Best 18 quotes in «fencing quotes» category

All human errors are impatience, a premature breaking off of methodical procedure, an apparent fencing-in of what is apparently at issue.

Fencing made me feel for the first time like a winner.

No sensible man ever engages, unprepared, in a fencing match of words with a woman.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.

I'm always doing something new. I took a fencing class - that was awesome. And I do a lot of my own athletic work or stunts.

I’ve only an hour,” Colin said as he attached the safety tip to his foil. “I have an appointment this afternoon.” “No matter,” Benedict replied, lunging forward a few times to loosen up the muscles in his leg. He hadn’t fenced in some time; the sword felt good in his hand. He drew back and touched the tip to the floor, letting the blade bend slightly. “It won’t take more than an hour to best you.” Colin rolled his eyes before he drew down his mask. Benedict walked to the center of the room. “Are you ready?” “Not quite,” Colin replied, following him. Benedict lunged again. “I said I wasn’t ready!” Colin hollered as he jumped out of the way. “You’re too slow,” Benedict snapped. Colin cursed under his breath, then added a louder, “Bloody hell,” for good measure. “What’s gotten into you?” “Nothing,” Benedict nearly snarled. “Why would you say so?” Colin took a step backward until they were a suitable distance apart to start the match. “Oh, I don’t know,” he intoned, sarcasm evident. “I suppose it could be because you nearly took my head off.” “I’ve a tip on my blade.” “And you were slashing like you were using a sabre,” Colin shot back. Benedict gave a hard smile. “It’s more fun that way.” “Not for my neck.” Colin passed his sword from hand to hand as he flexed and stretched his fingers. He paused and frowned. “You sure you have a foil there?” Benedict scowled. “For the love of God, Colin, I would never use a real weapon.” “Just making sure,” Colin muttered, touching his neck lightly. “Are you ready?” Benedict nodded and bent his knees. “Regular rules,” Colin said, assuming a fencer’s crouch. “No slashing.” Benedict gave him a curt nod. “En garde!” Both men raised their right arms, twisting their wrists until their palms were up, foils gripped in their fingers. “Is that new?” Colin suddenly asked, eyeing the handle of Benedict’s foil with interest. Benedict cursed at the loss of his concentration. “Yes, it’s new,” he bit off. “I prefer an Italian grip.” Colin stepped back, completely losing his fencing posture as he looked at his own foil, with a less elaborate French grip. “Might I borrow it some time? I wouldn’t mind seeing if—” “Yes!” Benedict snapped, barely resisting the urge to advance and lunge that very second. “Will you get back en garde?” Colin gave him a lopsided smile, and Benedict just knew that he had asked about his grip simply to annoy him. “As you wish,” Colin murmured, assuming position again.

Creativity is the essence of fencing.

Nothing in life is fair except a witnessed duel.

Speed will follow when the mechanism of the movements is more assured.

The days became for Christina endless preparation. Ceaseless winds tore through her massing battle ranks, the grey cold sun above marking the timeless date. With skies of blue and cloud overhead, driving, uncompromising time stood still, lingering, as if giving Christina precious eons to perfect her shaving straight razor cuts of mind and sword. She worked alone now, forging the essence of herself in the policies and ways of hammer and anvil, pounding away with the classic, living Japanese blade. Her deft hands spun dervishly, wroughting out the iron of her will, fashioning a blade-mind remade unto her. --Brickley, The Lady and the Samurai

Then, after picking up his papers, Pierre began: “A beautiful woman can be the downfall of a gentleman . . . but the uplift of a beggar!

Those prancing little pants-wetters come here to learn the colorful and gentlemanly art of fencing, with its many sporting limitations and its proscriptions against dishonorable engagements. You on the other hand, you are going to learn how to kill men with a sword.

He took his own saber by the blade and handed it to Alek, pommel first, as if offering it to a victor.

Pamela pulled off her cloak and Alexei gasped. "You have on breeches!" He stared in disbelief. "Breeches!" "I've never worn them before, and they are extremely comfortable. I quite like them." She smoothed the fabric over her hip. "Besides, you don't expect me to duel in a dress, do you?" "I do not expect you to duel at all!" Pamela ignored him. "That would be most unfair, dueling in a dress, unless, of course, you would be willing to wear a dress as well?" "Don't be absurd." He snorted in disdain. "I have no intention of ever wearing women's clothing again." "Again?" She raised a brow. "It was an unavoidable disguise," he muttered.

The blades sang like the strokes of a hammer on a blacksmith's anvil echoing in the empty churchyard.

The Mouser made a very small parry in carte so that the thrust of the bravo from the east went past his left side by only a hair's breath. He instantly riposted. His adversary, desperately springing back, parried in turn in carte. Hardly slowing, the tip of the Mouser's long, slim sword dropped under that parry with the delicacy of a princess curtsying and then leaped forward and a little upward, the Mouser making an impossibly long-looking lunge for one so small, and went between two scales of the bravo's armored jerkin and between his ribs and through his heart and out his back as if all were angelfood cake.

The workhouse is in Clerkenwell. The orphan asylum is a bit farther out, at Bishopsgate." "Those places aren't safe for you to go unescorted." "I'm quite familiar with London, sir. I don't take chances with my safety, and I carry a walking stick for self-defense." "What good is a walking stick?" Rhys asked absently. "In my hands," Dr. Gibson assured him, "it's a dangerous weapon." "Is it weighted?" "No, I can deliver three times as many blows with a lighter cane than with a heavier stick. At my fencing-master's suggestion, I've carved notches at strategic points along the shaft to improve grip strength. He has taught me some effective techniques to fell an opponent with a cane." "You fence?" Helen asked, her head still down. "I do, my lady. Fencing is an excellent sport for ladies- it develops strength, posture, and proper breathing.

You really are sort of a basic person, aren’t you, except for that blue stratospheric veneer of crust you wrap yourself around. I was going to ask you, with your usual never-ending broadside complaints of lack and wearisome bushwa ‘nonsensical’ humdrum excuses, just exactly what kind of person are you? You must have had it easy growing up. Now, as per your habit, tonight when you hit the hay, percle on this: There are 7even basic types of people—: 1. People who make things happen. 2. People who talk about making things happen. 3. People who start to make things happen but never finish. 4. People who watch things happen. 5. People who wonder what just happened. 6. People who don’t have the faintest idea that anything happened. 7. People who need a stout “clue-by-four” of hickory smacked up alongside their head to make them happen. — As for an eighth— —Which one are you? Puzȥle it out. . . . -- Thomas Kannon, Instructor to Brickley. The Lady and the Samurai