The Trouble With Goats And Sheep Quotes

I still hadn’t learned the power of words. How, once they have left your mouth, they have a breath and a life of their own. I had yet to realize that you no longer own them. I hadn’t learned that, once you have let them go, the words can then, in fact, become the owner of you.

My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didn't feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant that it was awkward for them.

After my bedroom, this was my favourite place in the world. It was carpeted, and had heavy bookcases and ticking clocks and velvet chairs, just like someone’s living room. It smelled of unturned pages and unseen adventures, and on every shelf were people I had yet to meet, and places I had yet to visit. Each time, I lost myself in the corridors of books and the polished, wooden rooms, deciding which journey to go on next. Mrs

I waited. I had discovered that, sometimes, if you held on to the silence, people couldn’t stop themselves from filling it up.

And I decided it really was true after all. You only really need two people to believe in the same thing, to feel as though you just might belong.

I thought I would like a job where inquiring about everyone else's private business was considered perfectly routine.

People tend to believe things just because everyone else does.' Walter looked at his hands and began biting into the skin next to his fingernails. 'They don't search for proof, they just search for approval from everyone else.

The most important thing a garden needs is the shadow of a gardener.

Cultures of honor tend to take root in highlands and other marginally fertile areas, such as Sicily or the mountainous Basque regions of Spain. If you live on some rocky mountainside, the explanation goes, you can't farm. You probably raise goats or sheep, and the kind of culture that grows up around being a herdsman is very different from the culture that grows up around growing crops. The survival of a farmer depends on the cooperation of others in the community. But a herdsman is off by himself. Farmers also don't have to worry that their livelihood will be stolen in the night, because crops can't easily be stolen unless, of course, a thief wants to go to the trouble of harvesting an entire field on his own. But a herdsman does have to worry. He's under constant threat of ruin through the loss of his animals. So he has to be aggressive: he has to make it clear, through his words and deeds, that he is not weak.

You'll understand as you get older. You can spot them a mile off, You'll learn to cross the street.' [...] 'Perhaps that's why they don't mix,' said Tilly, 'because everyone else is on the other side of the street?

It appeared that Jesus pulled a much bigger crowd if He provided garibaldis.

It’s the small decisions, the ones that slip themselves into your day unnoticed, the ones that wrap their weight in insignificance. These are the decisions that bury you

You only really need two people to believe in the same thing, to feel as though you just might belong.

Mrs Morton’s knitting needles tutting against each other in disapproval.

The only problem with losing your mind was that you never lost the memories you wanted to lose.

Shams of Tabriz Befuddled believer! If every Ramadan one fasts in the name of God and every Eid one sacrifices a sheep or a goat as an atonement for his sins, if all his life one strives to make pilgrimage to Mecca and five times a day kneels on a prayer rug but at the same time has no room for love in his heart, what is the use of all this trouble? Faith is only a word if there is no love at its center, so flaccid and lifeless, vague and hollow -- not anything you could truly feel. Pity the fool who thinks the boundaries of his mortal mind are the boundaries of God the Almighty. Pity the ignorant who assume they can negotiate and settle debts with God. Do such people think God is a grocer who attempts to weigh our virtues and wrongdoings on two separate scales? Is He a clerk meticulously writing down our sins in His accounting book so as to make us pay Him back someday? Is this their notion of Oneness?

He missed her reassurance. The way she stole his disquiet and diluted it, and how her unconcern would pull him through their day. She never dismissed his worries, she just disentangled them, smoothing down the edges and spreading them out until they became thin and insignificant

I stared at the thick gold cross on the altar. It reflected every one of us: the pious and the ungodly; the opportunist and the devout. Each of us had our reasons for being there, quiet and expectant, and secreted between the pages of a hymnbook. How would God manage to answer us all? “Lamb

aquariums of people look out into the night.

The only problem was, when your whole existence is something you have to cope with, you look back one day and find that your strategy has become a way of life.

Why does He hate the goats so much?' [...] 'I'm not sure,' I said. 'He only seems to like sheep.

We’ve decided she probably isn’t dead after all,” I said. “Well, that’s something.” “And now we need God to find her. You have to remember that God is everywhere, Mrs. Morton.

I looked at the garden, and watched white butterflies dance across dahlias and freesias and geraniums. There was a choir of color, singing for my attention, and it felt as though I were hearing it for the first time.

They assumed I didn't understand the conversation, and it was much easier to let them think that. My mother said I was at an awkward age. I didn't feel especially awkward, so I presumed she meant it was awkward for them.

He walked as the rest of the estate slept, along the avenues and the crescents, through corridors of people drifting out of awareness, and the stillness was an opiate to him, cushioning his mind and unthreading his thoughts.

What do you mean, Jesus?' May Roper pulled the crocheted sea a little further up her legs. 'On the drainpipe. I've seen Him with my own eyes.' 'Have you been in the sun again, Brian?' 'Sheila Dakin thinks it's a sign.' 'A sign she's been at the sherry.

I still hadn’t learned the power of words. How, once they have left your mouth, they have a breath and a life of their own. I had yet to realize that you no longer own them. I hadn’t learned that, once you have let them go, the words can then, in fact, become the owners of you. I

We sat in silence. I knew straight away that Walter Bishop was the kind of person you could sit in silence with. There were very few people like that, I had found. Most grown-ups liked to fill a silence with conversation. Not important, necessary conversation, but a spray of words that served no purpose other than to cover up the quiet.

That goat has been nothing but trouble. And the dratted creature isn't even picturesque. Goats resemble nothing so much as badly dressed sheep." "That's quite unfair," Beatrix said. "Goats have far more character and intelligence than sheep, who are nothing but followers. I've met far too many in London." "Sheep?" Christopher asked blankly. "My sister is speaking figuratively, Captain Phelan," Amelia said. "Well, I have met some actual sheep in London," Beatrix said. "But yes, I was mainly referring to people. They all tell you the same gossip, which is tedious. They adhere to the current fashions and the popular opinions, no matter how silly. And one never improves in their company. One starts falling in line and baaing.

he was

By lunchtime, Drainpipe Jesus had caused quite a commotion.

I’m just patriotic.’ He said the word very slowly. ‘I want to keep Britain great. It’s like an exclusive club, isn’t it? You can’t go letting any old Tom, Dick or Harry in.

Cultures of honor tend to take root in highlands and other marginally fertile areas, such as Sicily or the mountainous Basque regions of Spain. If you live on some rocky mountainside, the explanation goes, you can’t farm. You probably raise goats or sheep, and the kind of culture that grows up around being a herdsman is very different from the culture that grows up around growing crops. The survival of a farmer depends on the cooperation of others in the community. But a herdsman is off by himself. Farmers also don’t have to worry that their livelihood will be stolen in the night, because crops can’t easily be stolen unless, of course, a thief wants to go to the trouble of harvesting an entire field on his own. But a herdsman does have to worry. He’s under constant threat of ruin through the loss of his animals.

The most important thing a garden needs is the shadow of a gardener.

was filled with a smell of scraped plates. ‘What’s he up to?’ My father nodded at the lace in the kitchen window. Mr Creasy was wandering the pavement in his shirtsleeves. Every few minutes, he stopped wandering and stood quite still, peering around his Hillman Hunter and leaning into the air

I watched her without end, inspecting her life for the slightest vibration of change, and yet she knew none of this. My worries were noiseless; a silent obsession that the only friend I had ever made would be taken from me, just because I hadn’t concentrated enough

And in that moment I wondered if sometimes, you only really need two people to believe in the same thing, to feel as though you just might belong.

The estate had always been this way. A parade of people, joined together by tedium and curiosity, passing other people’s misery around between themselves like a parcel.

People tend to believe things just because everyone else does.” Walter looked at his hands and began biting into the skin next to his fingernails. “They don’t search for proof, they just search for approval from everyone else.

What to remove? Dairy. From cows, goats, and sheep (including butter). Grains. For the more intensive version of this 30-day diet, eliminate all grains. This is important for those with digestive or autoimmune conditions. If this feels undoable for a full month, add in a small serving a day of gluten-free grains like white rice or quinoa. If that still feels undoable, consider a whole-foods diet rich in vegetables that is strictly gluten- and dairy-free. Legumes. Beans of all kinds (soy, black, kidney, pinto, etc.), lentils, and peanuts. Green peas and snap peas are okay. Sweeteners, real or artificial. Sugar, high-fructose corn syrup, maple syrup, honey, agave, Splenda, Equal, NutraSweet, xylitol, stevia, etc. Processed or refined snack foods. Sodas and diet sodas. Alcohol in any form. White potatoes. Premade sauces and seasonings. How to avoid common pitfalls: Prepare well beforehand. Choose a time frame during which you will have limited or reduced travel, and that doesn’t include holidays or special occasions. Study the list of foods allowed on the diet and make a shopping list. Remove the foods from your pantry or refrigerator that aren’t allowed on the diet, if that makes it easier. Engage the whole family to try this together, or find a friend to join you. Success happens in community. Set up a calendar to mark your progress. Print out a free 30-day online calendar, tape it to the refrigerator door, and mark off each day. Pack snacks with you, pack your lunch, call ahead to restaurants to check their menu (or check online). Get enough vegetables and fats. If you feel jittery or lose too much weight, increase your carbohydrates (starchy vegetables like yams, taro, sweet potatoes). Don’t misread withdrawal-type symptoms as the diet “not working.” These symptoms usually resolve within a week’s time. Personalize it. Start with the basics above and: * If you’re having trouble with autoimmune conditions, eliminate eggs, too. * If you’re prone to weight gain, eat less meat and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), more vegetables and raw foods. * If you’re prone to weight loss or having trouble gaining weight, eat more meats and heavier foods (ex: stews, chili), less raw foods like salads. * If you’re generally healthy and wanting a boost in energy, try short-term fasts of 12–16 hours. Due to the circadian rhythm of the digestive tract, skipping dinner is best (as opposed to skipping breakfast). Try this 1–2 times a week. (This fast also means no supplements or beverages other than tea or water during the fasting time.)

We followed Mrs. Morton down the High Street. She sailed, like a vessel, along the pavement, skirting around pushchairs and small dogs, and people who had stopped to wipe ice cream from their chins. July had found its fiercest day yet. The sky was ironed into an acid blue, and even the clouds had fallen from the edges, leaving a faultless page of summer above our heads. Even so, there were those who still nurtured mistrust. We walked past cardigans draped across elbows and raincoats bundled into shopping bags, and one woman who carried an umbrella wedged into her armpit, like artillery. It seemed that people couldn’t quite let go of the weather, and felt the need to carry every form of it around with them, at all times, for safekeeping. The trouble with goats and sheep by Joanna Cannon

Distract yourself, that's what Margaret always told him. When you start getting anxious, give your mind something else to think about. He had become an expert at distracting himself. He had distracted himself so much, he found himself drowning in distractions, and all the little details in the world seemed to join up together in his head and make a whole new problem to worry about.

That goat has been nothing but trouble. And the dratted creature isn’t even picturesque. Goats resemble nothing so much as badly dressed sheep.” “That’s quite unfair,” Beatrix said. “Goats have far more character and intelligence than sheep, who are nothing but followers. I’ve met far too many in London.” “Sheep?” Christopher asked blankly. “My sister is speaking figuratively, Captain Phelan,” Amelia said. “Well, I have met some actual sheep in London,” Beatrix said. “But yes, I was mainly referring to people. They all tell you the same gossip, which is tedious. They adhere to the current fashions and the popular opinions, no matter how silly. And one never improves in their company. One starts falling in line and baaing.” A quiet laugh came from the doorway as Cam Rohan entered the room. “Obviously Hathaways are not sheep. Because I’ve tried to herd the lot of you for years, without any success.” From what Christopher remembered of Rohan, he had worked at a London gaming club for a time, and then had made a fortune in manufacturing investments. Although his devotion to his wife and family was well-known in Stony Cross, Rohan was hardly the image of a staid and respectable patriarch. With his longish dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and the diamond stud flashing in his ear, his Romany heritage was obvious. Approaching Christopher, Rohan exchanged a bow and surveyed him with a friendly gaze. “Captain Phelan. It is good to see you. We were hoping for your safe return.” “Thank you. I hope my presence is not an imposition.” “Not in the least. With Lord Ramsay and his wife still in London, and my brother Merripen and his wife visiting Ireland, it’s been far too peaceful here of late.” Rohan paused, a glitter of amusement entering his eyes. “Fugitive goats notwithstanding.

It’s the small decisions, the ones that slip themselves into your day unnoticed, the ones that wrap their weight in insignificance. These are the decisions that will bury you.

She can feel it. The big decision, attempting to be nothing, hiding amongst all the small decisions, hoping it will be unseen and unimportant. It’s making its way to the front of the queue, carrying everything in its pockets.

It’s all in the past, except every time you start talking about it, it stops being in the past and starts being in the present again.

Unlike the rest of the avenue, number eleven stood a long way back from the road. It hid behind a group of cedar trees, which gathered on the front lawn like unhappy guests. Whilst the other houses greeted each other in a polite circle, number eleven stood hesitant and apologetic, watching the rest of the avenue and waiting to be invited in.

She never dismissed his worries, she just disentangled them, smoothing down the edges and spreading them out until they became thin and insignificant.

What is there to say. The police said the fire was an accident.” “You know Dorothy,” said Harold. “She’ll tell anybody anything, she doesn’t know what she’s saying half of the time.

We just need to stay calm,” said Harold. “None of this loose talk. We did nothing wrong, understood?

Brian wondered if she’d told Margaret Creasy about the night of the fire. About what she saw, or thought she saw, in the shadowed corners of the avenue.

And he wondered if these had been the magic words that had made Margaret Creasy disappear.

Perhaps there was a newspaper clipping? A mention of it in a letter? Perhaps Margaret had tripped up on the evidence without meaning to. Perhaps the past had just fallen into her hands by mistake.

Margaret liked to mend. It made her happy to see things repaired, and the repairing made John feel safe. Now she was gone, he could imagine the threads beginning to loosen and the edges beginning to lift, and all the holes that would form for his life to fall into.

She’d even got as far as standing over the sink with a bottle, but she hadn’t quite got the nerve to go through with it. Funny really, she didn’t believe she had many qualities in life, but nerve was something Sheila Dakin didn’t think she’d ever be short of.

A coping strategy, Margaret Creasy had called it. The only problem was, when your whole existence is something you have to cope with, you look back one day and find that your strategy has become a way of life.

P.C. Green. He doesn’t know any more than the rest of us about where Margaret’s gone. Although I didn’t see him knocking at number eleven, did you, Brian?

Crazy, sang Patsy Cline.

She was supposed to have poured it away. She’d told Margaret she’d poured it away. She reached into the tin and felt it reach back to her. One more and then she would.

Sheila caught Dot’s eye, and then turned back. “And she didn’t say anything about anyone else on the avenue. Nothing anyone had said to her?” “Nothing.” “Nothing about Walter Bishop?

Margaret’s worked it out,” Dorothy said. “She’ll have gone to the police.

We’d know if she’d told the police.” She tried to make her voice steady. “They would have questioned us by now.

We’d know if she’d told the police.” She tried to make her voice steady. “They would have questioned us by now.” “So if she hasn’t gone to the police,” said Dorothy, “then where has she gone? She spoke to everyone, Sheila. She knows all our secrets.” Dorothy was an endless wave of panic now. Her eyes a terrified white. “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Sheila. “We did nothing wrong!” “How can you say that?” John gripped the edges of the table. “How can you say we did nothing wrong. Someone died.

For God’s sake, Dorothy, will you quit with the bloody theatricals.” Sheila heaved herself from the wall. “It isn’t helping anybody. If the police want to come after us, they’ll come after us. They still can’t prove a thing.

I think that if we’d done something when we had the chance, then we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.” Brian was still staring at him. “I think if you’d listened to me, if you’d spoken up, then everything would be different.

Those boys wouldn’t even have been there if Walter hadn’t stolen the child, so he’d brought everything on himself. It was a chain reaction. They were just being kids at the end of the day, and they meant no harm.

Walter has appeared at one of the upstairs windows. He is shouting about trespassing and calling for the police. The kids are just laughing at him, mimicking his voice and finding words only their parents should know.

The man hammers again. His fists sound like bullets. He steps back and yells up at the house, shouting for Walter Bishop to show himself. “You take photographs of my kids, you come out here and you fucking answer to me.

The police arrive.

It was after the fire. Dorothy had begun whittling about their home insurance and what would happen if number six mysteriously burned to the ground. It was keeping her awake at night. She couldn’t talk to Harold about it because he found her worrying disagreeable. It shortened his temper and made the whites of his eyes even whiter, and so she had decided to check through the policy herself. To use the initiative that Harold said she was never in possession of. And that’s how she’d found it.

They have agreed to watch Walter Bishop, each of them in turn. Since the baby went missing, there has been a soundless panic in the street. He has seen it in people’s eyes. In the way they hurry themselves indoors. No one passes the time of day anymore.

Whenever he sees anyone, they are always on their way to somewhere else, and even though they’re all watching Walter, it feels as though it’s everyone else who has become the prisoner. Sheila’s

Not that I’m racist.” Mr. Forbes’s feet rocked backwards and forwards in his sandals—“not at all.” “Not in the slightest,” said Mrs. Forbes. “Not one little bit,” said May Roper. “I’m just patriotic.” He said the word very slowly. “I want to keep Britain great. It’s like an exclusive club, isn’t it? You can’t go letting any old Tom, Dick or Harry in.” “Quite right, Harold,” said Mrs. Forbes. Mr. Kapoor crouched down and began cleaning the number plate.

But I don’t understand,” whispered Tilly. “How does God know which people are goats and which people are sheep?

The kitchen had taken the longest, lifting every lid, searching between every plate. You couldn’t be too careful. So much of the house was still his mother’s. Towards the end, she’d saved everything.

He had tried to sleep in this room for the first few days, but it was impossible. The bed felt too light, weightless almost. He felt he might float away without her there beside him, and when he did manage to doze, he would wake a few minutes later and lose her all over again.

These certainly weren’t Margaret’s glasses, and they definitely weren’t his, yet they looked oddly familiar. The thought found him within seconds. He stood, like a reflex. The glasses. The Polo mints. The hairbrush. Everything scattered across the carpet. Number eleven, Mr. Creasy. Did your wife ever talk to Walter Bishop?

How do you know which people they are,” said Tilly, “the people who don’t fit in?

Patsy knew what it was to suffer. She was a casualty of life, was Patsy. You could hear it in the vibrato.

She must have been to see him. His glasses—they’re in her handbag. She was taking them to be mended.

Do something, Margaret used to say. Don’t just count things, do something purposeful instead. Thirteen half bricks. Thirteen. It made him uneasy. Don’t stand there, John, counting your days away.

Well, that went well,” said my father. “Did it?” My mother stared at the biscuits. “I’m still not sure how they’ll fit in.” “You’ve got to learn to move with the times,” my father said. “There’s another Indian family moved into Pine Crescent. You might have to start asking yourself whether you’re the one who needs to fit in.

The house always felt more relaxed without Harold inside it. It was as if the walls breathed out, and the floors and the ceilings stretched and yawned, and everybody made themselves more comfortable.

There’s only one problem with a witch hunt,” he says. “And what might that be?” He starts to walk back towards his house as he answers her. “It doesn’t always catch the witch.

The only thing is, I saw her. A few days before she disappeared.” Dorothy cleared her throat, even though there was nothing to clear. “She was going into number eleven.

We sat in silence. I knew straightaway that Walter Bishop was the kind of person you could sit in silence with. There were very few people like that, I had found. Most grown-ups liked to fill a silence with conversation.

Do you think God is in that pigeon?” I said. Walter looked up. “Definitely.” “And in the cedar trees,” I said. Walter smiled again. “I’m sure He is. I agree with your vicar. God is everywhere. Or at least, someone is.” I

And in that moment I wondered if, sometimes, you only really need two people to believe in the same thing, to feel as though you just might belong.

Sheila Dakin watched Grace and Tilly all the way to the back door of number four. It was a habit, watching children. Even after the fire. Even after they’d all agreed that Walter Bishop had been punished enough and they should leave him well alone, she still watched the kids.

We’d only just got to the hotel when she took ill. I said to her, Mother, I said, when you’re under the weather, what you need is your own bed. And so we turned around and came home again.

She’s up there now?” says Harold. “Your mother?” Walter nods.

There are shouts from the house, carried across the avenue, and one fireman’s voice lifts above the rest. There’s someone in there, it says. There’s someone in the house.

When you go around the avenue,” she said, “you’ll make sure that you miss out number eleven.” I frowned. “Will I?” “You will,” she said. I

I’m off to the postbox.” He marched down the hall. “I shall be back in thirty minutes. Try not to get yourself in a muddle whilst I’m gone.

Mr. Forbes.” I had to shout to make him hear. He reappeared. He didn’t look like the kind of person who was used to being shouted at. I handed him the envelope. “You’ve forgotten your letter,” I said.

Whilst we were laughing, I looked at Mrs. Forbes, and I looked over at the girl on the mantelpiece, who laughed with us through a corridor of time, and I realized that they were a perfect match after all.

Now the policeman stood in the middle of our kitchen, and we stood around the edges, watching him. He reminded me a bit of the vicar. They both seemed to be able to make people look small and guilty.

That night, she had stood where she was standing now, and she had watched it all unfold. She had replayed that scene to herself so many times, perhaps hoping something might change, that she would be able to let it go, but it was a night that had nailed itself to her memory. And she had known even then, even as she watched, that there would be no going back.

She didn’t tell me where she wanted to go, she only asked if she could borrow the telephone,” I said. “She must have told you something?” Mr. Creasy’s words crawled across my skin and crept inside my nostrils. “She didn’t. She just wanted to ring for a taxi.

Go on then.” Tilly elbowed me with the edge of her sweater. I stared at the doorbell. “I’m working up to it,” I said. Mr. and Mrs. Forbes’s house was the kind of house which looked as though no one was ever at home.