Wade Grey Quotes

That ride was perhaps the most wonderful thing that happened to them in Narnia. Have you ever had a gallop on a horse? Think of that; and then take away the heavy noise of the hoofs and the jingle of the bit and imagine instead the almost noiseless padding of the great paws. Then imagine instead of the black or grey or chestnut back of the horse the soft roughness of golden fur, and the mane flying back in the wind. And then imagine you are going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse. But this is a mount that doesn't need to be guided and never grows tired. He rushes on and on, never missing his footing, never hesitating, threading his way with perfect skill between tree trunks, jumping over bush and briar and the smaller streams, wading the larger, swimming the largest of all. And you are riding not on a road nor in a park nor even on the downs, but right across Narnia, in spring, down solemn avenues of beech and across sunny glades of oak, through wild orchards of snow-white cherry trees, past roaring waterfalls and mossy rocks and echoing caverns, up windy slopes alight with gorse bushes, and across the shoulders of heathery mountains and along giddy ridges and down, down, down again into wild valleys and out into acres of blue flowers.

Let him who thinks war is a glorious, golden thing, who loves to roll forth stirring words of exhortation, invoking honour and praise and valour and love of country … Let him but look at a little pile of sodden grey rags that cover half a skull and a shin-bone and what might have been its ribs, or at this skeleton lying on its side, resting half crouching as it fell, perfect that it is headless, and with the tattered clothing still draped round it; and let him realize how grand and glorious a thing it is to have distilled all youth and joy and life into a fetid heap of hideous putrescence! Who is there who has known and seen who can say that victory is worth the death of even one of these?

Get up, an' take my scarf," said Wade, "an' bandage these bullet-holes I got.

She bookmarked my texts, my notes, my scribblings. She walked through my thoughts, waded through my dreams.

No nerve, hey? Not half a man!... Buster Jack, why don't you finish game? Make up for your low-down tricks. At the last try to be worthy of your dad. In his day he was a real man.... Let him have the consolation that you faced Hell-Bent Wade an' died in your boots!

Halt!..." Wade leaped at the white Belllounds. "If you run I'll break a leg for you--an' then I'll beat your miserable brains out!... Have you no sense? Can't you recognize what's comin'?... I'm goin' to kill you, Buster Jack!" "My God!" whispered the other, understanding fully at last.

We left the diner for another long walk along the lake. The sky had lightened the last couple of days, making me think that Ontonagon was a Michigan paradise tucked up in its northern corner. But today, racks of clouds as big as steamships parked themselves above us, giving the whole town the grey murkiness I'd grown used to. Wind came off Lake Superior, bypassed my skin and veins, and dug right into my bones. We stopped at one of the benches along the lakeshore. Pieces of driftwood were scattered across the sand like they'd been tossed there long ago by some burly creature or god. My mind drifted to the sort of gods that would inhabit Upper Michigan, tough ones to be sure. No grape-eating lounging Greeks; these gods would be plaid-wearing giants as big as pine trees who waded into Superior's violent water for a morning dip.

I want to wade back to a place where I can watch waves without worries washing away my view.

everything changed when Alina was taken. Our family doesn’t work without her, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to get her back. Our path may be paved in blood and venom and every vile thing we’ve had to wade through while trying to find the sick fucks behind her abduction, but we’re closing in quickly because now we have a name.

I wanted her, wanted us. The realization was a soft, small wave that barely reached my ankles, and I was going to wade in further, be completely engulfed in whatever an us would look like.

the strong feeling beginning to be manifested to Wade was not the fun of matching wits and luck with his antagonists, nor a desire to accumulate money--for his recklessness disproved that--but the liberation of the gambling passion.

Five cards, two dice, and an outside deck. A Domino’s pickup with a reality check. Testing: 1, 2, 3. Are you there? Static. Lay the mic brick work for another thought wreck. Perhaps a pantomime would work in this rhyme. So I’ll take an old penny, and wash off the grime. I’ll wash another 9, and then I’ll have a dime. The thought before the dime was the pantomime. Perhaps you can see it through the window I made. But the thoughts have been trashed like a 50’s grey shade. Yeah, I just said a whole lot. Don’t forget this is Wade. I just pull out the pen and I throw the grenade.

Young first encountered George Mallory in 1909, at a Cambridge dinner. At Easter he invited Mallory to Pen y Pass, and the following summer the two went off, at Young’s expense, to the Alps, where they were joined by Donald Robertson, a close friend and peer of Hilton Young’s. They climbed a number of peaks, none more dramatic than the southeast ridge of the Nesthorn, where Mallory nearly died. He was leading at the time, inching his way across fluted ice, seeking a route around the third of the four great towers that blocked the way up the ridge. Young would later recall his sudden astonishment: “I saw the boots flash from the wall without even a scrape; and, equally soundlessly, a grey streak flickered downward, and past me, and out of sight. So much did the wall, to which he had clung so long, overhang that from the instant he lost hold he touched nothing until the rope stopped him in mid-air over the glacier. I had had time to think, as I flung my body forward on to the belayed rope, grinding it and my hands against the slab, that no rope could stand such a jerk; and even to think out what our next action must be—so instantaneous is thought.” Miraculously, the rope held and Mallory was uninjured.

It had turned into a sunny day, a brief opening in the grey cloud-wall that had hidden the sky for months. There were a lot of people making the most of it before the sky-blue was swallowed up again. Pasty parents laid out mats and kept an anxious eye on their children, who waded into the sea like a generation of suicides. Every father, no matter how young, seemed to have a beer belly, and all the mothers had flabby, cellulite-lined legs. The men stripped off their GAA or English football jerseys. The women wore bathing suits of pink or idiot-yellow. In the hazy sunlit drunkenness I felt deflated by the scene. ‘All the happy families,’ said Cocker as we spread out a blanket and sat down.