Wax And Wayne Quotes

Wayne's a little attached to that hat," Waxillium said. "He thinks it's lucky." Wayne: "It is lucky. I ain't never died while wearing that hat." Marasi frowned. "I ... I'm not sure I know how to respond." Wax: "That's a common reaction to Wayne.

She assumes,” Wax said, “that our detective style isn’t normally the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby type.” “To be fair,” Wayne said, “it’s usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type.

Of course not. I’d have shot you right in the head, Wayne.” “You’re a good friend,” Wayne said. “Thanks, Wax.” “You’re the only person I know that I can cheer up by promising to kill him.

Of course I am,” Wax said. “This is my second marriage. I’m an old hand at the practice by now.” Wayne grinned. “Oh, is that how it works? ’Cuz in my experience, marryin’ is the one thing people seem to get worse at the more they do it. Well, that and bein’ alive.

A non-doer is very often a critic-that is, someone who sits back and watches doers, and then waxes philosophically about how the doers are doing. It's easy to be a critic, but being a doer requires effort, risk, and change.

Looks like we’re going to need a new prime suspect, Wax,” Wayne said. “This one downright refuses to not be dead already.

So, Wax,” Wayne butted in. “Where did you say that bloke was who had my hat?” “I told you that he got away after I shot him.” “I was hoping he’d dropped my hat, you know. Getting shot makes people drop stuff.” Waxillium sighed. “He still had it on when he left, I’m afraid.” Wayne started cursing. “Wayne,” Marasi said. “It’s only a hat.” “Only a hat?” he asked, aghast. “Wayne’s a little attached to that hat,” Waxillium said. “He thinks it’s lucky.” “It is lucky. I ain’t never died while wearing that hat.

I need you to stay behind as we go into those slums,” Wayne said, determined to impress solemnity into his voice. “It’s not that I don’t want your help. I do. It’s just going to be too dangerous for you. You need to stay where I know you’re safe. No arguments. I’m sorry.” “Wayne,” Wax said, walking past. “Stop talking to your hat and get over here.

If Wayne isn’t in here somewhere already,” Wax said, “I’ll eat your handbag and try to burn it for Allomantic power.

Wayne…” Wax said. “You know she doesn’t actually like you.” “You always say that, but you’re just not seein’ the truth, Wax.” “She tries to kill you.” “To keep me alive,” Wayne said. “She knows I live a dangerous life. So, keepin’ me on my toes is the best way to make sure I stick around.

Well, you know,” Wayne said. “It’s like I often say…” “Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won’t know what you’re planning to do to it?” “No, not that one.” “Until you know it ain’t true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?” “No, not … Wait, I said that?” “Yes,” Wax said, turning back to his notes. “It was a very chivalrous moment for you.” “Rusts. I should really write these things down.

Don’t worry about that,” she said, spinning around. “I will get in, and be ready to give you support. But this is your play, Ladrian, not mine. You’re the detective; I’m just around for the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby.” (...) “She assumes,” Wax said, “that our detective style isn’t normally the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby type.” “To be fair,” Wayne said, “it’s usually a more shooty-shooty, whacky-whacky type.” Marasi rubbed her forehead. “Why are we having this conversation?” “Because we’re tired,” Wax said.

Great. Lovely. Can I have your hat?” “My … hat?” The elderly woman looked up at the oversized hat. The sides drooped magnificently, and the thing was festooned with flowers. Like, oodles of them. Silk, he figured, but they were really good replicas. “You have a lady friend?” Aunt Gin asked. “You wish to give her the hat?” “Nah,” Wayne said. “I need to wear it next time I’m an old lady.” “The next time you what?” Aunt Gin grew pale, but that was probably on account of the fact that Wax went stomping by, wearing his full rusting mistcoat. That man never could figure out how to blend in.

Focus, Wayne,” Wax said. “How are we going to get in? Shall we try a Fat Belt?” “Nah,” Wayne said, “too loud. I think we should do Spoiled Tomato.” “Dangerous,” Wax said, shaking his head. “I’d have to do the placement just right, between the lit perimeter and the shadowed part near the walls.” “You can do it. You make shots like that all the time. Plus, we got this shiny new metalmind, full o’ health waitin’ to be slurped up.” “A mistake could ruin the whole infiltration, healing power or no,” Wax said. “I think we should do Duck Under Clouds instead.” “You kiddin’?” Wayne said. “Didn’t you get shot last time we tried that?” “Kinda,” Wax admitted. MeLaan stared at them, baffled. “Duck under Clouds?” “They get like this,” Marasi said, patting her on the shoulder. “Best not to listen too closely.” “Tube Run,” Wayne said. “No glue.” “Banefielder?” “Too dark.” “Blackwatch Doublestomp.” Wax hesitated. “… The hell is that?” “Just made it up,” Wayne said, grinning. “It’s a nifty code name though, eh?” “Not bad,” Wax admitted. “And what type of plan is it?” “Same as Spoiled Tomato,” Wayne said.

Can you beat them on your own? Marasi half whispered, half mouthed at Wayne. He grinned and mouthed back, Does a guy wif no hands got itchy balls?

He put the fork, knife, and spoon back in his pocket and tucked the flower behind his ear, then walked to the door, reaching it right before that butler did. He gave the man a glare—it was only a matter of time before he cracked and tried to kill them all—then pulled open the door. (...) “Nice flower,” the kandra said. “Can I have your skeleton when you’re dead?” “My…” Wayne felt at his head. “You’re a Bloodmaker, correct? Can heal yourself? Bloodmaker bones tend to be particularly interesting, as your time spent weak and sickly creates oddities in your joints and bones that can be quite distinctive. I’d love to have your skeleton. If you don’t mind.” Taken aback by this request, Wayne stopped in place. Then he ran past him, pushing into the room where Wax and Steris were talking. “Wax,” he complained, pointing, “the immortal bloke is being creepy again.

Oi,” Wayne said, hustling up beside him. “A good plan that one was, eh?” “It was the same plan you always have,” Wax said. “The one where I get to be the decoy.” “Ain’t my fault people like to shoot at you, mate,” Wayne said as they reached the coach. “You should be happy; you’re usin’ your talents, like me granners always said a man should do.” “I’d rather not have ‘shootability’ be my talent.” “Well, you gotta use what you have,” Wayne said, leaning against the side of the carriage as Cob the coachman opened the door for Wax. “Same reason I always have bits of rat in my stew.

Wayne popped one in his mouth—candied bacon wrapped around a walnut. “How is it?” Wax asked. “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.

Heavens, no," Wax said. "If I approved of half the thngs Wayne does, Harmony would probably strike me on the spot.

You know,” Wayne said, “I’m an Allomancer too.” The man said nothing. “I figured you’d want to know,” Wayne said, “since it seems like this is your religion and all. In case you wanted someone else to worship.” Again no reply. “I’m a Slider,” Wayne said. “Speed bubbles, you know? Those fancy titles would work for me just fine, I think. Handsome One. Smart One. Um … Guy wif the Great Hat.” The only sound was that of their footfalls and the gusting wind. “Now, see,” Wayne said, “this is unfair. Wax doesn’t want you to worship him, right? But you gotta have someone to worship. It’s human nature. It’s ingratiated in us. So, I’m willin’ to be accommodatin’ and let you—” “He can’t understand you, Wayne,” Marasi said, marching past. “He’s swapped metalminds to keep himself warm.” Wayne stopped in place as they all hiked onward. “Well, when he gets his brain back, someone tell him I’m a god, all right?” “Will do,” Wax called from up ahead.

She sat for a moment, feeling the rhythmic rattle of the train’s motion. “Does it ever bother you to be in his shadow, Wayne?” “Who? Wax? I mean, he’s been putting on weight, but he’s not that fat yet, is he?” He grinned, though that faded when she didn’t smile back. And, in an uncharacteristic moment of solemnity, he slid his boots off the table and rested one elbow on it instead, leaning toward her. “Nah,” he said after some thought. “Nah, it doesn’t. But I don’t care much if people look at me or not. Sometimes my life is easier if they ain’t looking at me, ya know? I like listening.

Assassinating the Lord Ruler?” Wax asked. “Isn’t that a little violent for a children’s book?” “Mate,” Wayne said, “it ain’t violence if it’s religion. Don’t you know anythin’?

You're the detective, I'm just around for the punchy-punchy, stabby-stabby.

Important folk meeting together always meant snacks. Or canapés, if you knew the code. Wayne popped one in his mouth—candied bacon wrapped around a walnut. “How is it?” Wax asked. “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.

And romance is just the place for creating mythic figures doing mythic things. Like carving 'civilzation' out of the wilderness. Like showing us what a hero looks life, a real, American, sprung-from-the soil, lethal-weapon-with-leggings, bona fide hero. And for a guy who never marries, he has a lot of offspring. Shane. The Virginian. The Ringo Kid. The Man with No Name. Just think how many actors would have had no careers without Natty Bumppo. Gary Cooper. John Wayne. Alan Ladd. Tom Mix. Clint Eastwood. Silent. Laconic. More committed to their horse or buddy than to a lady. Professional. Deadly. In his Studies in Classic American Literature, D.H. Lawrence waxes prolix on Natty's most salient feature: he's a killer. And so are his offspring. This heros can talk, stiltedly to be sure, but he prefers silence. He appreciates female beauty but is way more committed to his canoe or his business partner (his business being death and war) or, most disturbingly, his long rifle, Killdeer. Dr. Freud, your three-o'clock is here. Like those later avatars, he is a wilderness god, part backwoods sage, part cold-blooded killer, part unwilling Prince Charming, part jack-of-all-trades, but all man. Here's how his creator describes him: 'a philosopher of the wilderness, simple-minded, faithful, utterly without fear, yet prudent.' A great character, no doubt, but hardly a person. A paragon. An archetype. A miracle. But a potentially real person--not so much.

Hey now,” Wayne said. “That’s not crass. MeLaan is a divine being. Chosen by Harmony. I figure, dating her was basically like going to church, you know?” “And the stretchy ropes?” “A, uh, metaphor for us all being bound by God’s will?” They shared a look, then Wax actually grinned as he shook his head.

Gettin’ old,” Wayne said with a grin, passing him and starting up the next ladder. “Don’t be dense,” Wax said, grabbing the ladder below him and climbing. “I’m trying to pace myself. What if we reach the top and have to fight?” “You can throw your wooden teeth at ’em,” Wayne said from above. “Do some cane waggin’ as well. I’m sure you’re cross about stayin’ up so late.” Wax

You’re the only person I know that I can cheer up by promising to kill him.” “You didn’t promise to kill me,” Wayne said, pulling on his socks. “You promised to have killed me. That there be the present perfect tense.” “Your grasp of the language is startling,” Wax said, “considering how you so frequently brutalize it.” “Ain’t nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax.

And if I’d found you in the process of armed robbery all those years ago, I’d have shot you too.” “You’re not lying, are you?” “Of course not. I’d have shot you right in the head, Wayne.” “You’re a good friend,” Wayne said. “Thanks, Wax.” “You’re the only person I know that I can cheer up by promising to kill him.” “You didn’t promise to kill me,” Wayne said, pulling on his socks. “You promised to have killed me. That there be the present perfect tense.” “Your grasp of the language is startling,” Wax said, “considering how you so frequently brutalize it.” “Ain’t nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax.

Wax shouldered the strange gun, then put his hand on Wayne’s arm. “Yeah. I know. But maybe your ma was right about the bad guy being a mesa. Being the land itself. Maybe that’s what she was saying, Wayne: It’s the world that we have to worry about. Individual men, yes, they can be evil. But we should worry more about the world itself making them so.” “What do you mean?” “Well,” Wax said, “do you think you’d have fallen in with the Plank Boys if your mother hadn’t died in that accident?” “Absolutely not,” Wayne said. “Nearly every man I’ve had to shoot? He had a story like yours. It’s the sort of thing Marasi is always talking about. You have to stop the Blatant Barms of the world, yes. But if you can create a world where fewer boys grow up alone … well, maybe you’ll have far fewer Blatant Barms to face in the future. Maybe that was what your mother was saying.

Ain’t nobody what knows the cow better than the butcher, Wax.

Rusts. Those two were as awkward as a man suddenly splitting his cheeks in church.

If Wayne isn’t in here somewhere already,” Wax said, “I’ll eat your handbag and try to burn it for Allomantic power.” They

Next time? How often do you expect you’ll be imitating Death?” Wayne shrugged. “This is the fourth so far. So you never can tell.

You always have to bring that up, don’t you?” Wayne leaned back, tipping his hat down over his eyes. “Honest mistake.” “You put dynamite in the oven, Wayne.” “Gotta hide a gift where nobody’ll look for it.

How is it?” Wax asked. “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.” “I did not need to hear that,” Wax said,

The room fell silent. A walnut bounced off VenDell’s head. He immediately turned to glare at Wayne. “Sorry,” Wayne said. “Just had trouble believing someone could be so melodramatic, so I figured you might not be real. Hadda check, ya know?

Wayne liked how banks worked. They had style. Many people, they’d keep their money out of sight, hidden under beds and some such. What was the fun of that? But a bank … a bank was a target. Building a place like this, then stuffing it full of cash, was like climbing atop a hill and daring anyone who approached to try to knock you off. He figured that must be the point. The sport of it. Why else would they put so much valuable stuff together in one place? It was supposed to be a message, proof to the little people that some folks were so rich, they could use their money to build a house for their money and still have enough money left to fill that house.

- ¿Puedes derrotarlos tú solo? -medio susurró, medio silabeó Marasi para Wayne, que sonrió y respondió en silencio, moviendo tan solo los labios a su vez: - ¿Le pican las pelotas a un tío sin manos?

—¿El asesinato del lord Legislador? —preguntó Wax—. ¿No es un poco demasiada violencia para un libro infantil? —Socio —dijo Wayne—, si es religión, no se considera violencia. ¿Es que no sabes nada?

I need your help,” Waxillium called back. “I need you to stick your head in a bucket of water and slowly count to a thousand!

To the contrary, these people wanted something stable, something that would let them sustain their communities or forge new ones. Rioting was rarely caused by greed, but frequently by frustration and hopelessness.

How is it?” Wax asked. “Tastes like cotton candy,” Wayne said, relishing the flavor, “made of baby.” “I did not need to hear that,” Wax said, slipping his gun back into its holster.

Lessie waved from the inside of her building, then pointed toward the back. She was going to go out in that direction and creep along behind the next set of buildings. Wax nodded, then made a curt gesture. He’d try to hook up with Wayne and Barl, who had gone to check the other side of the town

And do what? Read?” Wax chuckled. “No. I don’t mind a book now and then, but Wayne is the real reader.” Steris raised her head, looking surprised. “I’m serious,” Wax said. “Granted, he likes ones with pictures now and then, but he does read. Often out loud. You should hear him do the voices to himself.

A non-doer is very often a critic; that is, someone who sits back and watches doers, and then waxes philosophically about how the doers are doing. It's easy to be a critic, but being a doer requires effort, risk, and change.

Huh,” Wayne said thoughtfully. “Tea’s poisoned.” With that, he toppled to the ground.

Wax,” Wayne interrupted, balancing his sixth story of beer-mat coasters. “Check your pulse, mate.” Wax took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he said. “What was that,” Marasi said, wagging her pencil from Wayne to Wax. “Pulse?” “Sometimes,” Wayne said, “Wax forgets he’s a person and starts thinkin’ he’s a rock instead.” “It’s Wayne speak,” Wax said, grabbing some coasters and starting another tower. “For times when he thinks I should be a little more empathetic.” “You can be single-minded, mate.

What’s our legacy? What have we accomplished? Don’t you ever feel like you never actually grew up? That everyone else did, but you’re secretly faking?

Putting it off as a way of life is one technique that you can use to avoid doing. A non-doer is very often a critic, that is, someone who sits back and watches doers, and then waxes philosophically about how the doers are doing. It is easy to be a critic, but being a doer requires effort, risk and change.

When she fought, she was the blade. When she loved, she was the kiss.

A non-doer is very often a critic-that is, someone who sits back and watches doers, and then waxes philosophically about how the doers are doing. It's easy to be a critic, but being a doer requires effort, risk, and change." Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

It's like I often say..." "Greet every morning with a smile. That way it won't know what you're planning to do to it?" "No, not that one." "Until you know it ain't true, treat every woman like she has an older brother what is stronger than you are?" "No, not...Wait, I said that?" "Yes," Wax said, turning back to his notes. "It was a very chivalrous moment for you." "Rusts. I should really write these things down.

Can you beat them on your own? Marasi half whispered, half mouthed at Wayne. He grinned and mouthed back, Does a guy wif no hands got itchy balls?

Greet each day with a smile so it doesn’t know what you’re planning on doing to it.

Harmony, Waxillium thought. If Miles had been born back then, in the days before, he’d have been a hero.