Stump 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
caring-about-him-was-like-trying-to-love-tree-stump-cold-meanspirited-paternalistic-tree-stump-with-fungus-cecily-white
it-is-on-account-ego-that-one-is-not-able-to-see-god-in-front-door-gods-mansion-lies-stump-ego-one-cannot-enter-mansion-without-jumping-over-ramakrishna
im-not-trying-to-stump-anybody-its-the-beauty-of-the-language-that-im-interested-in
you-can-cut-the-tension-with-a-cricket-stump
look-for-tree-stump-in-woods-compare-it-to-love-colette-inez
its-roots-may-grow-old-in-ground-its-stump-die-in-soil-job-148
a-shoot-will-come-up-from-stump-jesse-from-his-roots-branch-will-bear-fruit-isaiah-111
the-problems-seem-so-easy-out-there-on-the-stump-deficits-shrink-with-a-rhetorical-flourish
i-always-thought-stump-was-kind-like-you-dropped-something-on-your-foot-its-not-most-exotic-rockstar-name-patrick-stump
sarah-palin-uses-me-as-laugh-line-in-her-stump-speeches-if-youre-willing-to-turn-me-into-joke-you-should-also-be-willing-to-talk-to-me-rachel-maddow
alexander-smoked-watched-her-from-his-tree-stump-bench-what-are-you-doing-she-would-ask-him-nothing-he-would-reply-nothing-but-growing-my-pain-into-paullina-simons
nixon-is-kind-politician-who-would-cut-down-redwood-then-mount-stump-to-make-speech-for-conservation-adlai-ewing-stevenson
nixon-is-kind-politician-who-would-cut-down-redwood-tree-then-mount-stump-for-speech-on-conservation
a-hypocrite-is-kind-politician-who-would-cut-down-redwood-tree-then-mount-stump-make-speech-for-conservation-adlai-e-stevenson-ii
the-command-to-leave-stump-tree-with-its-roots-means-that-your-kingdom-will-be-restored-to-you-when-you-acknowledge-that-heaven-rules-daniel-426
the-best-time-to-listen-to-a-politician-is-when-hes-on-a-stump-on-a-street-corner-in-the-rain-late-at-night-when-hes-exhausted-then-he-doesnt-lie
if-you-wish-in-this-world-to-advance-your-merits-youre-bound-to-enhance-you-must-stir-it-stump-it-blow-your-own-trumpet-or-trust-me-you-havent-chance
if-you-wish-in-this-world-to-advance-your-merits-youre-bound-to-enhance-you-must-stir-it-stump-it-blow-your-own-trumpet-trust-me-you-havent-chance-william-gilbert
the-redwood-is-one-few-conifers-that-sprout-from-stump-roots-it-declares-itself-willing-to-begin-immediately-to-repair-damage-lumberman-also-john-muir
just-take-them-rascals-rapists-killers-child-abusers-out-in-swamp-put-em-on-their-knees-tie-em-to-stump-let-rattlers-bugs-alligators-do-charlie-daniels
what-is-life-that-i-must-get-teeth-pulled-brown-dog-thought-sitting-on-white-pine-stump-beside-muddy-creek-with-swollen-jaw-for-company-jim-harrison
in-front-coffee-tablethere-is-neonpink-stump-stool-which-i-bought-because-my-friend-amanda-brooks-told-me-that-every-house-has-to-have-wart-one-lauren-santo-domingo
i-know-what-every-colored-woman-in-this-country-is-doing-dying-just-like-me-but-difference-is-they-dying-like-stump-me-im-going-down-like-one-those-toni-morrison
if-you-need-shit-then-i-got-shit-on-that-you-can-depend-ill-pump-your-stump-you-fuckin-hump-my-crappy-crapcaked-friend-gwar
i-sat-there-my-love-to-him-poured-out-more-more-lo-he-flew-down-to-stump-then-to-my-knee-i-knew-beyond-shadow-doubt-that-important-thing-is-love-that-goes-out-from-oneself-agnes-
the-brush-is-more-powerful-rapid-tool-than-point-stump-main-thing-that-brush-secures-is-instant-grasp-grand-construction-figure-thomas-eakins
stumpjumpin039-drunk-and-let039s-go
morris-chopped-off-girls-hand-with-hatchet-then-guttered-laughter-the-poor-mulato-wailed-her-stump-pumping-whatchoo-do-that-for-cutton-bellowed-he-hadnt-even-gotten-his-trousers-
carli-fiorina-is-really-annoying-hell-theyre-all-annoying-but-fiorina-doesnt-even-pretend-to-offer-up-policy-answers-she-just-gives-mini-stump-kevin-drum
alone-in-forest-katsa-sat-on-stump-cried-she-cried-like-person-whose-heart-is-broken-wondered-how-when-two-people-loved-each-other-there-could-be-such-broken-heart-kristin-cashor
im-native-west-virginian-ive-been-called-everything-from-hillbilly-to-stump-jumper-im-always-proud-it-im-proud-to-be-west-virginian
I'm going to tell you something once and then whether you die is strictly up to you, " Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. "What I'm going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do, then I will leave with this baggage here"-he glanced at Buttercup-"and you will be tied up but not fatally, and will be free to go about your business. And if you choose to fight, well, then, we will not both leave alive." You are only alive now because you said 'to the pain.' I want that phrase explained." My pleasure. To the pain means this: if we duel and you win, death for me. If we duel and I win, life for you. But life on my terms. The first thing you lose will be your feet. Below the ankle. You will have stumps available to use within six months. Then your hands, at the wrists. They heal somewhat quicker. Five months is a fair average. Next your nose. No smell of dawn for you. Followed by your tongue. Deeply cut away. Not even a stump left. And then your left eye-" And then my right eye, and then my ears, and shall we get on with it?" the Prince said. Wrong!" Westley's voice rang across the room. "Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child shall be yours to cherish-every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means. It means that I leave you in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more; so there you have it, pig, there you know, you miserable vomitous mass, and I say this now, and live or die, it's up to you: Drop your sword!" The sword crashed to the floor.

William Goldman
im-going-to-tell-you-something-once-then-whether-you-die-is-strictly-up-to-you-westley-said-lying-pleasantly-on-bed-what-im-going-to-tell-you-is-this-drop-your-sword-if-you-do-th
Why should I give up revenge? On behalf of what? Moral principles? And what of the higher order of things, in which evil deeds are punished? For you, a philosopher and ethicist, an act of revenge is bad, disgraceful, unethical and illegal. But I ask: where is the punishment for evil? Who has it and grants access? The Gods, in which you do not believe? The great demiurge-creator, which you decided to replace the gods with? Or maybe the law? [... ] I know what evil is afraid of. Not your ethics, Vysogota, not your preaching or moral treaties on the life of dignity. Evil is afraid of pain, mutilation, suffering and at the end of the day, death! The dog howls when it is badly wounded! Writhing on the ground and growls, watching the blood flow from its veins and arteries, seeing the bone that sticks out from a stump, watching its guts escape its open belly, feeling the cold as death is about to take them. Then and only then will evil begin to beg, 'Have mercy! I regret my sins! I'll be good, I swear! Just save me, do not let me waste away!'. Yes, hermit. That is the way to fight evil! When evil wants to harm you, inflict pain - anticipate them, it's best if evil does not expect it. But if you fail to prevent evil, if you have been hurt by evil, then avenge him! It is best when they have already forgotten, when they feel safe. Then pay them in double. In triple. An eye for an eye? No! Both eyes for an eye! A tooth for a tooth? No! All their teeth for a tooth! Repay evil! Make it wail in pain, howling until their eyes pop from their sockets. And then, you can look under your feet and boldly declare that what is there cannot endanger anyone, cannot hurt anyone. How can someone be a danger, when they have no eyes? How can someone hurt when they have no hands? They can only wait until they bleed to death.

Andrzej Sapkowski
why-should-i-give-up-revenge-on-behalf-what-moral-principles-and-what-higher-order-things-in-which-evil-deeds-are-punished-for-you-philosopher-ethicist-act-revenge-is-bad-disgrac
It was almost a mystical experience. I do not know how else to put it. My mind outran time as he neared, and it was as though I had an eternity to ponder the approach of this man who was my brother. His garments were filthy, his face blackened, the stump of his right arm raised, gesturing anywhere. The great beast that he rode was striped, black and red, with a wild red mane and tail. But it really was a horse, and its eyes rolled and there was foam at its mouth and its breathing was painful to hear. I saw then that he wore his blade slung across his back, for its haft protruded high above his right shoulder. Still slowing, eyes fixed upon me, he departed the road, bearing slightly toward my left, jerked the reins once and released them, keeping control of the horse with his knees. His left hand went up in a salute-like movement that passed above his head and seized the hilt of his weapon. It came free without a sound, describing a beautiful arc above him and coming to rest in a lethal position out from his left shoulder and slanting back, like a single wing of dull steel with a minuscule line of edge that gleamed like a filament of mirror. The picture he presented was burned into my mind with a kind of magnificence, a certain splendor that was strangely moving. The blade was a long, scythe like affair that I had seen him use before. Only then we had stood as allies against a mutual foe I had begun to believe unbeatable. Benedict had proved otherwise that night. Now that I saw it raised against me I was overwhelmed with a sense of my own mortality, which I had never experienced before in this fashion. It was as though a layer had been stripped from the world and I had a sudden, full understanding of death itself.

Roger Zelazny
it-was-almost-mystical-experience-i-do-not-know-how-else-to-put-it-my-mind-outran-time-as-he-neared-it-was-as-though-i-had-eternity-to-ponder-approach-this-man-who-was-my-brother
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds; While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, Gave a lustre of midday to objects below, When what to my wondering eyes did appear, But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer, With a little old driver so lively and quick, I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name: "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blixen! To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!" As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky; So up to the housetop the coursers they flew With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too- And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot; A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry! His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath; He had a broad face and a little round belly That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, And laying his finger aside of his nose, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight- 'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Clement C. Moore
twas-night-before-christmas-when-all-through-house-not-creature-was-stirring-not-even-mouse-the-stockings-were-hung-by-chimney-with-care-in-hopes-that-st-nicholas-soon-would-be-t
The bast, dispersing in shreds in the sunset whispered "Time has begun." The son, Adam, stripped naked, descended into the Old Testament of his native land and arrayed himself in bast; a wreath of roadside field grass he placed upon his brow, a staff, not a switch, he pulled from the ground, flourishing the birch branch like a sacred palm. On the road he stood like a guard. The dust-gray road ran into the sunset. And a crow perched there, perched and croaked, there where the celestial fire consumed the earth. There were blind men along the dust-gray road running into the twilight. Antique, crooken, they trailed along, lonely and sinister silhouettes, holding to one another and to their leader's cane. They were raising dust. One was beard-less, he kept squinting. Another, a little old man with a protruding lip, was whispering and praying. A third, covered with red hair, frowned. Their backs were bent, their heads bowed low, their arms extended to the staff. Strange it was to see this mute procession in the terrible twilight. They made their way immutable, primordial, blind. Oh, if only they could open their eyes, oh if only they were not blind! Russian Land, awake! And Adam, rude image of the returned king, lowered the birch branch to their white pupils. And on them he laid his hands, as, groaning and moaning they seated themselves in the dust and with trembling hands pushed chunks of black bread into their mouths. Their faces were ashen and menacing, lit with the pale light of deadly clouds. Lightning blazed, their blinded faces blazed. Oh, if only they opened their eyes, oh, if only they saw the light! Adam, Adam, you stand illumined by lightnings. Now you lay the gentle branch upon their faces. Adam, Adam, say, see, see! And he restores their sight. But the blind men turning their ashen faces and opening their white eyes did not see. And the wind whispered "Thou art behind the hill." From the clouds a fiery veil began to shimmer and died out. A little birch murmured, beseeching, and fell asleep. The dusk dispersed at the horizon and a bloody stump of the sunset stuck up. And spotted with brilliant coals glowing red, the bast streamed out from the sunset like a striped cloak. On the waxen image of Adam the field grass wreaths sighed fearfully giving a soft whistle and the green dewy clusters sprinkled forth fiery tears on the blind faces of the blind. He knew what he was doing, he was restoring their sight. ("Adam")

Andrei Bely
the-bast-dispersing-in-shreds-in-sunset-whispered-time-has-begun-the-son-adam-stripped-naked-descended-into-old-testament-his-native-land-arrayed-himself-in-bast-wreath-roadside-
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