Best 3577 quotes in «white quotes» category

I bow in reverence to the white cloud.

I came up with my own 'Dream Shake' I guess - the white version.

I came to realize that far more important to me than any plot or conventional sense was the sheer directionality I felt while reading prose, the texture of time as it passed, life's white machine.

I came to serve you at the age of 28 and now I have not a hair on me that is not white, and my body is infirm and exhausted. All that was left to me and my brothers has been taken away and sold, even to the cloak that I wore, without hearing or trial, to my great dishonor.

I can be critical of Beyoncé and yet also appreciate aspects of her power and representation. I can especially critique the way white supremacist aesthetics more often than not informs her presentation of self and yet still acknowledge her beauty.

I can actually get involved in getting stories off the ground that no one would ask me to be in because I'm the wrong age, the wrong sex, the wrong nationality, or whatever. I've found it quite exhilarating to have that freedom to tell the stories that aren't just about middle-aged white English guys.

I can dine at the White House, but I can still hang at the 'hood.

I can give or take elephants; I never can find the cheetah-but the zebras captivate me. They'd be one of the few things that would fit if we were lucky enough to live in a world that's black or white.

I can no more disown (Jeremiah Wright) than I can disown the black community. I can no more disown him than I can my white grandmother - a woman who helped raise me, a woman who sacrificed again and again for me, a woman who loves me as much as she loves anything in this world, but a woman who once confessed her fear of black men who passed by her on the street, and who on more than one occasion has uttered racial or ethnic stereotypes that made me cringe.

I cannot face my God much longer knowing that his black creatures are held separate and distinct from his white creatures in the game that has given me all that I can call my own.

I cannot see myself in a new car. I am a tiny white van person. That is what i want!

I can remember standing in a W.P.A. line with a gunny sack, and I remember having to buy chocolate milk instead of white because it was one cent cheaper.

I can pretty much call anyone, whether at the White House, in a company or in the media. I have access, because of the silliness of the entertainment world and how people react to it. It gave me an enormous opportunity to do anything I really want to.

I can't describe the feeling when I go down - it's down down down and there's never going to be an up again. And whatever was good isn't good any more; white becomes grey, music becomes dictionaries, honey becomes beer and the sky a curdled lemon. There's no caramel anymore.

I can't go white, Indian, Asian, Latin. For me, in my existence, if I'm anything, I'm inclusive of everyone, and we are just one, and I hope that global harmony is in all of us.

I can't have white roses. They symbolize death.

I can't really criticize the Tea Party people, because I came into the White House pretty much on the same basis that they have become popular. That is dissatisfaction with the way things are going in Washington and disillusionment and disencouragement about the government.

I can't record in the morning because I sound like Barry White.

I can't tell you, I couldn't put a number on it, but it's big, the number of white voters in America that voted for Obama thinking it was the end of racial strife. Thinking by electing a black, that America would be stating, "We're not racist anymore." And I warned everybody, "It's not gonna happen, it's gonna get worse. It's going to get worse." And it was, it did become worst.

I can't take any more white boys noodling around on their guitars.

I can understand how someone might read wearing a blonde wig as a desire to be white, but I suspect that the same shaming smirk can happen if you wear a big afro or any number of other hairstyles.

I can well imagine an athiest's last words: "White, white! L-L-Love! My God!" - and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying "Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the b-b-brain," and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.

I carry a knife now because I read in a white magazine that all black people carry knives. So I rushed out and bought me one.

I challenge Hillary Clinton; take away your Secret Service. Take it away now! Take away your Secret Service! Dismiss them! Have no security around you. Have no guns around you, Hillary. I dare you! I dare you! Obama, same thing. Drop your guns, Obama! Take your Secret Service away, Obama. Take it all away! Leave the White House unguarded, Obama. Let everybody know there's no guns on the White House grounds, Obama. You know what would happen in 30 seconds? Both of those people would no longer be on planet Earth.

I, Charles W. Penrose, wrote the Manifesto with the assistance of Frank J. Cannon and John White... Wilford Woodruff signed it to beat the devil at his own game.

I changed those things that were in direct - my direct control. I mean, I - look, I'm proud of the fact that, with two weeks to go, we're probably the first administration in modern history that hasn't had a major scandal in the White House.

I come from a family of communist nudists. I was allowed to do or not do what I liked. My parents were not interested in whether I went to school or got drunk on white wine.

I climbed a path and from the top looked up-stream towards Chile. I could see the river, glinting and sliding through the bone-white cliffs with strips of emerald cultivation either side. Away from the cliffs was the desert. There was no sound but the wind, whirring through thorns and whistling through dead grass, and no other sign of life but a hawk, and a black beetle easing over white stones.

I come from Yorkshire in England where we like to eat chip sandwiches - white bread, butter, tomato ketchup and big fat french fries cooked in beef dripping.

I come prepared with the white suit and stethoscope, Listen to your heartbeat, delete beep beep BEEP. Your insurance is high, but my price is cheap.

I could have screamed, but I didn’t. I could have fought, but I didn’t. I just lay there and let it happen, watching the winter-white sky go gray above me.

I couldn't be a White Sox fan because that was like being a Mets or a Yankees fan.

I could only relax when there was just one tiny white last spot left. I could see more clearly. I could grasp the shape of the picture again... The pictures are alive because of the white remnant, the almost concealment.

I crave white on white and black, but my thoughts race in glorious technicolour, prodding me awake, whipping away the warm blanket of invisibility every time it sears to smother my mind in nothing.

I could see myself in a white nurse's uniform, working unnoticed for many years and at last dying, unknown, unmarried and unsung.

I could tell Hugo was convinced that he would get to walk back up these stairs: after all, he was a civilized person. These were all civilized people. Hugo really couldn't imagine that anything irreparable could happen to him, because he was a middle-class white American with a college education, as were all the people on the stairs with us. I had no such conviction. I was not a wholly civilized person.

I'd become sort of involved in things that were happening to people. No matter what color they be, whether they be Indians, or Negroes, the poor white person or anyone who was I thought more or less getting a bad shake.

I could only wonder again at the white race's naïveté in always sending forth our worst members as our emissaries.

I’d given up on the white picket fence after Kisten had died—finding out my kids would be demons was the nail in the coffin.

I definitely have a Google obsession of Juliette Binoche. I'm obsessed. I'll read everything she's ever said. I can tell you anything you want to know about Juliette Binoche, or Jack White. Those are my two creepy obsessions.

I decided to read something I normally hate: a cosy mystery. You know one of those mysteries where everything is tidily wrapped up at the end and everyone lives happily ever after? An Agatha Christie kind of mystery. They are so not my thing. But then someone was raving about Barbara Neely's Blanche White books and they sounded interesting.

I detest 'Jingle Bells,' 'White Christmas,' 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer,' and the obscene spending bonanza that nowadays seems to occupy not just December, but November and much of October, too.

I'd grown up fearing the lynch mobs of the Ku Klux Klan; as an adult I was starting to wonder if I'd been afraid of the wrong white people all along - where I was being pursued not by bigots in white robes, but by left-wing zealots draped in flowing sanctimony.

I'd heard of really bad things Klan folks did to Negroes. Mean, hateful, deadly things. I didn't know they were hateful toward white folks too.

I did not see the sense in chasing a little white ball around a field.

I did not disregard my culture, if I did, it was the white American culture, and I accepted my true culture, when I accepted Mohammed Ali, because this is a black name, Islam is the black man's religion, and so I would like to say, that I would like to clarify that point that I reclaimed my real culture, and that's being a black man and wearing a black name with a black body, and not a white name, so I would never say that I didn't disown my culture.

I did not like the way I looked in a pair of white pants.

I didn't feel like it was essential to have a white host or a black host, I wanted a good host.

I didn't even like white wine. Then I tasted it and bought a case. It was the first case of any wine I'd ever bought.

I didn't like the way it looked in white trousers, and I couldn't find anything to work underneath them.