Suits Donna Quotes

No, we aren't civilized, even in our business suits and high heels. People are as mean as ever, and as predictable. Underneath it all, we are not so different from what lurks in the wild, perhaps we're worse.

Out in the country it was not uncommon to discover that she had slipped away, alone, out to the lake, maybe, or down to the cellar, where once I found her sitting in the big marooned sleigh, reading, her fur coat thrown over her knees. Things would have been terrible strange and unbalanced without her. She was the Queen who finished out the suit of dark Jacks, dark King, and Joker.

This is the East Coast, boy. I know they're pretty laissez-faire about dress in your neck of the woods, but back here 52. they don't let you run around in your bathing suit all year long. Blacks and blues, that's the ticket, blacks and blues… (Bunny Corcoran to Richard Papen)

L'esprit est son propre lieu et peut faire en lui-même un Paradis de l'Enfer et ainsi de suite

She was the Queen who finished out the suit of dark Jacks, dark King and Joker

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture. Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding. I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way. Much of our lives is spent on marketing. Make-up, exercise, dieting, clothes, hair, money, charm, attitude, the strut, the pose, the Blue Steel look. We're like walking billboards advertising ourselves. A sneak peek of upcoming attractions. Meanwhile our actual production is in disarray--we're over budget, doing poorly at private test screenings and focus groups, creatively stagnant, morale low. So we're endlessly tinkering, touching up, editing, rewriting, tailoring ourselves to best suit a mass audience. There's like this studio executive in our heads telling us to cut certain things out, make it "lighter," give it a happy ending, and put some explosions in there too. Kids love explosions. And the uncompromising artist within protests: "But that's not life!" Thus the inner conflict of our movie life: To be a palatable crowd-pleaser catering to the mainstream... or something true to life no matter what they say?

Beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the emotion that best suits her face.... The beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she reminds us too much of a prima donna.

Things would have been terribly strange and unbalanced without her. She was the Queen who finished out the suit of dark Jacks, dark King, and Joker.

The interesting thing, in the photograph, was how the fragile little knock-kneed boy—smiling sweetly, pristine in his sailor suit—was also the old man who’d clasped my hand while he was dying: two separate frames, superimposed upon each other, of the same soul. And the painting, above his head, was the still point where it all hinged: dreams and signs, past and future, luck and fate. There wasn’t a single meaning. There were many meanings. It was a riddle expanding out and out and out.

She was the quintessential twenty-first-century woman: She could build a high-rise in a Chanel suit and Jimmy Choos, give lessons in multitasking, and freeze the heart of the coldest competitor with a single unblinking gaze over the rim of her ebony-framed reading glasses. But that persona was like a bodysuit that she pulled on at eight in the morning and peeled out of at five in the afternoon.

Nel cuore di ogni uomo e di ogni donna resta una specie di Eden dove non ci sono né morte né guerre, dove le belve e le cerbiatte giocano in pace. Si tratta solo di ritrovare quel paradiso, rifiutando di vedere tutto il resto

Starched shirts and suits fresh from the cleaners’ went a long, long way toward hiding a multitude of sins.

If kindness isn't your strong suit, then you need to change clothes.

Starched shirts and suits fresh from the cleaners’ went a long, long way toward hiding a multitude of sins

She was the queen who finished out the suit of dark Jacks, dark King, and Joker.

We come up against beauty here — for the first time in our enquiry: beauty at which a novelist should never aim though he fails if he does not achieve it. I will conduct beauty to her proper place later on. Meanwhile please accept her as part of a completed plot. She looks a little surprised at being there, but beauty ought to look a little surprised: it is the emotion that best suits her face, as Botticelli knew when he painted her risen from the waves, between the winds and the flowers. The beauty who does not look surprised, who accepts her position as her due—she reminds us too much of a prima donna.

I treasure ruefully some memories of W.H. Auden that go back to the middle 1960s, when he arrived in New Haven to give a reading of his poems at Ezra Stiles College. We had met several times before, in New York City and at Yale, but were only acquaintances. The earlier Auden retains my interest, but much of the frequently devotional poetry does not find me. Since our mutual friend John Hollander was abroad, Auden phoned to ask if he might stay with my wife and me, remarking of his dislike of college guest suites. The poet arrived in a frayed, buttonless overcoat, which my wife insisted on mending. His luggage was an attache case containing a large bottle of gin, a small one of vermouth, a plastic drinking cup, and a sheaf of poems. After being supplied with ice, he requested that I remind him of the amount of his reading fee. A thousand dollars had been the agreed sum, a respectable honorarium more than forty years ago. He shook his head and said that as a prima donna he could not perform, despite the prior arrangement. Charmed by this, I phoned the college master - a good friend - who cursed heartily but doubled the sum when I assured him that the poet was as obdurate as Lady Bracknell in 'The Importance of Being Earnest'. Informed of this yielding, Auden smiled sweetly and was benign and brilliant at dinner, then at the reading, and as he went to bed after we got home.

Boris laughed, and threw out some fake-looking gang sign. “Suit yourself, yo,” he said, in his “gangsta” voice (discernible from his regular voice only by the hand gesture and the “yo”) as he got up and roll-walked out. “Nigga gotz to eat.

Are you going somewhere?” I said, regarding him timidly. The suit made him seem a different person, less melancholy and distracted, more capable—unlike the Hobie of my first visit, with his bedraggled aspect of an elegant but mistreated polar bear.

Being the only female in what was basically a boys’ club must have been difficult for her. Miraculously, she didn’t compensate by becoming hard or quarrelsome. She was still a girl, a slight lovely girl who lay in bed and ate chocolates, a girl whose hair smelled like hyacinth and whose scarves fluttered jauntily in the breeze. But strange and marvelous as she was, a wisp of silk in a forest of black wool, she was not the fragile creature one would have her seem. In many ways, she was as cruel and competent as Henry. Tough minded, solitary in her habits. She was the Queen, who finished off the suit of Dark Drax, Dark King and Joker.

The interesting thing, in the photograph, was how the fragile little knock-kneed boy-- smiling sweetly, pristine in his sailor suit-- was also the old man who'd clasped my hand while he was dying: two separate frames, superimposed upon each other, of the same soul. And the painting, above his head, was the still point where it all hinged: dreams and signs, past and future, luck and fate. There wasn't a single meaning. There were many meanings. It was a riddle expanding out and out and out.

The larger of the two - and he was quite large, well over six feet - was dark-haired, with a square jaw and coarse, pale skin. He might have been handsome had his features been less set, or his eyes, behind the glasses, less expressionless and blank. He wore dark English suits and carried an umbrella (a bizarre sight in Hampden) and he walked stiffly through the throngs of hippies an beatniks and preppies and punks with the self-conscious formality of an old ballerina, surprising in one so large as he. "Henry Winter," said my friends when I pointed him out, at a distance, making a wide circle to avoid a group of bongo players on the lawn.

All around the country, at universities far and wide, at workplaces of all sizes and types, at companies that boast of doing good and making the world a better place, there are file cabinets full of the bloody tongues of women. Some are young and tender, others more weathered and battered, but all of them taken from us by people in business-casual attire, in suits and sensible skirts, walking up to us as though what they are about to do is perfectly legitimate, perfectly reasonable, even as they take the long, curving knives from behind their backs, raising them up to strike our faces and our necks. Acting as though this is just business as usual while they disfigure us, and we stand there, letting them, because this seems like our only option.

Why did I obsess over people like this? Was it normal to fixate on strangers in this particular vivid, fevered way? I don't think so. It was impossible to imagine some random passer-by on the street forming quite such interest in me. And yet it was the main reason I'd gone in those houses with Tom: I was fascinated by strangers, wanted to know what food they ate and what dishes they ate from, what movies they watched and what music they listened to, wanted to look under their beds and in their secret drawers and night tables and inside the pockets of their coats. Often I saw interesting-looking people on the street and thought about them restlessly for days, imagining their lives, making up stories about them the subway or the crosstown bus. Years had passed, and I still hadn't stopped thinking about the dark-haired children in Catholic school uniforms - brother and sister - I'd seen in Grand Central, literally trying to pull their father out the door of a seedy bar by the sleeves of his suit jacket. Nor had I forgotten the frail, gypsyish girl in a wheelchair out in front of the Carlyle Hotel, talking breathlessly in Italian to the fluffy dog in her lap while a sharp character in sunglasses (father? bodyguard?) stood behind her chair, apparently conducting some sort of business deal on his phone. For years, I'd turned those strangers over in my mind, wondering who they were and what their lives were like, and I knew I would go home and wonder about this girl and her grandfather the same way.

He ordered room service and replaced the receiver. He was on his way to his suit when a robe hit him in the chest. Rhys instinctively caught it and looked up at a grinning Lily. "You can't be walking around naked," she said. "What will the hotel staff think?" He winked at her. "They'll think you're a verra lucky lass.

Primo giorno di navigazione 1 gennaio 1900, al largo della Costa Orientale degli Stati Uniti «Mr Benton, l’accompagno al suo posto al tavolo del comandante.» Con un piccolo cenno di ringraziamento, Ken seguì lo steward nella sfarzosa sala da pranzo dell’Oceanic II, tutta marmi, specchi e lampadari di cristallo, sino al tavolo centrale imbandito con una tale quantità di bicchieri e posate da mettere probabilmente in soggezione più di un commensale. Durante la traversata avrebbe diviso i pasti con il comandante, Mr Cameron, il suo vice, il medico di bordo e una ventina di passeggeri di prima classe, considerati, per varie ragioni a lui poco comprensibili, importanti.Ne aveva ricevuto l’elenco completo solo pochi minuti prima dal valletto che era andato a prelevarlo nel suo alloggio, per scortarlo, come un secondino, sino alla sala da pranzo: un trattamento di riguardo per i viaggiatori importantiche occupavano le suite del ponte principale del transatlantico. In realtà, Ken aveva sperato di poter trascorrere i cinque giorni della traversata da solo, a elaborare la delusione e a piangere sulla sua vita che non sarebbe trascorsa al fianco della donna che ancora amava disperatamente. E invece… era stato catapultato in un mondo dove gli obblighi sociali sembravano essere ancora più assillanti che sulla Quinta Avenue. Forse, a pensarci meglio, da domani avrebbe deciso di consumare tutti i pasti chiuso nella sua cabina, servito da Jim, il suo valletto. Forse ci sarebbe rimasto per tutti e cinque i giorni, chiuso nella sua cabina. Con l’umore nero che si ritrovava, che a dire il vero rasentava la disperazione, non aveva alcuna voglia di sorridere e scambiare chiacchiere inutili con un gruppo di spocchiosi aristocratici britannici e di suoi connazionali milionari, tutta gente che frequentava l’alta società della East Coast e Wall Street; come lui stesso, del resto. Sperò almeno di sedere vicino a uno degli ufficiali di bordo, in modo da poter intrattenere una conversazione che andasse al di là degli ultimi pettegolezzi. Compreso quello che probabilmente si era già diffuso in tutta New York e che riguardava la patetica rottura del suo fidanzamento con Camille Brontee. Dannazione! Se qualcuno gli avesse chiesto qualcosa a proposito, o vi avesse solo accennato, la tentazione di rifilargli un bel cazzotto sul naso sarebbe stata enorme. Si guardò la mano destra, ancora dolorante a causa del pugno che solo il giorno prima aveva tirato in faccia a Frank Raleigh, l’uomo per cui Camille lo aveva lasciato.

En 1825, un Israélite d’origine portugaise, Mordecaï Manuel Noah, ancien consul des États-Unis à Tunis, acheta une île appelée Grand Island, située dans la rivière Niagara, et lança une proclamation engageant tous ses coreligionnaires à venir s’établir dans cette île, à laquelle il donna le nom d’Ararat. Le 2 septembre de la même année, on célébra en grande pompe la fondation de la nouvelle cité ; or, et c’est là ce que nous voulions signaler, les Indiens avaient été invités à envoyer des représentants à cette cérémonie, en qualité de descendants des tribus perdues d’Israël, et ils devaient aussi trouver un refuge dans le nouvel Ararat. Ce projet n’eut aucune suite, et la ville ne fut jamais bâtie ; une vingtaine d’années plus tard, Noah écrivit un livre dans lequel il préconisait le rétablissement de la nation juive en Palestine, et, bien que son nom soit aujourd’hui assez oublié, on doit le regarder comme le véritable promoteur du Sionisme. [Chapitre V - Les origines du Mormonisme]

Buon giorno, Commissario,’ she said as she came in, her smile reminding him, fleetingly, of gelato all’ amarena–scarlet and white – colours matched by the stripes of her silk blouse. She came into the office and stepped a bit to the side, allowing another woman to come in behind her. Brunetti glanced at the second woman and was briefly conscious of a square-cut suit in cheap grey polyester, its skirt in unfashionable proximity to low-heeled shoes. He noticed the woman’s hands clasped awkwardly around a cheap imitation leather handbag, and turned his eyes back to Signorina Elettra.

What was it Sherlock Holmes said about theories?” “‘It is a capital mistake to theorize before one has data,’” I rattled off. And as I continued, Dad chimed in so we were reciting in unison. “‘Insensibly one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.’” Sherlockian

But surely, if Fergus had actually spoken to Cooper, he wouldn’t have kept mum on that little detail. Who are you kidding? The man thrived on meddling, especially where his beloved McCrae girls were concerned. That would also explain why he’d so conveniently disappeared once Cooper had taken the floor. And why he hadn’t come back out carrying the shotgun they kept handy in the back. “Uncle Gus” was all she said. He smiled briefly. “I thought that was a better bet than your chief-of-police brother. I’ve already guessed Fergus didn’t tell you about our little conversation.” She shook her head. “How long ago?” “A week. Not so long as all that.” Long enough, she thought, already mentally rehearsing the conversation she’d be having with her uncle the minute she got back to the pub. “We only had the one chat.” “One was apparently all that was needed. What else did he share with you?” She immediately held up her hand. “On second thought, don’t tell me. I’ll have that little chat with him directly.” “He wants you to be happy,” Cooper said. “And he thought encouraging a man I haven’t seen in over a year, a man who was my former employer and nothing more, to hop on a plane and bop on up this side of the equator to see me was what would make me happy?” Cooper’s smile deepened, and that twinkle sparked to life in his eyes again, making them so fiercely blue it caught at her breath. “He might have mentioned that you’d be less than welcoming of a surprise visit. He also said if I had a prayer of your still being here when I arrived, a surprise visit was pretty much my only shot. And how the frosty reception I was sure to receive was simply your automatic defense system, and how I should just ignore all that and ‘press my suit’ anyway, as I believed he called it.” Kerry closed her eyes, willed her short fuse to wink out before it had the chance to get dangerously lit up. Yep, too late. She turned abruptly and moved to go around Cooper, aiming herself back toward the lot where the truck was parked. Cooper’s hand shot out and took hold of her arm, releasing it the moment she stopped and turned to look at him, her balance intact. “His heart was in the right place, Starfish. He warned me. It was my choice to come here and risk it anyway. Don’t go unloading all the frustration you’re feeling about my unexpected arrival, not to mention the unfortunate public spectacle I made of this whole thing, on your poor uncle.

Quand Ts'in (Qin n.n.) eut dispersé les royaumes combattants et qu’il régna sur l’empire, sa conduite ne changea pas, son gouvernement ne se modifia pas ; c’est pourquoi il obtint des résultats différents lorsqu’il fit des conquêtes et lorsqu’il les conserva ; il était isolé en possession (de l'empire), et c’est pourquoi on pouvait attendre sa perte imminente. Supposez que le roi de Ts’in eût administré les affaires suivant les principes des générations anciennes et qu’il eût suivi les traces des Yn (Shang n.n.) et des Tcheou (Zhou n.n.) dans la direction qu’il donna à son gouvernement ; quand bien même dans la suite il y aurait eu un souverain dissolu et arrogant, la calamité de la ruine et du péril ne se serait point produite. C’est pourquoi quand les trois dynasties fondèrent leur empire, leur renommée fut éclatante et leur œuvre dura longtemps. Maintenant, lorsque Eul-che (Qin Er Shi n.n.) (de la dynastie) Ts'in prit le pouvoir, dans l'empire il n'y eut personne qui ne tendit le cou pour observer comment il gouvernerait; en effet, celui qui a froid apprécie fort des vêtements grossiers, celui qui a faim trouve agréable au goût la lie du vin et l'enveloppe du grain; l'empire retentissait de plaintes, c'était une ressource pour le nouveau souverain: cela signifie qu'auprès d'un peuple accablé il est aisé de passer pour bon.

Success is the best revenge

Each one must choose the way that is most suited to their temperament and stage of development, but the quickest way is the way of devotion because whatever we are devoted to, we merge with.

Unlike the common misperception that relationships are to make us happy, relationships are usually more suited to make us grow. 
When we understand the educational significance of our relationships, we will consciously use them for spiritual growth. We will no longer run away from the problems we have. We will welcome the opportunity to develop further our understanding and that of the other person.

Hopelessly happy, Olivier did not hide his love. Now that she was a prima donna, Marie was radiant. "What a lovely couple! How well suited they are!" people said. She was so happy that she believed she was in love. Her parents' smiles enchanted her less than the ugly moue she saw on the lips of her peers. What fun, to be the star of this hit film! Six weeks later she was singing another tune. She ran to the doctor, who confirmed what she had been dreading. Horrified, she shared the news with Olivier, who immediately put his arm around her. "My darling, that's wonderful! Marry me!" She burst into tears. "Don't you want to?" "Yes," she said, through her tears. "But I wanted things to be different.