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senorjosh.comSeptember 2003: → Sat. 09/20
more posts in this category: quotes
09.19.03:    |    September 2003    |    09.26.03:
«resources barlavento »
"Whenever you read a good book, it's like the author is right there, in the room, talking to you, which is why I don't like to read good books."

i've started dogearing the books i read, and writing down my favorite lines. these are some of the bits i liked most...
henry IV, pt. 1
September 20, 2003
  I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
  Why, so can I, or so can any man;
  But will they come when you do call for them? (III, i, 13)

  So shaken as we are, so wan with care,
  Find we a time for frighted peace to pant… (I, i, 1)

  And, like bright metal on sullen ground
  My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault,
  Show show more goodly and attract more eyes
  Than that which hath no foil to set it off (I, ii, 198)

  My blood hath been too temperate,
  Unapt to stir at these indignities,
  And you have found me, for accordingly
  You tread upon my patience; but be sure
  I will from henceforth rather be myself,
  Mighty and to be feared, than my condition,
  Which hath been smooth as oil, soft as young down,
  And therefore lost that title of respect
  Which the proud soul ne’er pays but to the proud.  (I, iii, 1)

  If he fall in, good night, or sink or swim!
  Send danger from the east unto the west,
  So honor cross it from the north to south,
  And let them grapple.  O, the blood more stirs
  To rouse a lion than to start a hare!  (I, iii, 194)

PRINCE:  Peace, ye fat-guts! (II, ii, 19)

FALSTAFF:  There lives not three good men unhanged in England;  and one of them is fat, and grows old. (II, iv, 122)

FALSTAFF:  I call thee coward?  I’ll see thee damned ere I call thee coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst.  You are straight enough in the shoulders’ you care not who sees your back.  Call you that backing of your friends? (II, iv, 137)

PRINCE:  These lies are like their father that begets them – gross as a mountain, open, palpable.  Why, thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tall-catch (II, iv, 14)

FALSTAFF:  ‘Sblood, you starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’spizzle, you stockfish – O for breath to utter what is like thee!  (II, iv, 232)

FALSTAFF:  Why, hear you, my masters.  Was it for me to kill the heir apparent?  Should I turn upon the true prince?  Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules, but beware instinct.  The lion will not touch the true prince.  Instinct is a great matter.  I was now a coward on instinct.  (II, iv, 254)

At my nativity
  The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes
  Of burning cressets, and at my birth
  The frame and huge foundation of the earth
  Shaked like a coward.
HOTSPUR:  Why, so it would have done at the same season if your mother’s cat had but kittened, though yourself had never been born
  I say the earth did shake when I was born.
  And I say the earth was not of my mind,
  If you suppose as fearing you it shook.
  The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble.
  O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,
  And not in fear of your nativity.
  Diseasèd nature oftentimes breaks forth
  In strange eruptions; oft the teeming eart
  Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed
  By the imprisoning of unruly wind
  Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving,
  Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down
  Steeples and mossgrown towers.  At your birth
  Our grandma earth, having this distermp’rature,
  In passion shook.
GLENDOWER:  Cousin, of many men
  I do not bear these crossings.  Give me leave
  To tell you once again that at my birth
  The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,
  The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
  Were clamorous to the frighted fields.
  These signs have marked me extraordinary,
  And all the courses of my life do show
  I am not in the roll of common men.
  Where is he living, clipped in with the sea
  That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales,
  Which calls me pupil or hath read to me?
  And bring him out that is but woman’s son
  Can trace me in the tedious ways of art
  And hold me pace in deep experiments.
HOTSPUR:  I think there’s no man speaks better Welsh.  I’ll to dinner
  Peace, cousin Percy; you will make him mad.
  I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
  Why, so can I, or so can any man;
  But will they come when you do call for them? (III, i, 13)

  For every honor sitting on his helm,
  Would they were multitudes, and on my head
  My shames redoubled!  for the time will come
  That I shall make this northern youth exchange
  His glorious deeds for my indignities.
  Percy is but my factor, good my lord,
  To engross up glorious deeds on my behalf; (III, ii, 142)

  Rare words!  brave world!  Hostess, my breakfast, come.  (III, iii 196)

FALSTAFF:  Well, ‘tis no matter; honor pricks me on.  Yea, but how if honor prick me off when I come on?  How then?  Can honor set a leg?  No.  Or an arm?  No.  Or take away the grief of a wound?  No.  Honor hath no skill in surgery then?  No.  What is honor?  A word.  What is that word honor?  Air – a trim reckoning!  Who hath it?  He that diead a Wednesday.  Doth he feel it?  No.  Doth he hear it?  No.  ‘Tis insensible then?  Yea, to the dead.  But will it not live with the living?  No.  Why?  Detraction will not suffer it.  Therefore I’ll none of it.  Honor is a mere scutcheon – and so ends my catechism. (V, i, 129)

  Making you ever better than his praise
  By still dispraising praise valued with you; (V, ii, 58)

FALSTAFF:  I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath.  Give me life; which if I can save, so;  if not, honor comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.  (V, iii, 57)

FALSTAFF:  The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. (V, iv, 118)

  Fare thee well, great heart.
  Ill-weaved ambition, how much art thou shrunk!
  When that this body did contain a spirit,
  A kingdom for it was too small a bound;
  But now two paces of the vilest earth
  Is room enough.  This earth that bears thee dead
  Bears not alive so stout a gentleman.

Posted by senorjosh at September 20, 2003 03:20 PM | TrackBack
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