Best 376 quotes in «dialogue quotes» category

To engage in dialogue is to serve others via whatever is real inside you; to engage in debate is to ultimately serve the illusions of your ego.

Traders are left alone because they keep Verbena afloat, but those without an emblem? They’re either dangerous or risking danger. Since we’re going the same way, would it be a bother if I accompany you?’ An odd sentiment coming from one who appears to be a lone traveler on foot. But odd does not equate to false. ‘You don’t have an emblem. Does that mean you’re dangerous?’ His lips curl slightly, as if he’s amused.

Trojan is a no-blow-job- condom. The flavor is horrible. Someone should come up with a barbecue-flavored condom for the hood. But greedy bitches would probably start chewing dicks.

Until then I had thought each book spoke of the things, human or divine, that lie outside books. Now I realized that not infrequently books speak of books: it is as if they spoke among themselves. In the light of this reflection, the library seemed all the more disturbing to me. It was then the place of a long, centuries -old murmuring, an imperceptible dialogue between one parchment and another, a living thing, a receptacle of powers not to be ruled by a human mind, a treasure of secrets emanated by many minds, surviving the death of those who had produced them or had been their conveyors.

Was it unpleasant?" "I don't know," I said. "Everything is so unpleasant nowadays it's hard to tell.

We all have our own ways to cope with stress," she said, and rambled on about the benefits of habitual behaviors. "Self-soothing," is how she described it. "Like meditation." I yawned, hating her.

We'll see you through, Martin," said Antonia . . . "So do not be guilty or worried, darling Martin." "I won't be guilty or worried, I'll be raving mad," I said. "I don't want you to see me through. I want to be left alone by both of you at long last.

We all love a glimpse of Lucas, it's a religious experience.

We had an unspoken love for one another. Probably because she’d never talk to me or return my phone calls or texts.

We have to accept that much of reality is ineffable and so to understand it we can't rely on words alone.

Well, anyway, this'll be easier than knocking an elf out of a tree. Trust me.' 'How many elves have you knocked out of trees, Stubble?' 'Duraden's bones! Have ye never heard of a figure of speech?

Well, I've always wanted to call my son Barr." "Like a tavern? Like a soap?" "My father's name is Barr." "Oh. And I love it!

We cannot control the way people interpret our ideas or thoughts, but we can control the words and tones we choose to convey them. Peace is built on understanding, and wars are built on misunderstandings. Never underestimate the power of a single word, and never recklessly throw around words. One wrong word, or misinterpreted word, can change the meaning of an entire sentence and start a war. And one right word, or one kind word, can grant you the heavens and open doors.

Well,' Frederick had said, 'I will see what can be arranged, Archie. But I will not have the girl frightened or compromised.' 'You sound like a grandfather who has raised fifteen daughters and is now starting on his granddaughters, Freddie,' Lord Archibald had said. 'It is most disconcerting.

Well, then, what's the plan now? You can't stay here forever.' My plan was indeed to stay there forever.

Well, you won't abandon me, will you." "Don't be silly, Ludens, you are buckled to my heart.

We probably shouldn't be friends," I told her, stretching out on the sofa. "I've been thinking about it, and I see no reason to continue.

What do you want to do now?" he asked her. "We should probably just kill ourselves," she imagined saying.

We're leaving," I told her one July afternoon. "We? You and I? Where are we going, young Master Paul? Do you have your belongings tied up in a red-spotted handkerchief on a stick?

We usually learn from debates that we seldom learn from debates.

What do you think of Poe?" "He's awful. He was obviously . . . what's the term . . . 'disappointed in love' at some point. He probably never smiled again. The pages are just bursting with his longing for women to suffer. If he ever met me he'd probably punch me on the nose." "I think Poe's quite good, actually. The whole casual horror thing. Like someone standing next to you and screaming their head off and you asking them what the fuck and them stopping for a moment to say 'Oh you know, I'm just afraid of Death' and then they keep on with the screaming.

What do you want me to say?" "I wish you would say something. Our life goes by without any comment.

What larks we had," said James. "When?" "When we were young." I could not recall any larks I had had with James. I poured out the wine and we sat in silence.

What is it?” “A prayer.” “For a child?” She nodded. “For me?” Another nod. “On a tree?” “Trees spend all day looking up at God.

What is God anyway?" "A dark place —

What I was really thinking,' resumes Rachel, 'is—well, that there's fate, you see. I don't dismiss it, I don't think it's idiotic. It's quite scientific, actually. What we become. Who we—meet, end up with,' she continues, flames in her cheeks. 'You think we would have met, no matter what? Even if I were some lushy? Some loon? Street kid?' 'You're laughing at me.' 'Just asking,' he says. 'Everyone has one person, I think. For life. That's all.

What's that?' Thaniel said, curious. The postmarks and stamps weren't English or Japanese. 'A painting. There's a depressed Dutchman who does countryside scenes and flowers and things. It's ugly, but I have to maintain the estates in Japan and modern art is a good investment.

When Jonas came to the phone I asked him if he remembered that we used to kiss. "I remember," he said tersely. "Is that why you called?

When he leaves home to sow his oats—" "Wild oats, Tasha. They have to be wild. Unless he ran off to be a farmer.

When Louise returned to the Aviary the others were playing the game of what character in fiction Peter Mir reminded them of. 'I think he's Mr Pickwick,' said Louise. 'Oh no! Never!' said Sefton. 'I think he's more like Prospero.' 'I think he's the Green Knight,' said Aleph. 'Come on, Moy, what do you think?' 'I think he's the Minotaur.' 'The Minotaur isn't a literary character, he's a mythical character,' Sefton objected. 'Oh really — !' 'What does Clement think?' said Aleph. 'I think he's Mephistopheles,' said Clement. 'Surely not, he's so nice!' said Louise.

Why so sad?" Zach queries in fairy-tale tones. "Rachel?" "O my brother Ivanushka," she recites. "A heavy stone is round my throat, silken grass grows through my fingers, yellow sand lies on my breast." "That's perishing gloomy," Zach remarks. "It ends happily though. Gracious! Everything sounds depressing this morning," adds Rachel. "There's a teacher at my school, she's very young, but she goes, Gracious! Just like a dowager. Makes me laugh. Except this morning. I can't help it. I am too depressed. I hate those voices so much. In the Gardens." "Stop listening," Zach scolds and put his hands in her hair—silken grass grows through his fingers.

Where there is a readiness for dialogue, there is a chance for peace.

When Reva gave advice, it sounded as though she were reading a bad made-for-TV movie script. "A walk around the block could do wonders for your mood," she said. "Aren't you hungry?" "I'm not in the mood for food," I said. "And I don't feel like going anywhere.

Ye are a scoundrel, a black-hearted robber and a rogue,' Stubble said cheerily to the grumbling captain. It was his usual way of haggling, and he'd beaten down the riverman to a decent price for conveying himself and Anvar to Lankarn.

You don't know what it is to want a man, any man. I wish I could discover some respectable male prostitutes, like civil servants or university dons who do it in their spare time for a bit of pocket money, there must be such people.

Yes, my mother was on about Byron. But who wants to be like Byron? I despise him.

You are heroic, Mr. Lynch-Gibbon. The knight of infinite humiliation. One does not know whether to kiss your feet or to recommend that you have a good analysis." She said it as one might say "a good thrashing.

You get so worked up and flowery! You sound as if you were quoting something all the time!

You don't much like anything, do you?" "No, nothing," said Anna, smiling her nice fat malign smile.

You're a pretty woman." "I'm almost as pretty as that silver wedding ring on your left hand.

You know how there are words that never really—they are never really quite right. You can't quite trust them. Use them. You know. Without pause.' 'There are words I stare at,' Zach says. 'Strange. Every time. Misled, that's one. I see mizzled. And unshed. I read unched.' 'Me too! But that's a different thing—except, now you mention it, it's odd about unshed, that it's only for tears. Mostly. Hardly ever blood, for instance, you don't see unshed blood. Unched. Not really.' 'Not in my case anyway. Mine sheds all over the joint! I'm a bleeder all right.

You really don't understand what it's like to have bad parents, do you?

You haven't forgotten that we're having dinner with the Belangers this evening?" I asked. "Of course not," he said. "I am hoping that one of them will let slip that they killed their father and we can lay the thing to rest.

You mustn't mind so much. It's all in your head." "Well, I live in my head.

You're right, it's all going to be perfection," Kitty said, gazing out the window as the workmen began rehanging The Palace of Eighteen Perfections on her drawing-room wall.

Your lies are like a silent fart. Can't see 'em, but I can smell 'em.

You said you were having fun." "Well, yes and no, strictly speaking I was in hell. Perhaps I have always been there. One can have fun in hell.

You think I exaggerate." "At the moment—" "Well, this sort of moment never really stops . . .

You've obviously never been in love." "I have actually. And awfully. And—always—without hope—I've never had my love reciprocated ever.

You want to stay here and sleep your life away? That's it?" "If you knew what would make you happy, wouldn't you do it?" I asked her. "See, you do want to be happy. Then why did you tell me that being happy is dumb?" she asked. "You said that to me more than once." "Let me be dumb," I said, glugging the NyQuil. "You go be smart and tell me how great it is. I'll be here, hibernating." Reva rolled her eyes. "It's natural," I told her. "People used to hibernate all the time." "People never hibernated. Where are you getting this?" She could look really pathetic when she was outraged. She got up and stood there holding her stupid knockoff Kate Spade bag or whatever it was, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and crowned with a useless, plastic, tortoiseshell headband. She was always getting her hair blown out, her eyebrows waxed into thin, arched, parentheses, her fingernails painted various shades of pink and purple, as though all of this made her a wonderful person. "It's not up for discussion, Reva. This is what I'm doing. If you can't accept it, then you don't have to.