Wix Quotes

Mrs. Wix gave a sidelong look. She still had room for wonder at what Maisie knew.

God will always bless the readers of his words:josuha:1:8, http://supergigsvault.wix.com

The companions confessed to each other the dread each had hidden the worst of, but Mrs Wix was better off than Maisie in having a plan of defence.

His honeymoon, when he came back from Brighton—not on the morrow of Mrs Wix’s visit, and not, oddly, till several days later—his honeymoon was perhaps perceptibly tinged with the dawn of a later stage of wedlock.

Everyone always claims to hate small talk, but does nothing to stop it whilst it’s going on.

The day came indeed when her breathless auditors learnt from her in bewilderment that what ailed him was that he was, alas, simply not serious. Maisie wept on Mrs Wix’s bosom after hearing that Sir Claude was a butterfly; considering moreover that her governess but half-patched it up in coming out at various moments the next few days with the opinion that it was proper to his ‘station’ to be careless and free.

He led one after all in the schoolroom, and there were hours of late evening, when she had gone to bed, that Maisie knew he sat there talking with Mrs Wix of how to meet his difficulties. His consideration for this unfortunate woman even in the midst of them continued to show him as the perfect gentleman and lifted the subject of his courtesy into an upper air of beatitude in which her very pride had the hush of anxiety.

Maisie was with the idea of the sentiment Sir Claude had inspired, and familiar, in addition, by Mrs Wix’s anecdotes, with the ravages that in general such a sentiment could produce, she was able to make allowances for her ladyship’s remarkable appearance, her violent splendour, the wonderful colour of her lips and even the hard stare, the stare of some gorgeous idol described in a story-book, that had come into her eyes in consequence of a curious thickening of their already rich circumference.

She looked at her examiner; she looked at the visitors; she felt the rising of the tears she had kept down at the station. They had nothing—no, distinctly nothing—to do with her moral sense. The only thing was the old flat shameful schoolroom plea. "I don't know—I don't know." "Then you've lost it." Mrs. Wix seemed to close the book as she fixed the straighteners on Sir Claude. "You've nipped it in the bud. You've killed it when it had begun to live." She was a newer Mrs. Wix than ever, a Mrs. Wix high and great; but Sir Claude was not after all to be treated as a little boy with a missed lesson. "I've not killed anything," he said; "on the contrary I think I've produced life. I don't know what to call it—I haven't even known how decently to deal with it, to approach it; but, whatever it is, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever met—it's exquisite, it's sacred.

There were clear differences in how the young men responded to being called a bad name. For some, the insult changed their behavior. For some it didn’t. The deciding factor in how they reacted wasn’t how emotionally secure they were, or whether they were intellectuals or jocks, or whether they were physically imposing or not. What mattered—and I think you can guess where this is headed—was where they were from. Most of the young men from the northern part of the United States treated the incident with amusement. They laughed it off. Their handshakes were unchanged. Their levels of cortisol actually went down, as if they were unconsciously trying to defuse their own anger. Only a few of them had Steve get violent with Larry. But the southerners? Oh, my. They were angry. Their cortisol and testosterone jumped. Their handshakes got firm. Steve was all over Larry. “We even played this game of chicken,” Cohen said. “We sent the students back down the hallways, and around the corner comes another confederate. The hallway is blocked, so there’s only room for one of them to pass. The guy we used was six three, two hundred fifty pounds. He used to play college football. He was now working as a bouncer in a college bar. He was walking down the hall in business mode—the way you walk through a bar when you are trying to break up a fight. The question was: how close do they get to the bouncer before they get out of the way? And believe me, they always get out of the way.” For the northerners, there was almost no effect. They got out of the way five or six feet beforehand, whether they had been insulted or not. The southerners, by contrast, were downright deferential in normal circumstances, stepping aside with more than nine feet to go. But if they had just been insulted? Less than two feet. Call a southerner an asshole, and he’s itching for a fight. What Cohen and Nisbett were seeing in that long hall was the culture of honor in action: the southerners were reacting like Wix Howard did when Little Bob Turner accused him of cheating at poker.

Let’s all eat our feelings instead of expressing them.

I think about the fact that my fridge has a better energy rating than me.

We laughed and it was the laugh of certainty that only the young can really afford. The laugh of people at the idea that they would ever let themselves get that old, or pot-bellied, sunburnt, or bald or bitter, or unhappy, or chaotic or disappointed.

But, if we are to get anywhere in this world, we must, at some point, learn to sever the ties between applause and self-worth.

I’ve carried this perfectionism into my adult life. There’s a long list of things I never did or allowed to happen, all because I wasn’t ready. I always thought I needed to change first, before living. I confused longing with living. I’ve missed out on things I care about, all because I didn’t feel ready to share myself. It was all a defence against intimacy, a very effective one, because it was lonely

I think worrying will soothe me, but it never does. There weren’t enough hours in the day to do all the worrying I needed to do. I would wake up worried, then stay worried throughout the day and I’d still have worrying undone at the end of the day.

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I think it was me who once said, "To grow up is to lose everything once.

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It's always best when meeting new people to assume that they have a front-of-house life and a backstage life.

My mother's hopes for me were that I would always be happy and thin. My hope for her was that she would never leave me.

Everyone has the right to own a doll that looks like them.

I find myself absorbing your traits. I eat the foods you like and I use your favourite words. I say our jokes to myself. And I've come up with some new ones for us too.

If I lived in a village now, which I don't, I'd probably be the witch.

There will be people after me who will still be grieving these people. I don't have to do all of it.

To grow up is to lose everything once

I think the house of death has but one door, but it's the windows I don't like

Death requires faith, I suppose, because even with the luxury of time to prepare, it still seems far-fetched and absurd. All you can do is wash your face and get all the relevant documents in order

When the brain tumour was diagnosed, I thought, The unvierse isn't done with us yet. So this is what life is really like: a series of terrible events? I can't believe I was so in the dark for so long. The body is capable of betrayal at any given moment. But then I would ask myself: Did someone promise me that it was going to be all good? And the answer would be, No, no one did. So, then, where did I get this silly notion from that life was supposed to be all good and well?