#hors

The horses are all characters, all personalities. Some you get along with, some you don't, some might take a bit longer. ↗

— Zara Phillips

#bit #characters #get #horses #longer

Old wood best to burn, old wine to drink, old friends to trust, and old authors to read. ↗

— Athenaeus

#best #burn #drink #friends #old

Anyone who would let Gary Cooper and the entire cast go charging on horseback without first finding out what kind of footing the horses had is nuts and cannot possibly direct a motion picture. ↗

— Dick York

#cannot #cast #charging #cooper #direct

Fool! Nothing but black ink runs through my veins! ↗

— Hiromu Arakawa

#fma #fullmetal-alchemist #humor #manga #humor

All Jane Austen novels have a common storyline: an attractive and virtuous young woman surmounts difficulties to achieve marriage to the man of her choice. This is the age-long convention of the romantic novel, but with Jane Austen, what we have is Mills & Boon written by a genius. ↗

— P.D. James

#romance-novels #writing #age

We are such materialists that all our metaphors are going to be material. ↗

— J. T. Walsh

#material #materialists #metaphors #our #such

But if cattle and horses or lions had hands, or were able to draw with their hands and do the work that men can do, horses would draw the forms of the gods like horses, and cattle like cattle, and they would make their bodies such as they each had themselves. ↗

— Xenophanes

#bodies #cattle #draw #each #forms

It was one of the dullest speeches I ever heard. The Agee woman told us for three quarters of an hour how she came to write her beastly book, when a simple apology was all that was required. ↗

— P.G. Wodehouse

#bad-writing #dullness #humor #writing #age

Thou hast had thty day, old dame, but thy sun has long been set. Thou art now the very emblem of an old warhorse turned out on the barren heath; thou hast had thy paces in thy time, but now a broken amble is the best of them. ↗

— Walter Scott

#old-age #woman #age

One spring morning timing the lean near-liquid progress of a horse on a track, the dust exploding, the rapid hasping of his hocks, coming up the straight foreshortened and awobble and passing elongate and birdlike wish harsh breaths and slatted brisket heaving and the muscles sliding and brunching in clocklike flexion under the wet black hide and a gout of foam hung from the long jaw and then gone in a muted hoofclatter, the aging magistrate snapped his thumb from the keep of the stopwatch he held and palmed it into his waistcoat pocket and looking at nothing, nor child nor horse, said anent that simple comparison of rotary motions and in the oratory to which he was prone that they had witnessed a thing against which time would not prevail. ↗

— Cormac McCarthy

#liquid #time #age