay is found in Zechariah Chafee Jr.’s brilliant introduction to the Records of the Suffolk County Court, 1671–1680, in the Colonial Society of Massachusetts Publications, Vol. XXIX.

He had a good memory and knowledge of history, and could converse with people of education, although his tastes weren’t that highbrow. His favourite court jester was one Roland the Farter, who was given a manor in Suffolk on condition that every Christmas he ‘gave a jump, a whistle and a fart before Henry and his courtiers’. The

I was shocked to read that Lord Ferrers, a Home Office minister, when booked for speeding and presented with a £40 fixed penalty with three penalty points, them wrote to the Suffolk police to thank them for catching him. There is a sickness in England. If his lordship appreciates punishment so much, it was unkind just to fine him. He should have been caned, with his trousers down, by the side of the road.

When Boston imported its first streetlights in 1774, Paul Revere was asked to serve on the committee that made the arrangement. When the Boston market required regulation, Paul Revere was appointed its clerk. After the Revolution, in a time of epidemics, he was chosen health officer of Boston, and coroner of Suffolk County. When a major fire ravaged the old wooden town, he helped to found the Massachusetts Mutual Fire Insurance Company, and his name was first to appear on its charter of incorporation. As poverty became a growing problem in the new republic, he called the meeting that organized the Massachusetts Charitable Mechanic Association, and was elected its first president. When the community of Boston was shattered by the most sensational murder trial of his generation, Paul Revere was chosen foreman of the jury.

The giant reptile at Bures in Suffolk, for example, is known to us from a chronicle of 1405: “Close to the town of Bures, near Sudbury, there has lately appeared, to the great hurt of the countryside, a dragon, vast in body, with a crested head, teeth like a saw, and a tail extending to an enormous length. Having slaughtered the shepherd of a flock, it devoured many sheep.

Listen to me. We’ve been had.” “By whom? How?” “Toby Stonewood. He’s played us from the start.” “Toby? The Duke of Suffolk?” “One and the same.” Simon couldn’t stand how the English never wanted to believe the worst of their landed gentry. Even the most casual perusal of English history showed them to be venal, dishonest, and without scruples. And those were the good ones.

Norwich to Ipswich in Suffolk

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At Lavenham in Suffolk, ten thousand men planned to converge in active protest; it was said that they failed only because the clappers had been removed from the church bells that were to signal the start of the uprising.

his alleged interest in the political destruction of a prominent Catholic District Attorney named Pelletier, from Boston's Suffolk County.

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The weather must have made all of this even more unpleasant. England was far hotter in the tenth and eleventh centuries than it is now, with London enjoying the same climate as central France does today. There were almost forty vineyards in the south of Britain, spread as far north as Suffolk, not considered by wine buffs today as great grape country.

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I know what it feels like when people laugh at you walking down the street, or snicker when they hear you speaking Yiddish, or just look at you with hate in their eyes. You know a Jew living in Suffolk when I was coming up could be lonely even if there were fifteen of them standing in the room, I don’t know why; it’s that feeling that nobody likes you; that’s how I felt, living in the South. You were different from everyone and liked by very few. There were white sections of Suffolk, like the Riverview section, where Jews weren’t allowed to own property. It said that on the deeds and you can look them up. They’d say “for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants only.” That was the law there and they meant it.

But Suffolk struck him as discrete, at least.

Mary was certainly sympathetic to Jane's situation, and though she soon removed from the Tower to Richmond Palace without seeing her cousin, Jane was not forgotten. By 13 August it seems clear that Mary had received Jane's letter, and that she had accepted her version of events. During their audience with her that day, the Imperial ambassadors reported that thought the Queen made it clear that 'she had not pardoned anybody yet', and there were many who whispered in the Queen's ear that 'Jane of Suffolk deserved death according to English law', Mary, conscious of their familial bonds and Jane's tender age, could not bring herself to execute her cousin. It was evident that Mary believed in Jane's innocence, for in words that almost echoed those in Jane's letter, the ambassadors informed their master that Jane knew nothing of the plans in which she had become helplessly entangled, 'nor was she ever a party nor did she ever give her consent to the [Duke of Northumberland]'s intrigues and plots'. This seems to indicate that Mary had indeed received Jane's account, and she was firm in her decision to be merciful. The Queen's conscience, the ambassadors continued, 'would not permit her to have her put to death', despite the fact that she had been warned by the use of an example from Roman history that it would be better to put Jane to death, 'because of the scandal and danger that might have followed'. Jane's life, it seemed, was safe.

I still remember the smell of the South. It smelled like azaleas. And leaves. And peanuts. Peanuts everywhere. Planters peanuts had their headquarters in Suffolk. Mr. Obici ran it. He was a big deal in town. The big peanut man. He gave a lot of money out to people. He built a hospital. You could buy peanuts by the pound in Suffolk for nothing. There were farmers growing peanuts, hauling peanuts, making peanut oil, peanut butter, even peanut soap. They called the high school yearbook The Peanut. They even had a contest once to see who could make the best logo for Planters peanut company. Some lady won it. They gave her twenty-five dollars, which was a ton of money in those days.

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she says something nasty.’ ‘Well, not nasty, exactly,’ Gertie said. ‘More sly, isn’t it?’ Celeste nodded. ‘Like the time she said that you were looking well.’ Evie gave a mad sort of laugh. ‘Yes!’ she cried. ‘She said I suited the extra weight I’d put on.’ ‘And the time she admired my dress,’ Gertie said, ‘and then went on to say that she wished they’d come in petite so that she could have one too.’ Celeste gave a knowing smile. ‘I don’t think it’s natural to be as skinny as Simone,’ she said. ‘No,’ Evie said. ‘Didn’t she once say that she hated chocolate? How can you trust anyone who doesn’t like chocolate? It’s not natural, is it?’ ‘It certainly isn’t,’ Celeste said, enjoying the jovial mood between them and wishing it could be like this more often. ‘And if she says my fingernails look like a man’s one more time, I swear I’m going to scream,’ Gertie said. The sisters laughed together before getting out of the car. Oak House was on the edge of a pretty village in what was known as ‘High Suffolk’ – the area to the north-west of the county famous for its rolling countryside. The house itself wasn’t attractive. Or at least it wasn’t attractive to Celeste, who was suspicious of any architecture that came after the Arts and Crafts movement – which this one certainly had. She still found it hard to understand how her father could have bought a mock-Tudor house when he had lived in a bona fide medieval home for so many years. She looked up at its black and white gable and couldn’t help wincing at such modernity. It was the same inside, too, with neatly plastered walls and floors that neither sloped nor squeaked. But, then again, Oak House had never known damp or deathwatch beetle and there was never the slightest chance of being cold in the fully insulated rooms with their central heating. ‘God, I’d rather spend an afternoon with Esther Martin,’ Gertie said as they approached the front door, which sheltered in a neat little porch where Simone had placed a pot of begonias. Celeste didn’t like begonias. Mainly because they weren’t roses. ‘I popped my head in to see if Esther was all right this morning and she nearly bit it off,’ Celeste said. ‘I’ve given up on her,’ Gertie said. ‘I’ve tried – I’ve really tried to be nice, but she is the rudest person I’ve ever met.’ Evie sighed. ‘You can’t blame her

That fellow De Vigne’s dreaming away in comfort, while we’re dragged out by the heels, for a lot of confounded humbug and form,” lamented Curly to me as we entered; while the readers hurried the prayers over, in that singsong recitative in favour with collegemen — a cross between the drone of a gnat, and the whine of a Suffolk peasant. We dozed comfortably, sitting down, and getting up, at the right times, by sheer force of habit; or read Dumas, or Balzac, under cover of our prayer-books.

The number of women my brother Matthew killed, as far as I can reckon it, is one hundred and six. He accomplished it in two of our short English summers, and the months between. One hundred and six women, through Essex, Suffolk and beyond: that much is certain.

That bad things happen, even in sleepy Suffolk?

A certain Roland le Fartère was given a small manor in Suffolk by the king on condition that every Christmas he gave a jump, a whistle and a fart before Henry and his courtiers. (Unum saltum et siffletum et unum bumbulum.)

Ill at ease around most people, she had an unusually intense connection with animals—particularly cats, but also snails, which she bred at home. Highsmith was inspired to keep the gastropods as pets when she saw a pair at a fish market locked in a strange embrace. (She later told a radio interviewer that “they give me a sort of tranquility.”) She eventually housed three hundred snails in her garden in Suffolk, England, and once arrived at a London cocktail party carrying a gigantic handbag that contained a head of lettuce and a hundred snails—her companions for the evening, she said. When she later moved to France, Highsmith had to get around the prohibition against bringing live snails into the country. So she smuggled them in, making multiple trips across the border with six to ten of the creatures hidden under each breast.

a match held on Diss Common between Norfolk and Suffolk in the mid-eighteenth century resulted in nine deaths.

Hear ye then how our fathers before us discover'd the Witche: Mark well their manner, for it is quiet and assumeth naught. It is in peacefull tones they speak, and oft seem abstracted. Seeming to prefer the company of Beastes, they converse with them as equals. They will dwelle in lonely places, there better (as they say) to know the voices of the Wind and hear the secrets of Nature. Possessing Wysdom of the feldes and forrests, they doe heale and arme with their harvests. They concerne themselves not with idle fashion, nor doe worldly Goodes hold worth for them. Be not so confused as to think that only Womankynde harbour the gift in this matter. Of Men there bee many that holde mickle power” —Edward Johnston, Esq. Sudbery, Suffolk My

Having parked up at the entrance to the football ground I’d like my coffin to be taken from the hearse and carried around the mile and a half perimeter of the pitch in a fitting lap of honour. Then, after the lap of honour, I would like the undertakers to lift me out of my coffin, dress me in the home strip and sit with me in the Evans Halshaw Home Stand for a match against any team in the Essex and Suffolk Border League Division One. (From Undertaker's Question Time, 2016)

One is formed by what one’s parents say and do; and one is formed by what one’s parents are. But what happens when what they say and do don’t match? My father, a man, advanced male values to us, his daughters. And my mother, a woman, did the same. So it was my mother who didn’t match, who didn’t make sense. We belong as much to our moment in history as to our parents: I suppose it would have been reprehensible in Britain in the late twentieth century, for her to have told us not to worry about our maths, that the important thing was to find a niche husband to support us. Yet her mother had probably told her precisely that. There was nothing as a woman, she could bequeath us; nothing to pass on from mother to daughter but these adulterated male values. And of that forsaken homeland, beauty, which now lay so despoiled—as the countryside around our Suffolk home as in the years of my growing up despoiled, disfigured by new roads and houses that it pained my oversensitive eyes to look at—of beauty, a woman’s beauty, of the place I had come from I knew nothing at all. I didn’t know its manners or its customs. I didn’t speak its language. In that world of femininity where I had the right to claim citizenship, I was an alien.

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...the English lost at most 500 men, including only two lords, the Earl of Suffolk and the Duke of York. Shakespeare’s Exeter gives these two noblemen a brilliant chivalric epitaph; history, however, adds its usual sour note by pointing out that York perished, not by the sword, but by suffocation or a heart attack after falling off his horse. He was quite fat.

In recent weeks, dead birds with the avian flu strain have turned up in Suffolk, England, Germany, and at a Grayson chicken farm in Tennessee, increasing fears of a possible pandemic.

Because of Suffolk, his daughter and his son-in-law had to die. Though Jane Grey and Guilford Dudley had no part in his treason, Mary, encouraged by Gardiner, came to believe that her Crown would never be safe until all threats had been removed.