Spitting Quotes

“The moon seems unaware
of night's dark hitting
on the damp warm rain
misguiding owl's spitting
A thunder light of love
raising hearts beating
while weather learns more
from rain lovers meeting”
― Munia Khan

“I tell you, you will not see the new beauty and the truth, until you make up your minds to spit.”
― Kazimir Severinovich Malevich, Essays on art

“The horse had a fly-net over its head and ears. It looked down on the paving-stones with the empty disappointed expression of an old moral theologian. Whenever the guide spat between his shoes, the horse shook his head in disapproval.”
― Wolfgang Koeppen, Death in Rome

“Sorry, lass. Ye have to seize the teachable moments, you know. Carry on.”
― Andrew Peterson, The Monster in the Hollows

“I know he has a bad nature,' said Catherine: 'he's your son. Bu I'm glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, you have nobody to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery! You are miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him? Nobody loves you--nobody will cry for you when you die! I wouldn't be you!”
― Charlotte Brontë, Wuthering Heights: Abridged and Retold, with Notes and Free Audiobook

“I know he has a bad nature,' said Catherine: 'he's your son. Bu I'm glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, you have nobody to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery! You are miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him? Nobody loves you--nobody will cry for you when you die! I wouldn't be you!”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“I know he has a bad nature,' said Catherine: 'he's your son. But I'm glad I've a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff, you have nobody to love you; and, however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery! You are miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him? Nobody loves you--nobody will cry for you when you die! I wouldn't be you!”
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

“In this world, there is no such thing as good or bad. If there is flower shop on one side and a butcher’s shop on the other, why should we keep spitting? You have to leave away both the bad as well as the good.”
― Dada Bhagwan

“We are sometimes reminded that we are not always rational, when someone spits as a response to a foul smell.”
― Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“The way I see things, Feyre, you have two options. The first, and the smartest, would be to accept my offer.'

I spat at his feet, but he kept pacing, only giving me a disapproving look.

'The second option- and the one only a fool would take- would be for you to refuse my offer and place your life, and thus Tamlin's, in the hands of chance.'

He stopped pacing and stared hard at me. Though the world spun and danced in my vision, something primal inside me went still and cold beneath that gaze.

'Let's say I walk out of here. Perhaps Lucien will come to your aid within five minutes of my leaving. Perhaps he'll come in five days. Perhaps he won't come at all. Between you and me, he's been keeping a low profile after his rather embarrassing outburst at your trial. Amarantha's not exactly pleased with him. Tamlin even broke his delightful brooding to beg for him to be spared- such a noble warrior, your High Lord. She listened, of course- but only after she made Tamlin bestow Lucien's punishment. Twenty lashes.'

I started shaking, sick all over again to think about what it had to have been like for my High Lord to be the one to punish his friend.

Rhysand shrugged, a beautiful, easy gesture. 'So, it's really a question of how much you're willing to trust Lucien- and how much you're willing to risk for it. Already you're wondering if that fever of yours is the first sign of infection. Perhaps they're unconnected, perhaps not. Maybe it's fine. Maybe that worm's mud isn't full of festering filth. And maybe Amarantha will send a healer, and by that time, you'll either be dead, or they'll find your arm so infected that you'll be lucky to keep anything above the elbow.'

My stomach tightened into a painful ball.

'I don't need to invade your thoughts to know these things. I already know what you've slowly been realising.' He again crouched in front of me. 'You're dying.'

My eyes stung and I sucked my lips into my mouth.

'How much are you willing to risk on the hope that another form of help will come?'

I stared at him, sending as much hate as I could into my gaze. He'd been the one who'd caused all this. He'd told Amarantha about Clare, he'd made Tamlin beg.

'Well?'

I bared my teeth. 'Go. TO. Hell.'

Swift as lightning, he lashed out, grabbing the shard of bone in my arm and twisting. A scream shattered out of me, ravaging my aching throat. The world flashed black and white and red. I thrashed and writhed but he kept his grip, twisting the bone a final time before releasing my arm.

Panting, half sobbing as the pain reverberated through my body, I found him smirking at me again. I spat in his face.

He only laughed as he stood, wiping his cheek with the dark sleeve of his tunic.

'This is the last time I'll extend my assistance,' he said pausing by the cell door. 'Once I leave this cell, my offer is dead.' I spat again, and he shook his head. 'I bet you'll be spitting on Death's face when she comes to claim you, too.”
― Sarah J. Maas, A Court of Thorns and Roses