Swept Under The Rug Quotes

People expect all stories of abuse to be loud and angry but they're not. Sometimes they're quiet and cruel and swept under the rug.

A is for Amy who fell down the stairs. B is for Basil assaulted by bears. C is for Clara who wasted away. D is for Desmond thrown out of a sleigh. E is for Ernest who choked on a peach. F is for Fanny sucked dry by a leech. G is for George smothered under a rug. H is for Hector done in by a thug. I is for Ida who drowned in a lake. J is for James who took lye by mistake. K is for Kate who was struck with an axe. L is for Leo who choked on some tacks. M is for Maud who was swept out to sea. N is for Neville who died of ennui. O is for Olive run through with an awl. P is for Prue trampled flat in a brawl. Q is for Quentin who sank on a mire. R is for Rhoda consumed by a fire. S is for Susan who perished of fits. T is for Titus who flew into bits. U is for Una who slipped down a drain. V is for Victor squashed under a train. W is for Winnie embedded in ice. X is for Xerxes devoured by mice. Y is for Yorick whose head was bashed in. Z is for Zillah who drank too much gin.

To whom do I owe the biggest apology? No one's been crueler than I've been to me. -"Sorry to Myself

Things that hurt her just get swept under the rug, never to be brought up again.

Manage me, I am a mess, swept under the rug of yesterday’s home improvement, a whimsical urge tossed aside for the easy reassurance of home and comfort. I am the photograph tucked away as a book-mark, in a book left half unread, once reopened to find memories crawling back into peripheral sight, faded, creased and lonely. I long to be admired, long to be held, torn and laughed at, laughed with, like a distant relative or an old friend breathing in their last breath. I missed the moment when time collapsed and memory was erased, replaced by finicky social experiments, lost in the blur of intoxication, sucked through multi-colored bendy-straws, making way for a spinning world where hub-caps stood still, but our vision didn’t. If I could leave you with only one thing, it would be small, foldable, and made from trees, with a few careless words, scribbled in blue; Take a minute to learn me, take a moment to love me, because I need your love to live,and without it, I am nothing.

Good executives focus on opportunities rather than problems. Problems have to be taken care of, of course; they must not be swept under the rug. But problem solving, however necessary, does not produce results. It prevents damage. Exploiting opportunities produces results.

The intellectual is an individual endowed with a faculty for representing, embodying, articulating a message, a view, an attitude, philosophy or opinion to, as well as for, a public. And this role has an edge to it, and cannot be played without a sense of being someone whose place ti is publicly to raise embarrassing questions, to confront orthodoxy and dogma (rather than to produce them), to be someone who cannot easily be co-opted by governments or corporations, and whose raison d'etre is to represent all those people and issues that are routinely forgotten or swept under the rug.

I’m trying to show you how much I care, that your dreams mean something to me! They’re not things to be swept under the rug or given lip service. They fucking matter, Libby. You matter.

The library spilled onto the floor and into the other rooms. Some books held up wobbly tables, others were literally swept under the rug. Sabrina had once found a book inside the toilet tank.

The rain had washed out the world and the wind had swept the clouds in under the rug and the sky was all speckles of stars and the moon, glowing.

There are so few people left alive from back then, you may as well be talking to them about the Black Death. Nobody recalls the shite in the 30s and that were fucking horrible. For Christ's sake, nobody wants to remember the shite in the 80s. It's all forgotten and swept under the rug by the newspapers and the BBC. They get nostalgic about the music, but they never want to mention the misery. It's all shite. As for the bloody Second World War, the politicians only talk about it when they need an excuse to go pissing about in one of those fucking Muslim countries.

A broom that was almost never used was leaned up against the wall. He took it and started to sweep. Dust flew up his nose. When he had been sweeping for a while he realised he had no dustpan. He swept the pile of dust under the couch. Better to have a little shit in the corners than a clean hell. He flipped through the pages of a porno, put it back. Wound his scarf around his neck until his head felt like it was about to explode, released it. Got up and took a few steps on the rug. Sank to his knees, prayed to god.

by and large LGBT issues are now acknowledged far and wide and asexual issues are still usually swept under the rug.

All of us cherish our beliefs. They are, to a degree, self-defining. When someone comes along who challenges our belief system as insufficiently well based - or who, like Socrates, merely asks embarrassing questions that we haven't thought of, or demonstrates that we've swept key underlying assumptions under the rug - it becomes much more than a search for knowledge. It feels like a personal assault.

The painful stories of the suffering of the African American community, in particular, remain hidden. Often, American Christians may even deny the narrative of suffering, claiming that things weren’t so bad for the slaves or that at least the African Americans had the chance to convert to Christianity. The story of suffering is often swept under the rug in order not to create discomfort or bad feelings. Lament is denied because the dead body in front of us is being denied. But

For every Aruna story we hear there are hundreds of thousands that will never be heard, swept under the great rug of shame societies have so eloquently woven. It is up to us to speak up, to lift this heavy rug and reveal the ugliness it conceals.

There would remain no sign of you ever having played in this house. Your childhood is going to be swept under a camel-skin rug and elevators are going to be built over the lake we once swam in. This address, as we know it, would be lost forever and we’ll wake up in a box-sized room: cramped, trampled and sensationally unhappy.' ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

The assassin had crammed a note of white ream paper, into the mouth of Fajil Sajid Bhotto. It was written in black ink, and revealed the hate harbored by the killer, and a list of reasons. But the police never leaked the contents, and kept everything closed and tight, and after all these years the murder evidence remained swept under the rug. — Direct Object Formula

But it’s a lie. No relationship is perfect. There’s always an ugly story swept under a rug of happy pictures and smiles. ‘Cause when you find the one, it’s just too fuckin’ hard to give them up, no matter the pain, no matter the shame, no matter the cost. So we have to patch up that fuckin’ rift, and love with a broken love. And it will challenge us to love harder, stronger, with more faith. Love fierce enough to overcast that rift, to make sure it never breaks open again.

Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom- apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the 'Mittel Land' ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillside like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadors would not repair them, lest the Turks should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point. Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colors of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water.

The initial disappointment for the misogynist usually occurs early in the relationship. However, because there is so much excitement and romance going on, the moment of flare-up is easily swept under the rug. If there is a sense of shock for the woman, it is only a small sour note in a symphony of good feelings. The early indications of the misogynist's quick temper are sporadic. The explosions don't become a way of life until some kind of commitment has been made. This can be a verbal commitment, moving in together, an engagement, or a marriage. Then, once he's sure he "has" her, the situation changes rapidly.

Maybe! That’s the moral of many, many stories. Chaos emerges in a household, bit by bit. Mutual unhappiness and resentment pile up. Everything untidy is swept under the rug, where the dragon feasts on the crumbs. But no one says anything, as the shared society and negotiated order of the household reveals itself as inadequate, or disintegrates, in the face of the unexpected and threatening. Everybody whistles in the dark, instead. Communication would require admission of terrible emotions: resentment, terror, loneliness, despair, jealousy, frustration, hatred, boredom. Moment by moment, it’s easier to keep the peace. But in the background, in Billy Bixbee’s house, and in all that are like it, the dragon grows. One day it bursts forth, in a form that no one can ignore. It lifts the very household from its foundations. Then it’s an affair, or a decades-long custody dispute of ruinous economic and psychological proportions. Then it’s the concentrated version of the acrimony that could have been spread out, tolerably, issue by issue, over the years of the pseudo-paradise of the marriage. Every one of the three hundred thousand unrevealed issues, which have been lied about, avoided, rationalized away, hidden like an army of skeletons in some great horrific closet, bursts forth like Noah’s flood, drowning everything. There’s no ark, because no one built one, even though everyone felt the storm gathering.

All of us cherish our beliefs. They are, to a degree, self-defining. When someone comes along who challenges our belief system as insufficiently well-based – or who, like Socrates, merely asks embarrassing questions that we haven’t thought of, or demonstrates that we’ve swept key underlying assumptions under the rug – it becomes much more than a search for knowledge. It feels like a personal assault.

while people go on chatting about a million and one things I mostly sit and observe with ascended understandings as they bring up the topic of death and of a person dying I listen quietly while often accidentally smiling at the absurdity of anybody ever believing in death I don't mean to be insensitive towards a body's last breath a higher Reality laid bare, bodily expiration is of no account with this revelation incalculable life fears we surmount the Sage is notorious for finding strange things funny giggling at horrors and ridiculous events not so sunny sometimes a straight face is merely for show but spy the glint in his eye about a truth you don’t know an unfounded assumption is that we only live once not a Mystic throughout history has avowed this occurrence Christian ones may not have mentioned being reborn again they also didn't deny it—their teaching was kept plain just as the Buddha intentionally avoided the God concept ultimately not essential, under the rug reincarnation is swept

...aren't the memories worth something? Does it all have to be swept under the rug of regret?

the population bomb has been swept under the rug,

One of the large uncertainties about climate change is the extent to which it changes naturally. This dirty little secret is usually swept under the rug.

The only reason the murder of George Floyd was not swept under the thin blue rug was because a citizen filmed his death.

The dominant hypothesis remains that we carry the mark of Cain. For example, in his 2011 book The Better Angels of Our Nature, the Canadian-American psycholinguist Steven Pinker proposed that humanity needs civilization to keep its destructive instincts under control. Since his theory works only if our forebears were hyperaggressive characters, Pinker went for the chimpanzee as ancestral model and cheerfully swept bonobos under the rug, calling them “very strange primates.

I’ve found that by showing up authentically, with my fears, mistakes, and uncertainties out in the open rather than swept under the rug, I’ve been able to build better relationships with my reports.

Things that hurt her just got swept under the rug, never to be brought up again.

I realized that maybe she didn’t acknowledge it because that’s what she does. Things that hurt her just get swept under the rug, never to be brought up again.

I'll never get over how quickly people move on around here, how callously death is swept under a rug and trampled on minutes later.

I don’t know the answer. What do you think?” “I want to come clean and apologize for what I did/said the other day. . . .” “One of my personal growth areas this half is . . .” “I’m afraid I don’t know enough to help you with that problem. Here’s someone you should talk to instead. . . .” I’ve found that by showing up authentically, with my fears, mistakes, and uncertainties out in the open rather than swept under the rug, I’ve been able to build better relationships with my reports.

she thought mental health was something to be ashamed of, to be swept under the rug and whisper about behind people’s backs.

I realized that maybe she didn't acknowledge it because that's what she does. Things that hurt her just get swept under the rug, never to be brought up again.

Just when I started to regain control of my life, he went and swept the rug out from under me. I was livid. Filip had stolen my escape plan. If I wanted to have access to a club, he was my only option. The thought of giving up on my exploration when it had only just begun was a hammer straight to my gut. I desperately wanted more of what I’d experienced at the club, but not if it resulted in the extortion of my secrets. Filip would pry each of my ugly truths from my clenched and bloodied fists. He held all the cards, and it made me furious.

Central to the holistic healing of your weight issue is that you develop a new skill set with which to deal with unpleasant emotions. An emotion swept under the rug is not an emotion that goes away; it’s simply an emotion that is put somewhere other than where it should be put. It becomes inert rather than dynamic energy, stored within you rather than being released.

the time has come to put the pieces together and try to tell the story that was swept under the rug and kept there for more than half a century. The story was kept so quiet that children born in Tulsa for several decades after were totally unaware that it ever occurred. Even the white population who were proud of their feat when conversing with their peers knew not to disclose the facts to the world, and those who were genuinely ashamed would never have dared tell what they knew. Fortunately, some of them talked to me.

You cannot change your husband - but you can change how you react to him, and you can modify the environment that allows him to think: “it’s okay for me to act this way.”     This book will make it clear to you why these changes need to happen before you can have a happy and fulfilling life. Yes, we said life. No matter whom you end up living with in the future, you must teach yourself to recognize when a person is trying to influence your decision making and happiness. In reading this book, you must decide for yourself whether your husband is meeting or denying your needs. You'll also have to decide whether he is going to continue on this path unchallenged. This book is not meant to be diagnostic or to merely list your husband’s “tricks”; instead, it is meant to help you see the truth about passive aggression. It is not something that can be swept under the rug - unless you want your emotions and well-being to be swept along with it.

to settle issues quickly. So many people swept their problems under the rug and then went into denial. I was taught to never do that. I needed to be honest with myself as well.

Nobody would be riding a racist Wilhelmina golden coach today in The Hague if the Dutch hadn’t swept unpleasant aspects of their history under the rug.

The second commonality among women who got the menopause tag in the 1950s was radiation exposure. Due to a colossal historical blunder called the shoe-fitting fluoroscope—a mistake that’s been swept under the rug—women of this time were exposed to the most radiation ever seen in history. They

As life progresses, baggage can accumulate. For a while, things can be swept under the rug, but the wait of unfinished business eventually catches up.

I feel betrayed. I feel like a fool. And most of all, I feel horribly, sickeningly guilty. I told Yelena it was her fault that my father’s dead and my brother is lying in an intensive care unit with tubes going in and out of his body. But the truth is, it’s my fault. I knew Alexei Yenin hated us. I knew he wanted revenge on my family. I knew that he exerts incredible pressure and control over his children. And yet I told myself it would all be fine. Because I wanted to believe it would be fine. I wanted to believe I could fall in love and be happy and that all the wrongs of the past could be swept under a rug.

Public images upheld at all costs, any personal dirt swept under the rugs and into closets if at all possible.

The teaching of history was, traditionally, one of the most boring things ever invented. We white-washed our country’s doings, painted a bunch of white dudes as heroes, and swept everyone else’s good deeds under the rug of gender and race.

The situation hits too close to home on the heels of my last job. The way things are so easily swept under the rug to protect the person in power.

swept under the rug.

Autistic behaviour in men is better accepted, or swept under the rug with a dismissive “ah well, men…” This can also be seen in TV shows, Anna de Hooge argues in her thesis. She watched shows like Sherlock and The Big Bang Theory and concluded that the “autistic” characters get away with exceptionally dickish, aggressive or inappropriate behaviour, such as spying on the girl next door or completely ignoring someone else’s authority.

In 1940, when fronters were on trial, US Catholic leadership swept the organization’s deeds under the rug.

We wonder how our nation has come to its present moment. We watch as today’s courtier class—legislators, Fortune 500 businessmen, and celebrities—break every law with impunity. They bilk the system. They pay no taxes. They openly lie and cheat and steal. They even wage war on democracy itself through voter suppression and insurrection. These attacks on the core of American identity are swept under the proverbial rug. This 1662 law broke our nation—even before it began. That is our genesis.

At the beginning of time, there was no dust. The flecks of skin from every human who has ever lived have been swept beneath so much furniture, under so many rugs, for millennia upon millennia. And yet the dust goes nowhere! It is all around us. It is hard to imagine how light and free the leaves in the trees once were, and how happy were the birds. We walk through our days in the dust of the dead.

I realised that maybe she didn't acknowledge it because that's what she does. Things that hurt her just get swept under the rug, never to be brought up again.

But mental health and the wounds and scars those who were supposedly loved ones gave you weren’t things to be swept under the rug or laughed off or ignored. That’s when they festered, ate away at you. Blocked your creativity.

So we headed for home, headed for a future, whatever it may be. The mistakes weren't swept under the rug, we were facing them head-on. All that mattered was that right now, he was back in my arms, and I in his. Maybe this time we'd get it right. I wanted that, very much. Maybe, just maybe, together we could be good enough.

That’s the nature of Valley success, however: you try ten things, based mostly on random hunches, a few key product insights, and whatever internal mythologies your culture reveres. Seven of them fail miserably, are discontinued, and are soon quietly swept under the rug of “forever today” forgetfulness. Two do OK, for more or less the reasons you thought, but they don’t blow the doors off your success metric. And one, for reasons you discover only after the fact, becomes a huge, transformational success. The amnesiac tech press weaves the narrative fallacy around the proceedings, fabricating a make-believe dramatic arc from steely-eyed product ideation to flawless and unhesitating technical execution. What was an improbable bonanza at the hands of the flailing half-blind becomes the inevitable coup of the assured visionary. The world crowns you a genius, and you start acting like one. When the next usage or revenue crisis hits, you repeat the experiment, rolling your set of product dice on the big Valley table.

Second, there is the attempt by some to justify the rise of the prisons by claiming, “well, we have to do something about those people who fail to act ‘responsibly,’ who, for whatever reason, are ‘disruptive and violent’.” As I consider this kind of response, let us recall that the most “disruptive and violent” in our society are actually the architects of U.S. war and of carceral state terror. Their acts are usually accepted, assumed by public ideologies to be innocent. Moreover, the violations by the rich, as distinct from those by the poor, are often swept under the rug, routinely treated with less harshness, if punished at all. One major example of this is the fact that the most widespread use and distribution of drugs is by whites, even though black and Latinos are punished more for drug use at strikingly higher rates.

Problems have to be taken care of, of course; they must not be swept under the rug.

Every day it got swept. All of the dirt each piece of dust and even the tiniest bread crumb of secret midnight snacks. It lay under that rug. Years went by nobody noticed it’s more defeated crumbled appearance with all the misshaped lumps and bumps. Eventually a boy drips and falls over it people are so surprised and nobody knows what why or how it could have happened. Not even the lady with the sweeping brush.

I judged you and that’s the awful truth. You didn’t pass my test, so I labeled you a thug. I judged you when I had no proof; Lumped you in with the rest, swept you under the rug. —CC

Prior to the trial, people still largely viewed violence between partners as a “family matter,” not really even a crime. More often than not, it was swept under the rug—along with the women’s shattered lives. And few realized just how often domestic violence results in death.

To be chronically ill is to be in a state of ever-present “camouflaged grieving,” as the historian Jennifer Stitt puts it. It was this ever-present grief I felt was being swept under the rug when my friend counseled me to see the good that had come of my illness. She wasn’t wrong that something had come of it—but her quick counsel negated the complexity of the quest.