Jennifer Paynter Quotes

“But look behind you, Mary.' She nodded towards the dais. 'One of the musicians seems to be trying to attract your attention.'It was Peter. He was standing on the dais smiling across at me. My delight at seeing him was such that I could not disguise it - did not try to disguise it.”

“But look behind you, Mary.' She nodded towards the dais. 'One of the musicians seems to be trying to attract your attention.'It was Peter. He was standing on the dais smiling across at me. My delight at seeing him was such that I could not disguise it - did not try to disguise it.”

“In this decisive hour of our national history, union means life and division means death.”

“It is pure mythology that women cannot perform as well as men in science, engineering and mathematics. In my experience, the opposite is true: Women are often more adept and patient at untangling complex problems, multitasking, seeing the possibilities in new solutions and winning team support for collaborative action.”

“Holding up an oil-paper umbrella,I loiter aimlessly in the long, longAnd lonely rainy alley,I hope to encounterA lilac-like girlNursing her resentmentA lilac-like color she hasA lilac-like fragrance,A lilac-like sadness,Melancholy in the rain,Sorrowful and uncertain;She loiters aimlessly in this lonely rainy alleyHolding up an oil-paper umbrellaJust like meAnd just like meWalks silently,Apathetic, sad and disconsolateSilently she moves closerMoves closer and castsA sigh-like glanceShe glides byLike a dreamHazy and confused like a dreamAs in a dream she glides pastLike a lilac spray,This girl glides past beside me;She silently moves away, moves awayUp to the broken-down bamboo fence,To the end of the rainy alley.In the rains sad song,Her color vanishesHer fragrance diffuses,Even herSigh-like glance,Lilac-like discontentVanish.Holding up an oil-paper umbrella, aloneAimlessly walking in the long, longAnd lonely rainy alley,I wish forA lilac-like girlNursing her resentment glide by.”

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of Will Wimble the undertaker --a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian appellation has never before this night thwarted our royal ears --this apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our Palace, devoted to the councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty purposes.”

“Percy and Reyna occupied matching praeters' chairs on the dais, which made Percy self-conscious. It wasn't easy looking dignified wearing a bedsheet and a purple cape. "The camp is safe," Octavian continued. " I'll be the first to congragulate our heroes for bringing back the legion's eagle and so much Imperial gold! Truly we have been blessed with good fortune. But why do more? Why tempt fate?" "I'm glad you asked." Percy stood, taking the question as an opening. Octavian stammered, " I wasn't--""--Part of the quest," Percy said. "Yes I know. And your'e wise to let me explain, since I was.”

“There can be no intellectual, spiritual, or emotional life without the substratum of memory. Without cognition and awareness of beauty and appreciation of our limited time on planet Earth, humankind’s sojourn would be a colorless collage composed of the base acts of a biological mass endeavoring merely to survive. Without the ability to recall striking memories, our emotional life would be stillborn. Absent authentic memories, our life struggles would seem purposeless: human beings would exhibit no capacity to reflect awe when witnessing the bounty of nature’s plenitude or be able to take in and express intense reverence for all that is sacred. Without memory, there would not be a dais to support faith or any ability to imagine a God; the concepts of good and evil would be nonexistent; and the past and the future would become less relevant than the choice between salt or pepper, and paper or plastic.”

“BurialCathy Linh CheThere is the rain, the odor of fresh earth, and you, grandmother, in a box. I bury the distance, 22 years of not meeting you and your ruined hands.I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back, your áo dài of crushed velvet, the implements you used to farm,the stroke which claimed your right side, the land you gave up when you remarried, your grief over my grandfather's passing,the war that evaporated your father's leg, the war that crushed your bowls, your childhood home razedby the rutted wheels of an American tank— I bury it all.You learned that nothing stays in this life, not your daughter, not your uncle, not even the dignity of leaving this worldwith your pants on. The bed sores on your hips were clean and sunken in. What did I know, child who heard you speak only once,and when we met for the first time, tears watered the side of your face. I held your hand and said,bà ngoai, bà ngoaiTen years later, I returned. It rained on your gravesite. In the picture above your tomb,you looked just like my mother. We lit the joss sticks and planted them. We kept the encroaching grass at bay.”

“In Chinese love stories the one who loves always starts by borrowing a book from the beloved.”

“Our imagination is dictated by who we are. (198)”