Best 5610 quotes in «women quotes» category

He would never understand women, he thought. They were life’s great mystery.

...he would tell stories about the Holy City, about Solomon, a just king, a poet-king, a monarch with a thousand concubines. We weren't quite sure what concubines were, but we guessed: a concubine ... Concubines! One thousand! One thousand women in all colours and shapes - but all of them sexy, of course - one thousand - one thousand raving beauties lying side by side on a bed (what a bed! How wide it must have been!), all of them smiling, all of them reaching out their arms, all of them saying something in Hebrew - but the meaning was unmistakeable - "Come here, sweety." One thousand women. If one were to spend twenty, or fifteen minutes with each one of them, how long would it take to...? A problem that our math teacher never assigned us for homework...!

Hide in the mirror. No one will look for you there.

Hi girls,' Hank says. I let that slide because Hank is in his seventies. But Diggers have rules. The establishing tenet: We're women. Not girls. I am a twenty-seven-year-old pioneer in the wellness space who reincorporated her company as a B-corp without needing to hire a lawyer. Would you refer to my male equivalent as a boy? Try saying it out loud. It sounds non-native.

Hi Lady, Hi Woman.., all that Naomi had, all that Mary had, all that Esther had, all that Elizabeth had, YOU ALSO HAVE... Go, make your dreams come true!

High magic requires a great clarity of thought, you see, and women's talents do not lie in that direction. Their brains tend to overheat.

High heels are a short (theist) woman's (subconscious) way of telling God to go to hell … in public.

Hijab adalah pembebasan dari ketergantungan kosmetik dan topeng. Hijab adalah pembebasan untuk jujur pada hatimu. Hijab adalah pembebas jiwamu dari rantai-rantai duniawi.

His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him. “Tu sei pazzo,” she told him with a pleasant laugh. “Why am I crazy?” he asked. “Perché non posso sposare.” “Why can’t you get married?” “Because I am not a virgin,” she answered. “What has that got to do with it?” “Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.” “I will. I’ll marry you.” “Ma non posso sposarti.” “Why can’t you marry me?” “Perché sei pazzo.” “Why am I crazy?” “Perché vuoi sposarmi.” Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. “You won’t marry me because I’m crazy, and you say I’m crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?” “Si.” “Tu sei pazz’!” he told her loudly. “Perché?” she shouted back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a saucy huff beneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. “Why am I crazy?” “Because you won’t marry me.” “Stupido!” she shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with the back of her hand. “Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.” “Oh, sure, I understand. And why can’t you marry me?” “Perché sei pazzo!” “And why am I crazy?” “Perché vuoi sposarmi.” “Because I want to marry you. Carina, ti amo,” he explained, and he drew her gently back down to the pillow. “Ti amo molto.” “Tu sei pazzo,” she murmured in reply, flattered. “Perché?” “Because you say you love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?” “Because I can’t marry you.” She bolted right up again in a threatening rage. “Why can’t you marry me?” she demanded, ready to clout him again if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. “Just because I am not a virgin?” “No, no, darling. Because you’re crazy.

His staff had shaken hands with her as though a woman was merely another kind of man. Fools! The seeds of Eve were in this radiant creature. The lullabyes of half a million years throbbed in her throat. Had they no sense of wonder, no reverence, no pride?

His sexy smile crept back into me [...] and he made me feel like I could do it. That I could change my life too.

His worst fantasy her reality he pulls the strings does unspeakable things A sadistic entrance for his acceptance

Høibro kunde ikke forstå at denne tørre fremskridtskvinde med kort hår blandet sig i slike spørsmål som ægteskapet, hun stod i hans forestilling som en art hanmenneske i skjørter, et væsen av det tredje kjøn; stak man hul på hende vilde hun blø sand.

Hola & hello! I'm happy to answer any questions you might have - about the book or moving to Mexico.

Honest friends is kinda nice, but it's hard to beat a big-ass lie and a six-pack of brewskies.

Home is the best place to teach young men and women about God’s kind of love.

How about we be the light of Jesus Christ? There are things we tend to forget when fear becomes the driving force. The world is filled with a lot of questions now; what do we do? Who do we elect? How do we fix this? Some people feel powetless in those ways. Helpless, hopeless, confused, overwhelmed. What do we do? My answer: Stop looking for practical advice "don't be afraid " "those who are with us are more than those who are with them" 2 kings 6:16

How are we tending to the physical, mental, emotional and spiritual sides to the 'vehicle' of our life...our body. This garden needs constant care and constant growth to stay alive and healthy in all possible senses

Hope, strive and try to be more like Christ until the day we will see Him. Let Him find you faithfully and in obedient serving Him. He is coming quicker than people think.

How can I believe the people that say women have equal rights? When the worst insult a man can be called is a woman, girly, a twat, a cunt, that he needs to 'man up' and the list goes on. My gender is not an insult. I'm tired of all this shit.

How can so many (white, male) writers narratively justify restricting the agency of their female characters on the grounds of sexism = authenticity while simultaneously writing male characters with conveniently modern values? The habit of authors writing Sexism Without Sexists in genre novels is seemingly pathological. Women are stuffed in the fridge under cover of "authenticity" by secondary characters and villains because too many authors flinch from the "authenticity" of sexist male protagonists. Which means the yardstick for "authenticity" in such novels almost always ends up being "how much do the women suffer", instead of - as might also be the case - "how sexist are the heroes". And this bugs me; because if authors can stretch their imaginations far enough to envisage the presence of modern-minded men in the fake Middle Ages, then why can't they stretch them that little bit further to put in modern-minded women, or modern-minded social values? It strikes me as being extremely convenient that the one universally permitted exception to this species of "authenticity" is one that makes the male heroes look noble while still mandating that the women be downtrodden and in need of rescuing. -Comment at Staffer's Book Review 4/18/2012 to "Michael J. Sullivan on Character Agency

How can we pick and choose which parts of the Bible to follow? One thing is God’s will and another is just cultural differences? What if it’s all cultural? What if homosexuality or saving yourself for marriage is as outdated as women staying silent in church or Leviticus forbidding tattoos?

How dare a person tell a woman, how to dress, how to talk, how to behave! Any being who does that, is no human.

How curiously one is changed by the addition, even at a distance, of a friend. How useful an office one's friends perform when they recall us. Yet how painful to be recalled, to be mitigated, to have one's self adulterated, mixed-up, become part of another.

How dare the society calls itself civilized, while hailing women first as sexual objects, then as everything else! How dare a man foster the primitive courage to hit on every woman he encounters, as if she has been waiting her whole life to be hit on – as if to be hit on, is the purpose of her existence! Rise, my brothers, and see women as persons, and not as objects of sexual gratification. And if you are single, and truly would like to be with a woman you like, then be a gentleman and ask her out with respect, instead of treating her as an object to possess.

How can you measure progress if you don't know what it costs and who has paid for it? How can the "market" put a price on things - food, clothes, electricity, running water - when it doesn't take into account the REAL cost of production?

How do you know if someone loves herself? No hairstyle, religion, or ethnicity has ownership of self-love or a greater propensity toward self-hatred. The best way to tell if a woman loves herself is by how she treats herself and others. She makes self-loving choices.

How do you feel about homosexuals, Mr. Scavanni?' I asked. 'I think they're great. More women for the rest of us,' he said sarcastically.

How difficult it is for today's woman to cast aside this capacity, internalized in the course of centuries, of millenniums, with which she tried to assimilate herself to the man whom fate seemed to have singled out to be her lord and master. How difficult she will find it to convince herself that woman must reckon self-renunciation as a sin, even a renunciation for the sake of the beloved and for the sake of the power of love.

How does it feel living life every day with such attractive faces in a place where women are forced to take responsibility even for the worst outcomes that spring from other people’s lusts?

However, the majority of women are neither harlots nor courtesans; nor do they sit clasping pug dogs to dusty velvet all through the summer afternoon.

How easily such a thing can become a mania, how the most normal and sensible of women once this passion to be thin is upon them, can lose completely their sense of balance and proportion and spend years dealing with this madness.

However impatient she might be in the day, however filled with little sudden angers, at night she was all tenderness.

However, the majority of women are neither harlots nor courtesans; nor do they sit clasping pug dogs to dusty velvet all through the summer afternoon. But what do they do then? and there came to my mind’s eye one of those long streets somewhere south of the river whose infinite rows are innumerably populated. With the eye of the imagination I saw a very ancient lady crossing the street on the arm of a middle-aged woman, her daughter, perhaps, both so respectably booted and furred that their dressing in the afternoon must be a ritual, and the clothes themselves put away in cupboards with camphor, year after year, throughout the summer months. They cross the road when the lamps are being lit (for the dusk is their favourite hour), as they must have done year after year. The elder is close on eighty; but if one asked her what her life has meant to her, she would say that she remembered the streets lit for the battle of Balaclava, or had heard the guns fire in Hyde Park for the birth of King Edward the Seventh. And if one asked her, longing to pin down the moment with date and season, but what were you doing on the fifth of April 1868, or the second of November 1875, she would look vague and say that she could remember nothing. For all the dinners are cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children sent to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the novels, without meaning to, inevitably lie. All these infinitely obscure lives remain to be recorded, I said, addressing Mary Carmichael as if she were present; and went on in thought through the streets of London feeling in imagination the pressure of dumbness, the accumulation of unrecorded life, whether from the women at the street corners with their arms akimbo, and the rings embedded in their fat swollen fingers, talking with a gesticulation like the swing of Shakespeare’s words; or from the violet-sellers and match-sellers and old crones stationed under doorways; or from drifting girls whose faces, like waves in sun and cloud, signal the coming of men and women and the flickering lights of shop windows. All that you will have to explore, I said to Mary Carmichael, holding your torch firm in your hand.

How is it possible to live? Life is so hard?’ ‘You must be harder than life, Firdaus. Life is very hard. The only people who really live are those who are harder than life itself.’ ‘But you are not hard, Sharifa, so how do you manage to live?’ ‘I am hard, terribly hard, Firdaus.’ ‘No, you are gentle and soft.’ ‘My skin is soft, but my heart is cruel, and my bite deadly.’ ‘Like snake?’ ‘Yes, exactly like a snake. Life is a snake. They are the same, Firdaus. If the snake realises you are not a snake, it will bite you. And if life knows you have no sting, it will devour you.

How is it possible to live? Life is so hard?’ ‘You must be harder than life, Firdaus. Life is very hard. The only people who really live are those who are harder than life itself.’ ‘But you are not hard, Sharifa, so how do you manage to live?’ ‘I am hard, terribly hard, Firdaus.’ ‘No, you are gentle and soft.’ ‘My skin is soft, but my heart is cruel, and my bite deadly.’ ‘Like a snake?’ ‘Yes, exactly like a snake. Life is a snake. They are the same, Firdaus. If the snake realises you are not a snake, it will bite you. And if life knows you have no sting, it will devour you.

How many faces a woman has?;Supreme Being divided by zero.

How much should the women sacrifice for satisfying the egos of men? The question grew in her heart and became an unbearable burden. It suffocated her. We are toys in the hands of men; they play with us to soothe their tired bodies and minds.

However, he did say that a state that does not educate and train women is like a man who only trains his right arm.

How odd it is that we judge a woman by her clothes and the place she eats lunch and the subjects she talks about with her colleagues on her coffee break, yet we don’t judge a man if he doesn’t grow his beard or if he works with women or speaks to them. Why do Saudi women allow subjugation to a man and adhere to men’s rules and conditions? Why did I?

How silly men were! Their part in procreation was so unimportant; it was the woman who carried the child through long months of uneasiness and bore it with pain, and yet a man because of his momentary connection made such preposterous claims. Why should that make any difference to him in his feelings towards the child?

How the little courtesies of life on the surface of society, deemed so important from man towards woman, fade into utter insignificance in view of the deeper tragedies in which she must play her part alone, where no human aid is possible.

How to raise sons who respect women: Never give them the opportunity to see you disrespect yourself.

How stupid that all I have to do is grow two squishy lumps and suddenly I'm man's best friend

How unbearable, for women, is the tenderness which a man can give them without love. For men, how bittersweet this is.

Human beings are no longer born to their place in life, and chained down by an inexorable bond to the place they are born to, but are free to employ their faculties, and such favourable chances as offer, to achieve the lot which may appear to them most desirable.

Humans fear the supernatural, both the undivine ( the animal impulses such as sexuality, the unconscious, the unknown, the alien) and the divine (the superhuman, the god in us). Culture and religion seek to protect us from these two forces. The female, by virtue of creating entities of flash and blood in her stomach (she bleeds every month but does not die) by virtue of being in tune with nature's cycles, is feared. Because, according to Christianity and most other major religions, woman is carnal, animal, and closer to the undivine, she must be protected. Protected from herself. Woman is the stranger, the other. She is man's recognized nightmarish pieces, his Shadow-Beast. The sight of her sends him into a frenzy of anger and fear.

Husbands are always angry, that's their nature. And the nature of us women, is not to pay a blind bit of notice.

I admitted it was tempting to wish for cosmic, mind-blowing, I-could-die-right-now orgasms, but the truth is, sometimes we do have to settle for light, that-was-fun type, and explore additional features. Ian made me feel good. Sexy. Powerful. Wasn't that what was sex really about? Or was I just fooling myself?

Hvis ingen anden Nytte var ved Thee og Café, var dog denne, at Drukkenskab, som tilforn gik saa meget i Svang, derved temmelig er kommen af Brug. Nu kand vore Hustruer og Døttre giøre 10 Visiter en Eftermiddag, og komme gandske ædrue tilbage.