Threadbare Quotes

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It’s hard to safeguard a genuine life course, when love tips over from endearing care into tedium, through laziness of imagination or loss of interest, and the storyline becomes barren and desolate, insipidly dull, turning into a threadbare act with the same trite modus operandi. “The same procedure as every year, James!” ("Things needing to be changed")

Erik Pevernagie
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To dress up today in the threadbare garments of yesterday is to create an impoverished tomorrow.

Craig D. Lounsbrough
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This age thinks better of a gilded fool Than of a threadbare saint in wisdom's school.

Thomas Dekker
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Men, she thought, were odd about their clothes: they liked to wear the same things until they became defeated and threadbare.

Alexander McCall Smith, The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine
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It is vital to avoid mediocrity - living a life of deadness in someone else's threadbare world.

Miriam A. Walker
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I do not snivel that snivel the world over,That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth,That life is a suck and a sell, and nothing remains at the end but threadbare crape and tears.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: The Original 1855 Edition By: Walt Whitman
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A little man in a threadbare coat spoke up for the poor as if he really knew what he was talking about. The women with the flowers threw them down for him. “That’s Robert Speer,” one said. “Something like that. He’s our man.

Marge Piercy
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If we rub a fabric too often, it will quickly grow threadbare; and Nobu’s words had rasped against me so much, I could no longer maintain that finely lacquered surface Mameha had always counseled me to hide behind.

Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
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I often feel an aversion, even disgust at the same words written and spoken over and over – at the same expressions, phrases, and metaphors repeated. And the worst is, when I listen to myself I have to admit that I too endlessly repeat the same things. They’re so horribly frayed and threadbare, these words, worn out by constant overuse. Do they still have any meaning?

Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon
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Elijah blinked in dazzling sunlight and took a deep breath. The sweet-pepper scent of meadow grass told him immediately where he was. Winded, he skidded to a halt as the portal spat him out. Above him stretched skies of cornflower blue, dotted with threadbare white clouds sailing over like cotton galleons on the summer breeze.

Sharon Sant, Runners
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