Cholera Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
my-choleras-acting-up-again-libba-bray
i-went-to-doctor-i-said-to-him-im-frightened-lapels-he-said-youve-got-cholera-tim-vine
this-is-industry-that-doesnt-have-common-cold-it-has-cholera-emanuel-azenberg
cholera-is-even-more-severe-among-populations-who-are-immunologically-naive
the-cholera-had-broken-out-at-post-five-six-men-were-dying-daily-buffalo-bill
when-typhus-cholera-breaks-out-they-tell-us-that-nobody-is-to-blame-that-terrible-nobody-how-much-he-has-to-answer-for-more-mischief-is-done-by-samuel-smiles
a-house-should-look-lived-in-i-consider-it-clean-as-long-as-i-dont-stick-to-it-it-doesnt-give-me-cholera-jenny-lawson
the-things-i-keep-going-back-to-rereading-maybe-they-say-more-about-me-as-reader-than-about-books-love-in-time-cholera-pale-fire-michael-chabon
face-it-george-unlike-cholera-death-is-only-disease-everyone-is-guaranteed-to-get-heath-nodded-slowly-but-usually-only-once-hamish-usually-only-once-nigel-holloway
no-pro-football-player-should-die-heatstroke-any-more-than-cholera-in-this-day-age-if-most-basic-attention-is-paid-precautions-are-taken-sally-jenkins
on-washington-dc-there-was-no-other-city-in-world-where-rumor-fed-upon-itself-virulently-whispers-wiped-out-careers-just-as-cholera-destroyed-its-evelyn-anthony
war-to-sane-men-at-present-day-begins-to-look-like-epidemic-insanity-breaking-out-here-there-like-cholera-influenza-infecting-mens-brains-instead-ralph-waldo-emerson
now-cholera-epidemic-was-sweeping-through-southeast-asia-south-asia-in-early-1970s-i-started-medical-school-i-joined-laboratory-to-work-on-this-peter-agre
in-no-1-this-street-cholera-first-appeared-seventeen-years-ago-spread-up-it-with-fearful-virulence-but-this-year-it-appeared-at-opposite-end-ran-down-it-with-like-severity
after-natural-disaster-safe-drinking-water-is-priority-humans-can-live-longer-without-food-than-water-communication-about-clean-water-is-essential-to-help-avoid-risk-cholera-dyse
may-god-be-with-me-may-heaven-bless-this-new-year-may-it-be-year-fruitfulness-peace-prosperity-may-it-be-year-peace-unity-for-all-mankind-may-giacomo-meyerbeer
but-in-aia-anna-decides-that-being-person-with-cancer-who-starts-cancer-charity-is-bit-narcissistic-she-starts-charity-called-the-anna-foundation-john-green
March 1898 What a strange dream I had last night! I wandered in the warm streets of a port, in the low quarter of some Barcelona or Marseille. The streets were noisome, with their freshly-heaped piles of ordure outside the doors, in the blue shadows of their high roofs. They all led down towards the sea. The gold-spangled sea, seeming as if it had been polished by the sun, could be seen at the end of each thoroughfare, bristling with yard-arms and luminous masts. The implacable blue of the sky shone brilliantly overhead as I wandered through the long, cool and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned by seamen and foreigners. I was alone, subjected to the stares of prostitutes seated at their windows or in the doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. Leaning on the sides of tall bay-windows or huddled in doorways, they were silent. Their breasts and arms were bare, bizarrely made up in pink, their eyebrows were darkened, they wore their hair in corkscrew-curls, decorated with paper flowers and metal birds. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, or tall mannequin dolls left behind in panic - for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic brought from the Orient by sailors, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of love, abandoned by the men on the doorsteps of the brothels. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these girls were dead, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their carmine plaster masks... and my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask... and the girl in the next doorway was also masked... and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude colouring... I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, worse than the masks... when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead women were alive. Their vitreous eyes were looking at me... I woke up with a cry, for in that moment I had recognised all the women. They all had the eyes of Kranile and Willie, of Willie the mime and Kranile the dancer. Every one of the dead women had Kranile's left eye and Willie's right eye... so that every one of them appeared to be squinting. Am I to be haunted by masks now?

Jean Lorrain
march-1898-what-strange-dream-i-had-last-night-i-wandered-in-warm-streets-port-in-low-quarter-some-barcelona-marseille-the-streets-were-noisome-with-their-freshlyheaped-piles-ord
I had ceased to be a writer of tolerably poor tales and essays, and had become a tolerably good Surveyor of the Customs. That was all. But, nevertheless, it is any thing but agreeable to be haunted by a suspicion that one's intellect is dwindling away; or exhaling, without your consciousness, like ether out of a phial; so that, at every glance, you find a smaller and less volatile residuum. Of the fact, there could be no doubt; and, examining myself and others, I was led to conclusions in reference to the effect of public office on the character, not very favorable to the mode of life in question. In some other form, perhaps, I may hereafter develop these effects. Suffice it here to say, that a Custom-House officer, of long continuance, can hardly be a very praiseworthy or respectable personage, for many reasons; one of them, the tenure by which he holds his situation, and another, the very nature of his business, which-though, I trust, an honest one-is of such a sort that he does not share in the united effort of mankind. An effect-which I believe to be observable, more or less, in every individual who has occupied the position-is, that, while he leans on the mighty arm of the Republic, his own proper strength departs from him. He loses, in an extent proportioned to the weakness or force of his original nature, the capability of self-support. If he possess an unusual share of native energy, or the enervating magic of place do not operate too long upon him, his forfeited powers may be redeemable. The ejected officer-fortunate in the unkindly shove that sends him forth betimes, to struggle amid a struggling world-may return to himself, and become all that he has ever been. But this seldom happens. He usually keeps his ground just long enough for his own ruin, and is then thrust out, with sinews all unstrung, to totter along the difficult footpath of life as he best may. Conscious of his own infirmity, -that his tempered steel and elasticity are lost, -he for ever afterwards looks wistfully about him in quest of support external to himself. His pervading and continual hope-a hallucination, which, in the face of all discouragement, and making light of impossibilities, haunts him while he lives, and, I fancy, like the convulsive throes of the cholera, torments him for a brief space after death-is, that, finally, and in no long time, by some happy coincidence of circumstances, he shall be restored to office. This faith, more than any thing else, steals the pith and availability out of whatever enterprise he may dream of undertaking. Why should he toil and moil, and be at so much trouble to pick himself up out of the mud, when, in a little while hence, the strong arm of his Uncle will raise and support him? Why should he work for his living here, or go to dig gold in California, when he is so soon to be made happy, at monthly intervals, with a little pile of glittering coin out of his Uncle's pocket? It is sadly curious to observe how slight a taste of office suffices to infect a poor fellow with this singular disease. Uncle Sam's gold-meaning no disrespect to the worthy old gentleman-has, in this respect, a quality of enchantment like that of the Devil's wages. Whoever touches it should look well to himself, or he may find the bargain to go hard against him, involving, if not his soul, yet many of its better attributes; its sturdy force, its courage and constancy, its truth, its self-reliance, and all that gives the emphasis to manly character.

Nathaniel Hawthorne
i-had-ceased-to-be-writer-tolerably-poor-tales-essays-had-become-tolerably-good-surveyor-customs-that-was-all-but-nevertheless-it-is-any-thing-but-agreeable-to-be-haunted-by-susp
The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or, having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons, lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Margaret Atwood
the-loneliness-military-historian-confess-its-my-profession-that-alarms-you-this-is-why-few-people-ask-me-to-dinner-though-lord-knows-i-dont-go-out-my-way-to-be-scary-i-wear-dres
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