Weymouth Quotes

We sit for a long time without talking and watch the rain until our tea goes cold, and I am enormously, unspeakably glad to have found someone I can be silent with.

This is, after all, my own peculiar magic--whatever circumstances I find myself in, I always land on my feet.

I'm still as stone, arms wrapped around myself to hold my breaking heart in. These stories always end the same way.

Wherever I am, wherever my feet are planted, that is where I will make my life. I won't withdraw or put up walls. Every day is a treasure, every chance meeting a gift, and I will treat them as such until at last, my Woodlands heart finds its way home.

Children's aesthetic sense is a deep half-animal feeling and when it is outraged it leaves a wound behind it that never quite heals up.

There has been a solemn engagement between them ever since October—formed at Weymouth, and kept a secret from every body.

Terrible things happen in all worlds, little one! But every tree and every leaf in the Great Wood would have to burn before we allowed such things to break us.

Oh, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care! I don't care what happens, as long as everything doesn't go on repeating itself!

A Woodlands Heart always finds its way home.

Something young and yielding and fragile has fallen apart within my soul, crumbling into countless irreparable pieces.

Perhaps my House is broken, but we are a matched set, split apart in the same place, and a broken girl is just the things for a broken House.

I kiss him as if a kiss could break a binding, and he kisses me as if it could mend a broken heart.

Trying to keep us both whole was tearing me apart

If you think I'm here because you're in pieces, you're wrong- I'm here because those pieces make up something I can't look away from.

There's fire and steel at my core, and no world would break me unless I let it.

I'm not just Violet Sterling, Caretaker of a failing House. I am the sum of everywhere and everything I've been. And I am still, in my deepest parts, Vi of the Fens, who never goes home empty-handed.

It was characteristic of the vein of unhappy sluggishness and inertness in him that only when impressions had subsided into the remote past could he be thrilled by them. The reality of the present seemed always weighted with something hurting.

Brave people just bear up under their circumstances and do their best. There's a whole world of people out there, all trying to muddle through. And honestly I don't think heroes are worth more at the end of the day. Sometimes it takes greater courage to learn to live again when you think life's over, than it does to risk it in the first place." The Light Between Worlds p 299

The first thing he did was to attempt to analyse a mental device he was in the habit of resorting to - a device that supplied him with the secret substratum of his whole life. This was a certain trick he had of doing what he called 'sinking into his soul’. This trick had been a furtive custom with him from very early days. In his childhood his mother had often rallied him about it in her light-hearted way, and had applied to these trances, or these fits of absent-mindedness, an amusing but rather indecent nursery name. His father, on the other hand, had encouraged him in these moods, taking them very gravely, and treating him, when under their spell, as if he were a sort of infant magician. It was, however, when staying in his grandmother's house at Weymouth that the word had come to him which he now always used in his own mind to describe these obsessions. It was the word ‘mythology’ ; and he used it entirely in a private sense of his own.

Tom shifts in place. I'm drawn to this thoughtful, quiet boy, and to the calm at his very center. I'm still studying his profile when he turns to me, his freckled face serious. "I don't think anything could stop me from liking you, Evelyn. And we're all a bit frayed around the edges, aren't we? It doesn't surprise me and it doesn't frighten me, finding out you're only human like the rest of us." He reaches out and takes my stinging hand in his own, twining his fingers through mine. I will never move again. I will live and die here, content for once in this world to which I don't belong.

There are five species of Pacific salmon in North America: the chum, the coho, the sockeye, the pink, and the Chinook. Each has its own diminutive: the chum is the dog, or the keta, the coho the silver, the sockeye the red, the pink the humpy, and the Chinook is the king. The original Chinook are people of the Pacific Northwest, and their language formed the core of Chinook Jargon, a pidgin trading language that stretched from Alaska to the Columbia River, along what now forms the border of Washington and Oregon, and incorporated the words of many tribes, as well as French and English. Any Canadian will still say Chinook for king, the best and biggest of the fish that the Chinook people traded.

The spruce is sculpted by the elements, bottlebrush scrawny, topiaryed by the weather. This boreal forest stretches over eight thousand miles in an unbroken line around the circumference of the globe: 30 percent of the world’s tree cover, four million square miles, the planet’s single largest biome. A broad, evergreen brushstroke that encircles the north, running through North America, Scandinavia, Siberia, marking the band of the subarctic. Forests of moose, of lynx, of bear. Forests of thimbleberry, strawberry, nagoonberry, lowbush cranberry, highbush cranberry, watermelon berry, bunchberry, crowberry, huckleberry, blueberry, cloudberry, bearberry, salmonberry. Forests home to many of the world’s remaining hunter-gatherer societies, summers of wildfires and perpetual light, and winters of fifty below.

Probably the most important development in materials during the last few years has been that made by the plant geneticists who have been breeding fast-growing varieties of commercial timbers. Thus varieties of Pinus radiata (Weymouth pine) are now being planted which, in favourable conditions, will increase in diameter by up to 12 centimetres per year and may be fit for felling, as mature timber, in six years. So there is a good prospect of timber becoming a crop which can be grown on a short time-cycle. Nearly all the energy which is needed to make it grow is provided, free, by the sun. Presumably, when one has finished with a timber structure, it could be burnt to yield up most of the energy which it has collected while it was growing. This is, of course, in no way true of steel or concrete. Again, timber used to need lengthy and expensive seasoning in heated kilns, which used up a good deal of energy. As a result of recent research it is now possible to season sizeable soft-wood scantlings in twenty-four hours, at a very low cost. These are very important developments in relation to structures and to the world energy situation,

As the old curator walked bow-backed down the High Street towards his small museum, he looked sadly up at the growing number of estate agent signs and narrowed his eyes; everything seemed to be changing. There were no market days anymore. The big supermarkets in Weymouth and Swanage had long since starved out the butcher, baker and greengrocer, while online shopping had comprehensively killed off the antique shop and the second-hand bookstore. The young families had all drifted off to Dorchester and Bournemouth in search of employment and homes in which you could stand upright. Langton Hadlow had begun to die. The

My father, and all of my forefathers back to William the Deedwinner, sat on the throne of this country because they wanted something that didn't belong to them. The world is full of men who want things, and never question their right to go after them.

He described his patients’ anxiety-provoking sensation that the end of the world was nigh, and their episodes of violent weeping.6 There were reports of suicides–of patients leaping from hospital windows. Children died in tragic circumstances too, but while adults were described as ‘leaping’, children ‘fell’. Near Lugano, Switzerland, a lawyer named Laghi cut his own throat with a razor, while a clerk who worked in the City of London didn’t turn up for work one day. Instead, he took a train to Weymouth on the south coast of England and threw himself into the sea.

By this time, Abigail was signing herself “Diana,” using a fanciful classical name, as young women were wont to do in her time. This Diana, however, alive in Weymouth, was not the chaste virgin goddess of the hunt but eighteen years old and betrothed to a man who was given to huge passions. She saw only his greatness, recognized his genius, and was drawn to his brilliant talk as well as the energy that matched her own eagerness to engage with life.

We take a final look around. The sky, and the forest, and the river, and the fish. The last of the year's swallows blow away in gusts over the mountains to the south, like summer's embers.

I say it reverently, if I understand the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, this is the vision He has given me of it: that all of heaven's ability and heaven's glory and heaven 's strength are at the disposal of the believer. This is the most miraculous thing the world ever saw. I believe that in the last days there is going to be an unveiling of the power of God, and multitudes will arise and live. Weymouth's translation of Romans 5:17 tells us that we reign as Kings in the Realm of Life in Christ. We are to absolutely reign as Christ, and with Christ. How? By faith. Is God your righteousness? You say, "I am trying to make Him my righteousness." Can you make Him your righteousness? If you believe on Jesus Christ, He IS your righteousness. Then go out and act it. Dare to let God loose in you.

The emptiness of the bunker haunts me still. Five and a half years since we last cowered in its dark interior, listening for the low growl of approaching planes or the muffled reverberation of nearby bomb strikes. Five and a half years since something inexplicable happened in the midst of all that darkness and waiting and fear. The truth haunts my brother and sister, too, I know. Poor darling Jamie, who works so hard and never quite feels he's doing enough. Poor lovely Phillipa, off in America, running from our past. As for me, I refuse to be pitied. I refuse to be anyone but who I've always been: Evelyn Hapwell, teller of truths and walker of worlds, friend of the Woodlands and enemy of tyrants, beloved of Cervus, the Guardian of the Great Wood. The words Cervus once spoke to me are emblazoned on my bones, writ large across every inch of my skin. A Woodlands heart always finds its way home. Your words, Cervus, not mine. No matter how many years pass, I plan to hold you to them.

But what I've got to do if I'm to keep any self-respect at all," he thought, rising stiffly from the bench, while his teeth chattered, "is to accept my cowardice, take it all for granted, and think of myself as a nervous insignificant book-worm, who can't do anything but teach Latin and be petted by Miss Le Fleau!

The first grant within the bounds of Massachusetts was obtained by Mr. Weston who, in the summer of 1622, sent over two ships with 50 or 60 men to begin a plantation at Wessagusset, since called Weymouth.

The subtlest of all differences between human beings has to to with their attitude to themselves when they are thinking about themselves. Some caress themselves when they are alone and consciously dote on themselves, whereas others hold themselves apart from themselves with a certain despotic contempt for themselves—and this, too, even in the midst of their liveliest sensations.

Sylvanus was more than shy of himself. A hot rush of blood causing him a curious discomfort, would mount up to his head at the merest approach to physical self-consciousness. He had to forget himself, or he couldn't go on!

The mind of a teacher of Latin and a reader of Greek is a queer thing. No sooner had Magnus in his justifiable indignation at her teasing ways imagined himself ravishing Curly by force in her own maiden bed, than such a blind passion of pure love for her swept over him that the blood rushed to his head and he squeezed his bony hands together.

It was as if cowslips and cow-droppings mingled with sea-horses and cowry-shells.

She still required the dangerous, maddening nerve-quiver of vice to render existence bearable.

His neck as he stretched it upwards and backwards, felt like the neck of an antediluvian tortoise.

Had the whole human race, in the circles of some immense Colosseum gathered together to see Mrs. Cobbald executed it is certain that she would never have blinked an eyelid, or lapsed one hair's breadth from her fortitude.

It's as if we were both digging into each other's soul to find a self that was put there before we were born.

Mr. Gaul took off his spectacles, a gesture of his which always accompanied the reception of anything startling. But he only twisted them in his hands and replaced them carefully. Had the event been more personally arresting he would have cleaned them with his coat-sleeve. Confronted by a shipwreck he might even have rubbed them against his trousers.

Being a philosopher, rather than a neophyte in sanctity, Mr. Gaul did not feel it at all incumbent upon him to refrain from contemplating Perdita's legs.

Jerry had indeed something in him that went beyond Rabelaisianism, in that he not only could get an ecstasy of curious satisfaction from the most drab, ordinary, homely, realistic aspects of what might be called the excremental under-tides of existence but he could slough off his loathing for humanity in this contemplation and grow gay, child-like, guileless.

With its green curtains and green carpet, with its green valences round its green arm-chairs, with its green tassels round its vase-bearing brackets, this spacious chamber, designed to pleasure their dead mother before either of them were born, was like a mausoleum to Ruth and Rodney.

In many ways, it took me too long to fully understand how different things were for me. For example, the first thing I did was to rent a large holiday caravan at a campsite in Weymouth. As a child we’d gone there every year in my mum and dad’s tiny touring caravan, and I always thought that the really rich people stayed in the bigger vans up the hill. I clearly had a very limited view of what rich and poor truly meant.

His law firm’s shining brass ERICSSON, WEYMOUTH AND ROTH sign greeted him outside the elevator on the sixty-first floor. At twenty-nine, he’d been the youngest to ever make partner. There was a time he’d wanted, and probably could have gotten, the name Mooney added to that sign.

I sit by the rushing water, a patchwork girl, pieced together from bits of pain, all of them a different shape, a different colour, a different sort of unhappiness.

After half a year, I’m already beginning to forget that world-the food, the clothes, the manners. And I want to forget. I throw myself willingly into learning Woodlands customs, in hopes they’ll erase the memories of a home that was never home, where I was shuffled between strange houses and school like a piece of unwanted baggage.

The little plantations at Weymouth, Hull, and Mount Wollaston, although within the limits of Boston Bay, nevertheless do not concern us here so much as the solitary men who had made homes for themselves upon the land now actually part of the modern city. On an island in the harbour was settled David Thomson, "Gent.," an attorney for Gorges, with his family. Thomson died in 1628, leaving to his family his island and to the island his name, which it has borne ever since.

In early 1924, Weymouth offered him the post of regional engineer in Denver, a desk from which Crowe would oversee all construction in seventeen Western states. As this was the region where Reclamation was spending most of its budget, the job was tantamount to the bureau’s chief of construction.

I am falling into that dark place, where I don’t belong to one world, or two, but none.

I’m at the edge of the map again. I seem to live there, only making brief forays into familiar country

But I don’t know how to live in this grey country-how to find the light and shadow when they all run together so.

I’ve seen this world. There’s nothing in it I want anymore. Everything I’ve ever had, I left behind.

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And what is more, since we are likely to be exchanged in a few days, I shall have a court-martial on top of it all.’ ‘Oh, as for that, sir,’ cried Jack, throwing himself back in his chair, ‘you cannot possibly have any misgivings – never was a clearer case of –’ ‘Don’t you be so sure, young man,’ said Captain Ferris. ‘Any court-martial is a perilous thing, whether you are in the right or the wrong – justice has nothing much to do with it. Remember poor Vincent of the Weymouth: remember Byng – shot for an error of judgment and for being unpopular with the mob. And think of the state of feeling in Gibraltar and at home just now – six ships of the line beaten off by three French, and one taken – a defeat, and the Hannibal taken.

§ 3. There was another most wonderful preservation vouchsafed by God unto this little knot of Christians. One Mr. Weston, a merchant of good note, interested at first in the Plymouth design, afterwards deserted it; and in the year 1622 sent over two ships, with about sixty men, to begin a plantation in the Massachuset-Bay. These beginners being well refreshed at Plymouth, travelled more northward unto a place known since by the name of Weymouth; where these Westonians, who were Church of England-men, did not approve themselves like the Plymotheans, a pious, honest, industrious people; but followed such bad courses, as had like to have brought a ruin upon their neighbours, as well as themselves.

Robert Gorges and his party arrived in Boston Bay in 1623, during what is now the latter part of September. They established themselves in the buildings which had been occupied by Weston’s people during the previous winter, and which had been deserted by them a few days less than six months before. The site of those buildings cannot be definitely fixed. It is supposed to have been on Phillips Creek, a small tidal inlet of the Weymouth fore-river, a short distance above the Quincy-Point bridge.

And for the first time in as long as she could remember, Rowenna Winthrop felt whole, and glad, and free.

it me, or do these names seem fabricated? Could you match each of these names with its literary mate or author? Rat Crancer (probably a gumshoe). Powder D. Coulter. Weymouth Crumpler (longtime friend of Little Miss Muffett). Pansy Hines. Donald Dumbleton (wouldn’t you know, he had a timothy-head screwdriver in his esophagus). Alice Dalrymple. Zadie Smallwood. Mrs. L. Stretch. Myrtle Yonders (sister of Thistle Near). Anna Skeen (I think she appears in Gertrude Stein’s Three Lives). Florabelle Sledge (an oxymoronish personage). Sister Mary Octave. Waldo Intermill. Evelyn Marie Loveless. Irma Erben (William Wilson’s cousin and Humbert Humbert’s wife). Linnwood Wheeloff (hadn’t Henry James made a place for him in The Americans?), and the incomparably unbelievable Sister Mary Pica—“pica” being the DSM-IV descriptor for disordered swallowing.

12 See how dear he held him. (John 11:36 WEYMOUTH) He loved, yet lingered. We are so quick to think that delayed answer to prayer means that the prayer is not going to be answered. Dr. Stuart Holden has said truly: “Many a time we pray and are prone to interpret God’s silence as a denial of our petitions; whereas, in truth, He only defers their fulfillment until such time as we ourselves are ready to cooperate to the full in His purposes.” Prayer registered in heaven is prayer dealt with, although the vision still tarries. Faith is trained to its supreme mission under the discipline of patience. The man who can wait God’s time, knowing that He edits his prayer in wisdom and affection, will always discover that He never comes to man’s aid one minute too soon or too late. God’s delay in answering the prayer of our longing heart is the most loving thing God can do. He may be waiting for us to come closer to Him, prostrate ourselves at His feet and abide there in trustful submission, that His granting of the longed-for answer may mean infinitely greater blessing than if we received it anywhere else than in the dust at His feet. O wait, impatient heart! As winter waits, her songbirds fed. And every nestling blossom dead; Beyond the purple seas they sing! Beneath soft snows they sleep! They only sleep. Sweet patience keep And wait, as winter waits the spring. Nothing can hold our ship down when the tide comes in! The aloe blooms but once in a hundred years; but every hour of all that century is needed to produce the delicate texture and resplendent beauty of the flower. Faith heard the sound of “the tread of rain,” and yet God made Elijah wait! God never hastens, and He never tarries!

The newspaper culture at the Post was even more inbred and suffocating than at the Times. For nearly 50 years there were only two editors: the dashing Ben Bradlee, followed by the stolid Len Downie. (During the same period the Times had five different executive editors.) Downie, who had already been executive editor for 17 years when Weymouth came on board and was not digitally conversant, said that he expected to remain several years more, until he hit 70, as Bradlee had.

At the Post, Weymouth recalled the horror of seeing her paper’s special section for classified job ads, which usually netted $100-plus million, go from the size of a small phone book to barely a wisp.

Like Philippa, Max bulids her kingdom wherever she is, no matter how difficult it may be.

We respect each other's need for distance, Georgie and I, and so I don't go after her--she always wants time after something like this, to scribble down new lines of her own verse. No one's ever allowed to read it--not me, not even Max. I suppose it's Georgie's way of wandering in the woods.

There are always those first few days, I find, until I shed the city, before I feel at ease again. Before muscles feel good, before cracked burned skin stops hurting and feels like it’s at home. Before my eyes open as wide as they ought.