Tanner Walling Quotes

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunch-backed makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed form kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries' vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers, heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters' sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etiolated lacquerers; mottle-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men's wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night's rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

This was screwing. One hundred percent pissed-off, nail-raking, neck-biting, wall-fucking screwing.

But behind all the beauty lies madness and chaos.

Just about all hate comes from jealousy. It's as simple as that.

It is only a matter of time before a man exposed to such violence becomes a threat to those he loves.

And I read something else," Jacob goes on. "There was this discussion of the story of Cain and Abel, from the Bible. After Cain kills his brother, God says, 'The bloods of your brother call out to me.' Not blood. Bloods. Weird, right? So the Talmud tries to explain it." "I can explain it," says William. "The scribe was drunk." "William!" cries Jeanne. "The Bible is written by God!" "And copied by scribes," the big boy replies. "Who get drunk. A lot. Trust me." Jacob is laughing. "The rabbis have a different explanation. The Talmud says it's 'bloods' because Cain didn't only spill Abel's blood. He spilled the blood of Abel and all the descendants he never had." "Huh!" "And then it says something like, 'Whoever destroys a single life destroys the whole world. And whoever saves a single life saves the whole world." There are sheep in the meadow beside the road. Gwenforte walks up to the low stone wall, and one sheep--a ram--doesn't run away. They sniff each other's noses. Her white fur beside the ram's wool--two textures, two colors, both called white in our inadequate language. Jeanne is thinking about something. At last, she shares it. "William, you said that it takes a lifetime to make a book." "That's right." "One book? A whole lifetime?" William nods. "A scribe might copy out a single book for years. An illuminator would then take it and work on it for longer still. Not to mention the tanner who made the parchment, and the bookbinder who stitched the book together, and the librarian who worked to get the book for the library and keep it safe from mold and thieves and clumsy monks with ink pots and dirty hands. And some books have authors, too, like Saint Augustine or Rabbi Yehuda. When you think about it, each book is a lot of lives. Dozens and dozens of them." Dozens and dozens of lives," Jeanne says. "And each life a whole world." "We saved five books," says Jacob. "How many worlds is that?" William smiles. "I don't know. A lot. A whole lot.

Gulls wheel through spokes of sunlight over gracious roofs and dowdy thatch, snatching entrails at the marketplace and escaping over cloistered gardens, spike-topped walls and treble-bolted doors. Gulls alight on whitewashed gables, creaking pagodas and dung-ripe stables; circle over towers and cavernous bells and over hidden squares where urns of urine sit by covered wells, watched by mule-drivers, mules and wolf-snouted dogs, ignored by hunchbacked makers of clogs; gather speed up the stoned-in Nakashima River and fly beneath the arches of its bridges, glimpsed from kitchen doors, watched by farmers walking high, stony ridges. Gulls fly through clouds of steam from laundries’ vats; over kites unthreading corpses of cats; over scholars glimpsing truth in fragile patterns; over bath-house adulterers; heartbroken slatterns; fishwives dismembering lobsters and crabs; their husbands gutting mackerel on slabs; woodcutters’ sons sharpening axes; candle-makers, rolling waxes; flint-eyed officials milking taxes; etoliated lacquerers; mottled-skinned dyers; imprecise soothsayers; unblinking liars; weavers of mats; cutters of rushes; ink-lipped calligraphers dipping brushes; booksellers ruined by unsold books; ladies-in-waiting; tasters; dressers; filching page-boys; runny-nosed cooks; sunless attic nooks where seamstresses prick calloused fingers; limping malingerers; swineherds; swindlers; lip-chewed debtors rich in excuses; heard-it-all creditors tightening nooses; prisoners haunted by happier lives and ageing rakes by other men’s wives; skeletal tutors goaded to fits; firemen-turned-looters when occasion permits; tongue-tied witnesses; purchased judges; mothers-in-law nurturing briars and grudges; apothecaries grinding powders with mortars; palanquins carrying not-yet-wed daughters; silent nuns; nine-year-old whores; the once-were-beautiful gnawed by sores; statues of Jizo anointed with posies; syphilitics sneezing through rotted-off noses; potters; barbers; hawkers of oil; tanners; cutlers; carters of night-soil; gate-keepers; bee-keepers; blacksmiths and drapers; torturers; wet-nurses; perjurers; cut-purses; the newborn; the growing; the strong-willed and pliant; the ailing; the dying; the weak and defiant; over the roof of a painter withdrawn first from the world, then his family, and down into a masterpiece that has, in the end, withdrawn from its creator; and around again, where their flight began, over the balcony of the Room of the Last Chrysanthemum, where a puddle from last night’s rain is evaporating; a puddle in which Magistrate Shiroyama observes the blurred reflections of gulls wheeling through spokes of sunlight. This world, he thinks, contains just one masterpiece, and that is itself.

However, as I say, he stood there and watched. Watched the smoke, or vapor, or whatever it was, whirl and whirl, faster and faster, snatching up the vagrant wisps and streamers that had strayed to the far corners of the room, sucking them in, incorporating them into the central column, until at last that column, swirling there, seemed almost solid. It was solid. It had ceased its whirling and stood there quivering, jelly-like, plastic, but nevertheless, solid. And, as though molded in the hands of an invisible sculptor, that column was changing. Indentations appeared here, protuberances there. The character of the surface altered subtly; presently it was no longer smooth and lustrous, but rough and scaly. It lost most of its luminosity and became an uncertain, lichenous green. Until at last it was a - thing. That moment, Denning thinks, was the most horrible in all the adventure. Not because of the horror of the thing that stood before him, but because at that very moment an automobile, driven by some belated citizen passed by outside, the light from its headlights casting eerie gleams across the walls and the ceiling; and the thought of the difference between the commonplace world in which that citizen was living, and the frightful things taking place in this room almost overcame the cowering man by the doorway. And, too, the light made just that much plainer the disgusting details of the creature that towered above them. ("Out Of The Jar")

How long will a man lie i’th earth ere he rot ? Clow. Fayth if a be not rotten before a die, as we haue many pockie corſes, that will ſcarce hold the laying in, a will laſt you ſom eyght yeere, or nine yeere. A Tanner will laſt you nine yeere. Ham. Why he more then another ? Clow. Why ſir, his hide is ſo tand with his trade, that a will keepe out water a great while ; & your water is a ſore decayer of your whorſon dead body, heer's a ſcull now hath lyen you i'th earth 23. yeeres. Ham. Whoſe was it ? Clow. A whorſon mad fellowes it was, whoſe do you think it was ? Ham. Nay I know not. Clow. A peſtilence on him for a madde rogue, a pourd a flagon of Reniſh on my head once ; this ſame skull ſir, was ſir Yoricks skull, the Kings Iester. Ham. This ? Clow. Een that. Ham. Alas poore Yorick, I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite ieſt, of moſt excellent fancie, hee hath bore me on his backe a thouſand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is: my gorge riſes at it. Heere hung thoſe lyppes that I haue kiſt I know not howe oft, where be your gibes now ? your gamboles, your ſongs, your flaſhes of merriment, that were wont to ſet the table on a roare, not one now to mocke your owne grinning, quite chapfalne. Now get you to my Ladies table, & tell her, let her paint an inch thicke, to this favour ſhe must come, make her laugh at that. Hora. What's that my Lord ? Ham. Dooſt thou thinke Alexander lookt a this faſhion i'th earth ? Hora. Een ſo. Ham. And ſmelt ſo pah. Hora. Een ſo my Lord. Ham. To what baſe vſes wee may returne Horatio ? Why may not imagination trace the noble duſt of Alexander, till a find it ſtopping a bunghole ? Hor. Twere to conſider too curiouſly to confider ſo. Ham. No faith, not a iot, but to follow him thether with modeſty enough, and likelyhood to leade it. Alexander dyed, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth to duſt, the duſt is earth , of earth vvee make Lome & why of that Lome whereto he was conuerted, might they not ſtoppe a Beare-barrell ? Imperious Ceſar dead, and turn'd to Clay, Might ſtoppe a hole, to keepe the wind away. O that that earth which kept the world in awe, Should patch a wall t'expell the waters flaw. But ſoft, but ſoft awhile, here comes the King, The Queen, the Courtiers, who is this they follow? And with ſuch maimed rites ? this doth betoken, The corſe they follow, did with deſprat hand Foredoo it owne life, twas of ſome eſtate, Couch we a while and marke.

There were a lot of limitations and going anywhere in public was always a procedure. I couldn’t even walk to school. In the end, the happiest place on Earth was actually the three walls that made up that enormous how-does-Danny-Tanner-afford-that-house we called home.

The pilgrim process of self-discovery proves more uncomfortable with each increasing gradation of ambition, as such distinctions become volatile and given to osmosis when one is creating in a vacuum, there being a porous, though sometimes impenetrable wall between what we learn from others and how we fail to communicate what they teach us.

She steps into the room and I step in after her, standing against the back wall, behind a few other rows of people, also standing. Violet shoots me another annoyed look, craning her neck to see Montgomery Tanner, our boss, as he goes on about the renovations currently being done at the Bramblebush Inn. Even in heels she’s too short to see over the people in front of us.

Muffled footsteps sounded in the distance. Goldie heard a shout, and the heavy clank of punishment chains. The footsteps came closer. A boy began to sing in a hoarse, adolescent voice. "Awa-a-a-y, across the ocean-a-an, awa-a-a-y, across the sea-a-a-a-." There was a slap, and a yell. The singing stopped, but only for a moment. When it started up again, there were a dozen or more voices, all caterwauling at the top of their lungs. "-I'll go-o-o-o where my heart takes me, where my-y-y-y love waits for me-e-e-e-e." A pause. A furious adult's voice said, "It's not your love that's waiting for you, you little villains, it's the House of Repentance! Deliberate destruction of property, putting the lives of others at risk, oh you're in for it, you are!" Clank clank clank, went the punishment chains. "I’ve be-e-e-e-en away so long, dear, I've tra-a-a-aveled far and wi-i-i-i-i-ide-" sang the voices. Goldie edged along the wall and eased the door open. There was a bustle and a shoving and a clanking, and suddenly the corridor in front of her was full of boys, milling backward and forward, rattling their chains and singing loudly. They were all older than Goldie, but they wore the same gray threadbare smock and leggings. Somewhere in the middle of them were two Blessed Guardians. The smell of burning hung over them all. There was no time to think. Goldie couldn't see Toadspit, but she was sure he must be there somewhere. She whispered a quick "thank you" to Bald Thoke, then she stepped out into the corridor and tucked herself between two of the boys. For a heart-stopping moment the song faltered. The boys on either side of Goldie shot incredulous glances at her- Then they closed smoothly around her and began to sing louder than ever, their voices bouncing off the high ceilings. "Three yea-a-a-a-ars I rowed the galley-y-y-ys, three year-a-a-a-ars I was a sla-a-a-a-ave-." They spilled out into the foyer, a laughing, shouting, singing rabble. The Guardians who led them were shouting too. Only Goldie was silent. She crouched between the tall, raucous boys, her smock blending with theirs, her pulse thundering in her ears. "What's this?" shouted the toad-like Guardian. "Where are you taking them at this time of night?" "Set fire to their beds?" shouted one of the other Guardians. "Don't know what's got into them! Marching them off to Repentance!" "I'll need their names!" "If I-I-I-I-I could turn back time, dea-a-a-a-ar, if I-I-I-I-I-I could start aga-a-a-a-a-in-" "For Great Wooden's sake, we'll give them to you when we come back. I can't bear this appalling racket a moment longer!" And with that, the boys, Goldie and the two Guardians spilled out the front door of Care, across the yard and through the gate.

Life is like a storm. At its worst, it's full of blinding fury, rage, and destruction. However, at its best, it is full of striking beauty and wonder.

Kings rule countries, but the king who relies on truth is a king soon dethroned. Information is the true power and those who control information are the true kings.

her joke had broken down that wall, bringing Ma into the room, making him feel like he was betraying her.

Most people never truly live because they never do what they truly love.

I'm not crazy, I'm just tired.

Life is defined not by the number of moments but rather by the moments that take your breath away.

It’s the great thing about living in a castle Clay,” said Theobold. “You don’t need to worry about keys and locking the door because you live behind a giant stone wall and pay people to stop any trespassers. It’s brilliant.

Modern democratic civilizations have a great distaste for aggression, discrimination, tradition, and strict codes of honor. Their affluent lifestyles and egalitarian philosophies have distanced themselves from the cold, hard realities of life on earth. From the safety and comfort of their walled-paradise, and with full bellies, they can abstractly piece together a world where nobody hates, steals, kills, cheats, and lies; where all humans are valuable and deserve unconditional acceptance, no matter where they’re from or what they believe. But their disconnectedness to reality does nothing to alter it.

Then she replenished her medical bag and headed for Our Daily Bread. As soon as she entered the nondescript building, she grabbed an apron from one of the hooks on the wall. She called out greetings to the regular volunteers. Entering the bustling kitchen, she did a double take when she noticed a man slicing tomatoes for a huge container of salad. “Tanner?” “Hi, Kaitlyn,” he said with a friendly wave. “Happy Monday.” A few of the other volunteers exchanged glances but said nothing. “What are you doing here?” “Volunteering,” he said. “I called earlier to see if they needed help today, and it turns out that Evelyn couldn’t make it. So here I am.” “But why?” “Because I had some free time, and it’s a good thing to do,” he explained in a matter-of-fact way. “And I wanted to see you again.