Squalid 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
most-drama-in-our-lives-is-really-rather-squalid-tom-baker
if-you-live-in-squalid-environment-then-course-you-are-going-to-want-to-get-out-it-you-are-probably-going-to-want-to-get-into-country-because-richard-rogers
this-is-fantastically-squalid-said-milo-we-may-never-get-out-here-alive-rj-anderson
the-times-are-squalid-they-always-were-it-is-poets-duty-to-hold-line-basil-bunting
actual-happiness-always-looks-pretty-squalid-in-comparison-with-overcompensations-for-misery-aldous-huxley
id-love-to-write-about-my-growing-sexual-awareness-but-press-would-turn-it-into-something-squalid-ken-livingstone
the-squalid-cash-interpretation-put-on-word-success-is-our-national-disease-william-james
the-settler-pioneer-have-at-bottom-had-justice-on-their-side-this-great-continent-could-not-have-been-kept-as-nothing-but-game-preserve-for-squalid-theodore-roosevelt
we-have-descended-into-garden-caught-three-hundred-slugs-how-i-love-mixture-beautiful-squalid-in-gardening-it-makes-it-lifelike-evelyn-underhill
what-seems-fair-enough-against-squalid-huckster-bad-liquor-may-take-on-different-face-if-used-by-government-determined-to-suppress-political-learned-hand
and-in-end-bin-laden-died-in-squalid-suburban-compound-surrounded-by-his-wives-children-far-from-front-lines-his-holy-war-peter-bergen
old-religious-factions-are-volcanoes-burned-out-on-lava-ashes-squalid-scoriae-old-eruptions-grow-peaceful-olive-cheering-vine-sustaining-corn-edmund-burke
if-one-thinks-only-winning-sordid-victory-will-be-worse-than-defeat-for-most-part-it-becomes-squalid-defeat-yamamoto-tsunetomo
we-can-only-afford-two-children-is-squalid-argument-but-more-acceptable-in-our-society-than-we-dont-like-children-germaine-greer
she-leaned-forward-kissed-me-on-lips-he-mouth-was-cold-her-lips-rough-from-winter-wind-if-mystics-are-right-we-are-doomed-to-repeat-our-squalid-lives-ad-infinitum-at-least-i-will
i-found-offer-knighthood-something-that-i-couldnt-possibly-accept-i-found-it-to-be-somehow-squalid-knighthood-theres-relationship-to-government-harold-pinter
lack-money-means-discomfort-means-squalid-worries-means-shortage-tobacco-means-everpresent-consciousness-failureabove-all-it-means-loneliness-george-orwell
In Shanghai's prime, no city in the Orient, or the world for that matter, could compare with it. At the peak of its spectacular career the swamp-ridden metropolis surely ranked as the most pleasure-mad, rapacious, corrupt, strife-ridden, licentious, squalid, and decadent city in the world. It was the most pleasure-mad because nowhere else did the population pursue amusement, from feasting to whoring, dancing to powder-taking, with such abandoned zeal. It was rapacious because greed was its driving force; strife-ridden because calamity was always at the door; licentious because it catered to every depravity known to man; squalid because misery stared one brazenly in the face; and decadent because morality, as every Shanghai resident knew, was irrelevant. The missionaries might rail at Shanghai's wickedness and reformers condemn its iniquities, but there was never reason for the city to mend its errant ways, for as a popular Chinese saying aptly observed, "Shanghai is like the emperor's ugly daughter; she never has to worry about finding suitors." Other great cities - Rome, Athens, or St. Petersburg, for instance - might flatter themselves that they had been conceived for virtuous, even heroic, purposes. Not so the ugly daughter who reveled in her bastard status. Half Oriental, half Occidental: half land, half water; neither a colony nor wholly belonging to China; inhabited by the citizens of every nation in the world but ruled by none, the emperor's ugly daughter was an anomaly among cities. The strange fruit of a forced union between East and West, this mongrel princess came into the world through a grasping premise-the right of one nation to foist a poisonous drug upon another. Born in greed and humiliation, the ugly daughter grew up in the shadow of the Celestial Empire's defeat by outsiders in the Opium War. Nonetheless, within decades, she had become Asia's greatest metropolis, a brash sprawling juggernaut of a city that dominated the rest of the country with its power, sophistication, and, most of all money.

Stella Dong
in-shanghais-prime-no-city-in-orient-world-for-that-matter-could-compare-with-it-at-peak-its-spectacular-career-swampridden-metropolis-surely-ranked-as-most-pleasuremad-rapacious
I wanted to write an adventure story, not, it's true, I really did. I shall have failed, that's all. Adventures bore me. I have no idea how to talk about countries, how to make people wish they had been there. I am not a good travelling salesman. Countries? Where are they , whatever became of them. When I was twelve I dreamed of Hongkong. That tedious, commonplace little provincial town! Shops sprouting from every nook and cranny! The Chinese junks pictured on the lids of chocolate boxes used to fascinate me. Junks: sort of chopped-off barges, where the housewives do all their cooking and washing on deck. They even have television. As for the Niagara Falls: water, nothing but water! A dam is more interesting; at least one can occasionally see a big crack at its base, and hope for some excitement. When one travels, one sees nothing but hotels. Squalid rooms, with iron bedsteads, and a picture of some kind hanging on the wall from a rusty nail, a coloured print of London Bridge or the Eiffel Tower. One also sees trains, lots of trains, and airports that look like restaurants, and restaurants that look like morgues. All the ports in the world are hemmed in by oil slicks and shabby customs buildings. In the streets of the towns, people keep to the sidewalks, cars stop at red lights. If only one occasionally arrived in a country where women are the colour of steel and men wear owls on their heads. But no, they are sensible, they all have black ties, partings to one side, brassie¨res and stiletto heels. In all the restaurants, when one has finished eating one calls over the individual who has been prowling among the tables, and pays him with a promissory note. There are cigarettes everywhere! There are airplanes and automobiles everywhere.

Jean-Marie G. Le Clezio
i-wanted-to-write-adventure-story-not-its-true-i-really-did-i-shall-have-failed-thats-all-adventures-bore-me-i-have-no-idea-how-to-talk-about-countries-how-to-make-people-wish-th
The hoopoe said: 'Your heart's congealed like ice; When will you free yourself from cowardice? Since you have such a short time to live here, What difference does it make? What should you fear? The world is filth and sin, and homeless men Must enter it and homeless leave again. They die, as worms, in squalid pain; if we Must perish in this quest, that, certainly, Is better than a life of filth and grief. If this great search is vain, if my belief Is groundless, it is right that I should die. So many errors throng the world - then why Should we not risk this quest? To suffer blame For love is better than a life of shame. No one has reached this goal, so why appeal To those whose blindness claims it is unreal? I'd rather die deceived by dreams than give My heart to home and trade and never live. We've been and heard so much - what have we learned? Not for one moment has the self been spurned; Fools gather round and hinder our release. When will their stale, insistent whining cease? We have no freedom to achieve our goal Until from Self and fools we free the soul. To be admitted past the veil you must Be dead to all the crowd considers just. Once past the veil you understand the Way From which the crowd's glib courtiers blindly stray. If you have any will, leave women's stories, And even if this search for hidden glories Proves blasphemy at last, be sure our quest Is not mere talk but an exacting test. The fruit of love's great tree is poverty; Whoever knows this knows humility. When love has pitched his tent in someone's breast, That man despairs of life and knows no rest. Love's pain will murder him and blandly ask A surgeon's fee for managing the task - The water that he drinks brings pain, his bread Is turned to blood immediately shed; Though he is weak, faint, feebler than an ant, Love forces him to be her combatant; He cannot take one mouthful unaware That he is floundering in a sea of care.

Farid Al-Din Attar
the-hoopoe-said-your-hearts-congealed-like-ice-when-will-you-free-yourself-from-cowardice-since-you-have-such-short-time-to-live-here-what-difference-does-it-make-what-should-you
Old Hubert must have had a premonition of his squalid demise. In October he said to me, 'Forty-two years I've had this place. I'd really like to go back home, but I ain't got the energy since my old girl died. And I can't sell it the way it is now. But anyway before I hang my hat up I'd be curious to know what's in that third cellar of mine.' The third cellar has been walled up by order of the civil defence authorities after the floods of 1910. A double barrier of cemented bricks prevents the rising waters from invading the upper floors when flooding occurs. In the event of storms or blocked drains, the cellar acts as a regulatory overflow. The weather was fine: no risk of drowning or any sudden emergency. There were five of us: Hubert, Gerard the painter, two regulars and myself. Old Marteau, the local builder, was upstairs with his gear, ready to repair the damage. We made a hole. Our exploration took us sixty metres down a laboriously-faced vaulted corridor (it must have been an old thoroughfare). We were wading through a disgusting sludge. At the far end, an impassable barrier of iron bars. The corridor continued beyond it, plunging downwards. In short, it was a kind of drain-trap. That's all. Nothing else. Disappointed, we retraced our steps. Old Hubert scanned the walls with his electric torch. Look! An opening. No, an alcove, with some wooden object that looks like a black statuette. I pick the thing up: it's easily removable. I stick it under my arm. I told Hubert, 'It's of no interest... ' and kept this treasure for myself. I gazed at it for hours on end, in private. So my deductions, my hunches were not mistaken: the Bie¨vre-Seine confluence was once the site where sorcerers and satanists must surely have gathered. And this kind of primitive magic, which the blacks of Central Africa practise today, was known here several centuries ago. The statuette had miraculously survived the onslaught of time: the well-known virtues of the waters of the Bie¨vre, so rich in tannin, had protected the wood from rotting, actually hardened, almost fossilized it. The object answered a purpose that was anything but aesthetic. Crudely carved, probably from heart of oak. The legs were slightly set apart, the arms detached from the body. No indication of gender. Four nails set in a triangle were planted in its chest. Two of them, corroded with rust, broke off at the wood's surface all on their own. There was a spike sunk in each eye. The skull, like a salt cellar, had twenty-four holes in which little tufts of brown hair had been planted, fixed in place with wax, of which there were still some vestiges. I've kept quiet about my find. I'm biding my time.

Jacques Yonnet
old-hubert-must-have-had-premonition-his-squalid-demise-in-october-he-said-to-me-fortytwo-years-ive-had-this-place-id-really-like-to-go-back-home-but-i-aint-got-energy-since-my-o
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