Tramp 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
i-tramp-perpetual-journey-walt-whitman
certainly-i-was-relatively-refined-person-no-way-tramp
i-don039t-need-a-tramp-like-you
i-might-have-become-millionaire-but-i-chose-to-become-tramp-john-muir
love-is-lady-lust-is-tramp-anne-clendening
i-am-going-to-knock-slut-out-you-and-that-should-take-some-doing-you-uppity-english-tramp-jeaniene-frost
an-honest-man-in-politics-shines-more-there-than-he-would-elsewhere-a-tramp-abroad-mark-twain
when-they-finally-put-you-in-ground-ill-stand-on-your-grave-tramp-dirt-down-elvis-costello
however-careful-tramp-may-be-to-avoid-places-where-there-is-abundant-work-he-cannot-always-succeed
uh-i-thought-dvds-wernet-allowed-at-my-sleepovers-theyre-not-then-why-am-i-watching-lady-tramp-lisi-harrison
im-not-thrilled-that-i-have-tramp-stamp-when-you-see-people-bend-over-in-their-really-low-cut-jeans-im-like-oh-thats-what-i-have
a-tramp-a-gentleman-a-poet-a-dreamer-a-lonely-fellow-always-hopeful-of-romance-and-adventure
im-not-charlie-chaplin-will-never-ever-claim-to-be-but-when-i-become-tramp-i-can-feel-hair-stand-up-on-back-my-neck
a-man-can-sleep-around-no-questions-asked-but-if-a-woman-makes-nineteen-or-twenty-mistakes-shes-a-tramp
seville-isnt-that-much-to-shout-about-but-when-she-was-out-traffic-stood-still-dressed-like-vamp-pamplona-tramp-she-could-stampede-menfolk-at-will-henry-mancini
i-went-to-this-tattoo-parlor-in-east-village-i-got-outline-violin-on-my-lower-back-they-call-them-tramp-stamps-now
ive-never-had-paparazzi-follow-me-i-rarely-get-recognised-i-dress-like-tramp-when-im-not-working-my-hairdresser-calls-me-romanian-window-cleaner-katie-melua
you-swore-youd-never-compromise-with-mystery-tramp-but-now-you-realise-hes-not-selling-any-alibis-as-you-stare-into-vacuum-his-eyes-and-say-do-you-bob-dylan
almost-none-poetries-i-admire-stick-to-their-labels-native-adopted-ones-rather-they-are-vagrant-in-their-identifications-tramp-poets-there-you-go-new-label-for-those-with-unstabl
we-value-virtue-but-do-not-discuss-it-the-honest-bookkeeper-faithful-wife-earnest-scholar-get-little-our-attention-compared-to-embezzler-tramp-cheat-john-steinbeck
utumaori-revenge-do-everything-well-boy-do-it-better-than-them-be-better-rugby-player-better-at-your-job-outshine-them-everywhere-tramp-on-their-pride-go-far-leave-them-sniveling
comedy-comes-from-place-hurt-charlie-chaplin-was-starving-broke-in-london-thats-where-he-got-his-character-tramp-from-its-bad-situation-that-he-chris-tucker
a-pale-sun-poked-impudent-marmalade-fingers-through-grizzled-lattice-glass-sent-shadows-scurrying-like-convent-girls-menaced-by-tramp-vivian-stanshall
if-travel-were-inspiring-informing-business-then-wisest-men-in-world-would-be-deck-hands-on-tramp-steamers-pullman-porters-mormon-missionaries-sinclair-lewis
i-dont-have-any-great-first-job-tales-ive-never-worked-on-tramp-steamer-in-coal-mine-anything-like-that-i-think-inspiration-for-my-writing-came-largely-from-my-father-joy-that-li
the-thing-is-rufus-stone-said-that-if-you-dont-believe-that-you-are-old-man-woman-tramp-then-how-can-you-expect-anyone-else-to-believe-you-looking-part-is-just-surface-being-part
the-waves-of-mysterious-deathriver-moaned-the-tramp-shout-fearful-thunderroar-of-redbreathed-cannon-wailing-cry-of-myriad-victims-filled-air-george-d-prentice
my-closest-friends-are-roger-moore-who-is-actor-sean-connery-who-is-actor-terry-oneill-who-is-photographer-johnny-gold-who-was-boss-tramp-leslie-michael-caine
a-man-who-lives-with-his-wife-is-safer-more-venerable-than-man-who-lives-with-tramp-michael-bassey-johnson
rebel-rebel-youve-torn-your-dress-rebel-rebel-your-face-is-mess-rebel-rebel-how-could-they-know-hot-tramp-i-love-you-david-bowie
I once expected to spend seven years walking around the world on foot. I walked from Mexico to Panama where the road ended before an almost uninhabited swamp called the Choco Colombiano. Even today there is no road. Perhaps it is time for me to resume my wanderings where I left off as a tropical tramp in the slums of Panama. Perhaps like Ambrose Bierce who disappeared in the desert of Sonora I may also disappear. But after being in all mankind it is hard to come to terms with oblivion - not to see hundreds of millions of Chinese with college diplomas come aboard the locomotive of history - not to know if someone has solved the riddle of the universe that baffled Einstein in his futile efforts to make space, time, gravitation and electromagnetism fall into place in a unified field theory - never to experience democracy replacing plutocracy in the military-industrial complex that rules America - never to witness the day foreseen by Tennyson 'when the war-drums no longer and the battle-flags are furled, in the parliament of man, the federation of the world.' I may disappear leaving behind me no worldly possessions - just a few old socks and love letters, and my windows overlooking Notre-Dame for all of you to enjoy, and my little rag and bone shop of the heart whose motto is 'Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.' I may disappear leaving no forwarding address, but for all you know I may still be walking among you on my vagabond journey around the world." [Shakespeare and Company, archived statement]

George Whitman
i-once-expected-to-spend-seven-years-walking-around-world-on-foot-i-walked-from-mexico-to-panama-where-road-ended-before-almost-uninhabited-swamp-called-choco-colombiano-even-tod
The world is changing, I said. It is no longer a world just for boys and men. Our women are respected here, said the father. We would never let them tramp the world as American women do. There is always someone to look after the Olinka woman. A father. An uncle. A brother or nephew. Do not be offended, Sister Nettie, but our people pity women such as you who are cast out, we know not from where, into a world unknown to you, where you must struggle all alone, for yourself. So I am an object of pity and contempt, I thought, to men and women alike. Furthermore, said Tashi's father, we are not simpletons. We understand that there are places in the world where women live differently from the way our women do, but we do not approve of this different way for our children. But life is changing, even in Olinka, I said. We are here. He spat on the ground. What are you? Three grownups and two children. In the rainy season some of you will probably die. You people do not last long in our climate. If you do not die, you will be weakened by illness. Oh, yes. We have seen it all before. You Christians come here, try hard to change us, get sick and go back to England, or wherever you come from. Only the trader on the coast remains, and even he is not the same white man, year in and year out. We know because we send him women. Tashi is very intelligent, I said. She could be a teacher. A nurse. She could help the people in the village. There is no place here for a woman to do those things, he said. Then we should leave, I said. Sister Corrine and I. No, no, he said. Teach only the boys? I asked. Yes, he said, as if my question was agreement. There is a way that the men speak to women that reminds me too much of Pa. They listen just long enough to issue instructions. They don't even look at women when women are speaking. They look at the ground and bend their heads toward the ground. The women also do not 'look in a man's face' as they say. To 'look in a man's face' is a brazen thing to do. They look instead at his feet or his knees.

Alice Walker
the-world-is-changing-i-said-it-is-no-longer-world-just-for-boys-men-our-women-are-respected-here-said-father-we-would-never-let-them-tramp-world-as-american-women-do-there-is-al
For a long while I have believed - this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama's belief in a fourth function of outsideness - that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, if you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as 'natural' a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity. And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainly, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers' seal of approval. But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks. What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or a movie theater, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveler, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time.

Salman Rushdie
for-long-while-i-have-believed-this-is-perhaps-my-version-sir-darius-xerxes-camas-belief-in-fourth-function-outsideness-that-in-every-generation-there-are-few-souls-call-them-luc
So began my love affair with books. Years later, as a college student, I remember having a choice between a few slices of pizza that would have held me over for a day or a copy of On the Road. I bought the book. I would have forgotten what the pizza tasted like, but I still remember Kerouac. The world was mine for the reading. I traveled with my books. I was there on a tramp steamer in the North Atlantic with the Hardy Boys, piecing together an unsolvable crime. I rode into the Valley of Death with the six hundred and I stood at the graves of Uncas and Cora and listened to the mournful song of the Lenni Linape. Although I braved a frozen death at Valley Forge and felt the spin of a hundred bullets at Shiloh, I was never afraid. I was there as much as you are where you are, right this second. I smelled the gunsmoke and tasted the frost. And it was good to be there. No one could harm me there. No one could punch me, slap me, call me stupid, or pretend I wasn't in the room. The other kids raced through books so they could get the completion stamp on their library card. I didn't care about that stupid completion stamp. I didn't want to race through books. I wanted books to walk slowly through me, stop, and touch my brain and my memory. If a book couldn't do that, it probably wasn't a very good book. Besides, it isn't how much you read, it's what you read. What I learned from books, from young Ben Franklin's anger at his brother to Anne Frank's longing for the way her life used to be, was that I wasn't alone in my pain. All that caused me such anguish affected others, too, and that connected me to them and that connected me to my books. I loved everything about books. I loved that odd sensation of turning the final page, realizing the story had ended, and feeling that I was saying a last goodbye to a new friend.

John William Tuohy
so-began-my-love-affair-with-books-years-later-as-college-student-i-remember-having-choice-between-few-slices-pizza-that-would-have-held-me-over-for-day-copy-on-road-i-bought-boo
I tramp the perpetual journey My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes, and a staff cut from the woods, No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair, I have no chair, no philosophy, I lead no man to a dinner-table, library, exchange, But each man and each woman of you I lead upon a knoll, My left hand hooking you round the waist, My right hand pointing to landscapes of continents and the public road. Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself. It is not far, it is within reach, Perhaps you have been on it since you were born and did not know, Perhaps it is everywhere on water and on land. Shoulder your duds dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth, Wonderful cities and free nations we shall fetch as we go. If you tire, give me both burdens, and rest the chuff of your hand on my hip, And in due time you shall repay the same service to me, For after we start we never lie by again. This day before dawn I ascended a hill and look'd at the crowded heaven, And I said to my spirit When we become the enfolders of those orbs, and the pleasure and knowledge of every thing in them, shall we be fill'd and satisfied then? And my spirit said No, we but level that lift to pass and continue beyond. You are also asking me questions and I hear you, I answer that I cannot answer, you must find out for yourself. Sit a while dear son, Here are biscuits to eat and here is milk to drink, But as soon as you sleep and renew yourself in sweet clothes, I kiss you with a good-by kiss and open the gate for your egress hence. Long enough have you dream'd contemptible dreams, Now I wash the gum from your eyes, You must habit yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life. Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore, Now I will you to be a bold swimmer, To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash with your hair.

Walt Whitman
i-tramp-perpetual-journey-my-signs-are-rainproof-coat-good-shoes-staff-cut-from-woods-no-friend-mine-takes-his-ease-in-my-chair-i-have-no-chair-no-philosophy-i-lead-no-man-to-din
This is a love story, Michael Deane says. But, really, what isn't? Doesn't the detective love the mystery, or the chase, or the nosy female reporter, who is even now being held against her wishes at an empty warehouse on the waterfront? Surely the serial murderer loves his victims, and the spy loves his gadgets or his country or the exotic counterspy. The ice trucker is torn between his love for ice and truck, and the competing chefs go crazy for scallops, and the pawnshop guys adore their junk just as the Housewives live for catching glimpses of their own Botoxed brows in gilded hall mirrors, and the rocked-out dude on 'roids totally wants to shred the ass of the tramp-tatted girl on Hookbook, and because this is reality, they are all in love-madly, truly-with the body mic clipped to their back buckle, and the producer casually suggesting just one more angle, one more Jell-O shot. And the robot loves his master, alien loves his saucer, Superman loves Lois, Lex, and Lana, Luke love Leia (till he finds out she's his sister), and the exorcist loves the demon even as he leaps out the window with it, in full soulful embrace, as Leo loves Kate and they both love the sinking ship, and the shark-God, the shark loves to eat, which is what the Mafioso loves, too-eating and money and Paulie and omerta` -the way the cowboy loves his horse, loves the corseted girl behind the piano bar, and sometimes loves the other cowboy, as the vampire loves night and neck, and the zombie-don't even start with the zombie, sentimental fool; has anyone ever been more lovesick than a zombie, that pale, dull metaphor for love, all animal craving and lurching, outstretched arms, his very existence a sonnet about how much he wants those brains? This, too, is a love story.

Jess Walter
this-is-love-story-michael-deane-says-but-really-what-isnt-doesnt-detective-love-mystery-chase-nosy-female-reporter-who-is-even-now-being-held-against-her-wishes-at-empty-warehou
far-over-misty-mountains-cold-to-dungeons-deep-caverns-old-we-must-away-ere-break-day-to-seek-pale-enchanted-gold-the-dwarves-yore-made-mighty-spells-while-hammers-fell-like-ring
In good truth he had started in London with some vague idea that as his life in it would not be of long continuance, the pace at which he elected to travel would be of little consequence; but the years since his first entry into the Metropolis were now piled one on top of another, his youth was behind him, his chances of longevity, spite of the way he had striven to injure his constitution, quite as good as ever. He had come to that period of existence, to that narrow strip of tableland, whence the ascent of youth and the descent of age are equally discernible - when, simply because he has lived for so many years, it strikes a man as possible he may have to live for just as many more, with the ability for hard work gone, with the boon companions scattered, with the capacity for enjoying convivial meetings a mere memory, with small means perhaps, with no bright hopes, with the pomp and the circumstance and the fairy carriages, and the glamour which youth flings over earthly objects, faded away like the pageant of yesterday, while the dreary ceremony of living has to be gone through today and tomorrow and the morrow after, as though the gay cavalcade and the martial music, and the glittering helmets and the prancing steeds were still accompanying the wayfarer to his journey's end. Ah! my friends, there comes a moment when we must all leave the coach with its four bright bays, its pleasant outside freight, its cheery company, its guard who blows the horn so merrily through villages and along lonely country roads. Long before we reach that final stage, where the black business claims us for its own speecial property, we have to bid goodbye to all easy, thoughtless journeying and betake ourselves, with what zest we may, to traversing the common of reality. There is no royal road across it that ever I heard of. From the king on his throne to the laborer who vaguely imagines what manner of being a king is, we have all to tramp across that desert at one period of our lives, at all events; and that period is usually when, as I have said, a man starts to find the hopes, and the strength, and the buoyancy of youth left behind, while years and years of life lie stretching out before him. The coach he has travelled by drops him here. There is no appeal, there is no help; therefore, let him take off his hat and wish the new passengers good speed without either envy or repining. Behld, he has had his turn, and let whosoever will, mount on the box-seat of life again, and tip the coachman and handle the ribbons - he shall take that journey no more, no more for ever. ("The Banshee's Warning")

Charlotte Riddell
in-good-truth-he-had-started-in-london-with-some-vague-idea-that-as-his-life-in-it-would-not-be-long-continuance-pace-at-which-he-elected-to-travel-would-be-little-consequence-bu
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