Yip Man Quotes

Thing is, as ye git aulder, this character-deficiency gig becomes mair sapping. Thir wis a time ah used tae say tae aw the teachers, bosses, dole punters, poll-tax guys, magistrates, when they telt me ah was deficient:'Hi, cool it, gadge, ah'm jist me, jist intae a different sort ay gig fae youse but, ken?' Now though, ah've goat tae concede thit mibee they cats had it sussed. Ye take a healthier slapping the aulder ye git. The blows hit hame mair. It's like yon Mike Tyson boy at the boxing, ken? Every time ye git it thegither tae make a comeback, thir's jist a wee bit mair missin. So ye fuck up again. Yip, ah'm jist no a gadge cut oot fir modern life n that's aw thir is tae it, man. Sometimes the gig goes smooth, then ah jist pure panic n it's back tae the auld weys. What kin ah dae?

The winds shook off in unison and yipped beneath the gleaming stars. She gave him her lips. They kissed. And she was in love with the thunder.

A few moments later the man was with us, looking so brainy and intelligent that my heart leaped up as if I had beheld a rainbow in the sky. 'Oh, Jeeves,' I yipped. 'Oh, Jeeves,' yipped Aunt Dahlia, dead heating with me.

If you challenge someone, we can’t interfere,” Barabas murmured. “Remember, don’t provoke them.” I kicked the door open and walked in. Fourteen pairs of eyes glared at me from around the table. Beyond the alpha, fourteen other shapeshifters waited—the betas of each clan, invited as a courtesy. I looked from face to face. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the male voice said. Third man on the left. Tall, wiry. Sontag. I looked at him. “Ready to put your claws where your mouth is, or are you going to cringe behind the big boys and yip all day?” His eyes flared with yellow. “Is that a challenge?” “Yes, it is.

You’re fed up and you’re exhausted, and no one is listening to your pleas for help. Anger in that case is very much appropriate.” The patient sighed begrudgingly. “I don’t know that I agree, but say it’s true. I still don’t want to go around breaking things.” “No,” Tina agreed, “that’s not a productive outlet for your anger, though it is one less dish to wash.” The patient let out a yip of involuntary laughter, and the man in front of me turned to his friend and inquired casually about lunch.

The wind was blustering again, whipping the curtains. Peter went over to close the window. The moon was now high on the eastern rise, radiant above the church where small water-cart clouds raced across the sky. About to fasten the window latch, his eye was drawn down to the garden. The fox stood under the apple tree looking up at him. The animal began to bark. Each monosyllabic yip and yap seemed to mimic human speech. By some strange power or spell, Peter could understand what the animal was saying. He heard the words loud and clear. ‘I-am Si-on,’ the fox barked. Man and beast looked unwaveringly at one another, neither moving a muscle. The wind stopped blowing, the curtains hung at rest. Peter leaned out the window. ‘What do you want from me?’ he called down. ‘Save-us-from-the-stea-lers,’ barked Sion. Peter’s mind reeled. It would be madness to believe he could understand what the fox was saying—lunacy to think he could commune with it! ‘I must still be asleep,’ he reasoned, closing the window. He sat down on the bed, folding his hands in his lap. But this is not a dream. Lying down, he pulled the bedcovers over himself. ‘Save-us! Save-us! Save-us!’ the fox kept barking from the garden.

One late afternoon, we crossed a creek and came upon a thicket of trees in the middle of a pasture quite a ways from Marlboro Man’s homestead. As I looked more closely, I saw that the trees were shrouding a small white house. A white picket fence surrounded the lot, and as we drove closer to the property, I noticed movement in the yard. It was a large, middle-aged woman, with long, gray hair cascading down her shoulders. She was pushing a lawn mower around her yard, and two wagtail dogs yipped and followed her every step. Most notably, she was wearing only underwear and what appeared to be a late model Playtex bra. And as we passed by her house, she glanced up at us for a moment…then kept on mowing. Trying to appear nonchalant, I asked Marlboro Man, “So…who was that?” Maybe this could be the start of another story. He looked at me and replied, “I have absolutely no idea.” We never spoke of her again.

After dinner, as we had so many times during our months and months together, Marlboro Man and I adjourned to his porch. It was dark--we’d eaten late--and despite my silent five-minute battle with the reality of my reproductive system, there was definitely something special about the night. I stood at the railing, breathing in the dewy night air and taking in all the sounds of the countryside that would one day be my home. The pumping of a distant oil well, the symphony of crickets, the occasional moo of a mama cow, the manic yipping of coyotes…the din of country life was as present and reassuring as the cacophony of car horns, traffic sounds, and sirens had been in L.A. I loved everything about it. He appeared behind me; his strong arms wrapped around my waist. Oh, it was real, all right--he was real. As I touched his forearms and ran the palms of my hands from his elbows down to his wrists, I’d never been more sure of how very real he was. Here, grasping me in his arms, was the Adonis of all the romance-novel fantasies I clearly never realized I’d been having; they’d been playing themselves out in steamy detail under the surface of my consciousness, and I never even knew I’d been missing it. I closed my eyes and rested my head back on his chest, just as his impossibly soft lips and subtle whiskers rested on my neck. Romancewise, it was perfection--the night air was still--almost imperceptible. Physically, viscerally, it was almost more than I could stand. Six babies? Sure. How ’bout seven? Is that enough? Standing there that night, I would have said eight, nine, ten. And I could have gotten started right away. But getting started would have to wait. There’d be plenty of time for that. For that night, that dark, perfect night, we simply stayed on the porch and locked ourselves in kiss after beautiful, steamy kiss. And before too long, it was impossible to tell where his arms ended and where my body began.

A coyote wailed, the sound sending a shiver up Loretta’s spine. She cocked an ear, listening. “I hope that’s what it sounds like and not an Injun,” Mrs. Cortwell whispered. “It’s likely a coyote,” Mrs. Spangler replied. “Look at that there moon, would ya? Of course, it’s a good moon for killin’, too. A Comanche moon, my man calls it.” The fire popped, and Mrs. Shaney leaped. “Lawzy, my nerves is frayed.” The coyote yipped again, his cry trailing skyward, mournful and lonely. Loretta stood up, her heartbeat quickening. “What is it?” Mrs. Spangler cried. Mrs. Cortwell pressed a hand to her throat. “Oh, Lord. It is Injuns!” She jumped to her feet. “Matthew! Matthew Cortwell, where’d you git off to? There’s Injuns out there!” “They won’t hurt you,” Loretta said softly. “Just stay calm, Mrs. Cortwell.” “It’s fine for you to say, you Comanche slut!” Loretta spun on her heel and left the fire. Alerted by Mrs. Cortwell’s cries, Uncle Henry came out from the buckboard and intercepted her. “Don’t even think it, Loretta Jane.” “That’s Hunter out there, Uncle Henry.” “You don’t know that. You wanna part with you hair, girl?” He seized her arm. “Not only that, but you gotta think about us and how it looks.” Several other men gathered around. Loretta glanced at their taut faces, feeling trapped. She heard the coyote again. Hunter. “I’m going. He’s out there calling me, and I’m going.

To my shame, I let out a pain-filled yip that was part Pomeranian and part five-year-old girl. Although, I guess I could say I howled like a shape-shifting girl who sometimes morphs into a Pomeranian. There. I made that noise. That’s more manly.

Herausforderer, die von Nah und Fern herbeieilten, wurden alle besiegt.