Witty Garden Quotes

Yeah, go ahead and get the forbidden garden comment out of your system. And no matter what witty snake joke you're considering? Trust me, I've heard it.

Goebbels was known for his wit; Martha, for a time, considered him charming. “Infectious and delightful, eyes sparkling, voice soft, his speech witty and light, it is difficult to remember his cruelty, his cunning destructive talents.” Her mother, Mattie, always enjoyed being seated next to Goebbels at banquets; Dodd considered him “one of the few men with a sense of humor in Germany

I hate people who say, “Good moaning,” instead of, “Good morning.” What kind of a wanker, are they? I’ll tell you. It’s their little joke, you see. They view it as a clever play on words, changing one letter to make a completely different word. Do you get it? By changing the ‘r’ in morning to an ‘a’ the whole meaning of the word changes. Do you see how witty they are? WANKEEERRRSS!!!!

And did you draw a delicious breath in the life's pleasure garden? Or perhaps, you could not see the glee and joy in life and light of the day! In the first case, you've got a runny nose. In the other, you miss a lively vision.

I’m trying to think…are you the florist?” Malcolm’s voice was slightly off, as if it were coming from someplace other than his own throat. ... She took a sip from her own drink. “Nope. I like flowers as much as the next woman, but I can’t tell a dahlia from a daisy.” “Or a lupine from a lobelia?” Hugh Parteger said. “Or a carnation from a chrysanthemum.” “You’re obviously not into floral sects,” he said. She almost spit out a mouthful of kir royale laughing. ... “Mr. Parteger, I don’t discuss what I do in my garden bed with anyone.” “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said. “For most women, it’s just a matter of finding the right tool.” She took another drink, enjoying herself immensely. ... “Yes, but it’s such a tedious process, finding one that fits and works really well. Better just stick to hand weeding. Fewer complications that way.” “Ah, so you’re a master gardener.” She actually giggled. How mortifying. She took a long swallow from her drink. “As Voltaire said, we must cultivate our garden.” “I believe he also said, ‘Once, a philosopher, twice, a pervert.

Why aren't you on the coast? he said, making it sound like an accusation. Because I have new mulch for the garden to help us all grow. He snorted in disbelief. Doubtful. You are a dormant seed. I'd been prepared to allow him a thorny word or two because he lost his nephew at the Seeking,but my sympathy evaporated at such a stark insult. I told him he had no nuts in his shell and swung up beyond his voice.

She wondered when Papa would accept that she wasn't the sort of girl gentlemen flocked to. In his eyes she was lovely, but Eliza knew he was the only one who saw her that way. Plain girls had made splashes in society, but usually by virtue of being vivacious and witty. Eliza tended to grow mute and hesitant in the presence of elegant strangers, and any wit she had vanished from her brain if one of them actually spoke to her. Undoubtedly Papa hoped her enormous dowry would outweigh her shyness, but Eliza would rather be that eccentric old lady with a house full of dogs than marry a husband who only wanted her money. So Papa could dream, but Eliza was far less certain. Perhaps some day she would meet an affable country squire who didn't need a beautiful, charming wife, but preferred a quiet girl content to play with her dog and tend her garden. And if not, she would just remain where she was.

He had been shuffled out so quickly he didn’t even realize what he was wearing, like a King of Spades who wanted to file a complaint to the playing card company manufacturer for not drawing him a garden tool like he specifically asked for.

Luckily for Nina’s anxiety, they found themselves in one of those restaurants where the menu gave the full provenance of every ingredient. Plentiful reading material is so helpful on a first date. “It says here,” said Nina, “that the fresh mint used in the lamb burger was grown in a hand-thrown but unattractive pot on the kitchen windowsill.” “Really?” said Tom. “Did they include a photo?” Nina shook her head. “Not even a witty little pencil sketch.” “Disappointing.” Tom looked at his menu. “Well, it says here that the pomegranate extract used in the salad dressing was hand squeezed by the middle daughter of the farmer who grew it.” “Really?” said Nina, hiding a smile. “Well, if one of us orders the steak frites, a young boy named Harold will catch a bus to the the nearest community garden and dig up the potatoes for the frites himself.” “Well,” said Tom, gravely, “it’s getting a little late for Harold to be out alone. Maybe we should choose something else.

But on earth here in France, every sense was bathed in luxury, luxury of which she became more and more aware as she grew older. The palate was indulged with strawberries from Saumur and melons planted in the Loire by a Neapolitan gardener long ago, with trout pate, Tours pastries, and vin d’Annonville, with its delicate bouquet. The nostrils were pampered by the happy work of Catherine de Médicis’s Italian perfumers working with the flowers from the fields of Provence, producing heady fragrances to be worn on throats and wrists and to scent gloves and capes. Hyacinth, jasmine, lilac—all wafted through the rooms and from the bathwaters of the châteaux. The skin was caressed with unguents and the feel of silk, velvet, fur, leather gloves of softest deerskin; goosedown pillows cupped weary bodies at the day’s end; and in winter, newly installed Germanic tile stoves at Fontainebleau provided central heating. Eyes were continually presented with beauty in ordinary objects rendered more opulently pleasing: a crystal mirror decorated with velvet and silk ribbons; buttons with jewels affixed. There were fireworks reflected in the river; paintings by Leonardo; and black-and-white chequered marble paving in the long palace gallery over the Cher that spanned the rippling water outside. Pleasing sounds were everywhere: in the chirping of the pet canaries and more exotic birds in the garden aviaries; in the baying of the hounds in the matchless royal hunting packs; in the splash and gurgle of the fountains and elaborate water displays in the formal gardens. And above all that, the sound of melodious French, exquisitely spoken; witty conversations, and the poets of the court reciting verses composed to celebrate the aristocratic dreamworld they inhabited, with a haunting melancholy that it would all pass away.