Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Gertrude. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Gertrude Quotes And Sayings by 92 Authors including Erik Larson,Markus Zusak,Lauren Kate,William Makepeace Thackeray,Frances Hodgson Burnett for you to enjoy and share.
gin daisy, which
She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on that man's first night in Molching. She was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl. (84.25)
Luce recognized her from European history class. Amy Something.
What woman, however old, has not the bridal-favours and raiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of her heart?
Mistress Mary Quite Contrary
This was not Aunt Dahlia, my good and kindly aunt, but my Aunt Agatha, the one who chews broken bottles and kills rats with her teeth.
Who is Silvia What is she, That all our swains commend her Holy, fair, and wise is she.
[On hearing that Clare Boothe Luce was invariably kind to her inferiors:] And where does she find them?
She'd just walked into heaven. And her grandmother was right there, in every scent.
Sugary and sweet.
Herby and sharp.
Yeasty and fresh.
Aunt Agatha is my tough aunt, the one who eats broken bottles and conducts human sacrifices by the light of the full moon.
Sometimes Matilda longed for a friend, someone like the kind, courageous people in her books.
Elizabeth Spencer.
. . . she had always the power of suggesting things much lovelier than herself, as the perfume of a single flower may call up the whole sweetness of spring.
Rosie Germaine Mole.
Aunt Rosa, a fussy, angular, wild-eyed old lady, who had lived in a tremulous world of bad news, bankruptcies, train accidents, cancerous growths - until the Germans put her to death, together with all the people she had worried about.
I loved to walk in her garden after dinner; it felt alive, even in the winter. She always told me that rosemary grows in the garden of a strong woman. Hers were like trees.
Edith Ethel with the sweetest possible smile would beg the pillows off a whole hospital ward full of dying ... . She
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
They say she was once a grand lady and lived on the hill. But she took to reading books and went from bad to worse. Stuffed her head full of ideas, and now she's a bit addled.
Ellen, not for the wide world! But while she said it, madam - I was looking in her glass; of course, she didn't know I could see her - she put her little hand on her heart just like her dear mother used to, and lifted her eyes ... Oh, madam!
Miss Sarah Pocket, whom I now saw to be a little dry brown corrugated old woman, with a small face that might have been made of walnut shells ...
What can she possibly teach you, twenty seven names for tears?
She's a mystery, a cipher, something nearly extinct these days: a person not controlled by ambition or greed or a crass need for attention, but by a desire to experience life completely and to make life a little easier for the people around her
Like all shrinks she was a deeply troubled person.
From "Fat Jimmy And The Blind Ballerina" due out early 2017.
[Her] work taught me that you could be all the traditional feminine things
a mother, a lover, a listener, a nurturer
and you could also be critically astute and radical and have a minority opinion that was profoundly moral.
grandmother's, and even as her lips curved,
She has given birth to vagabonds. She is the keeper of all these names and numbers now, numbers she once knew by heart, numbers and addresses her children no longer remember.
She would hang a sign in the restaurant window--Owt to luntsch. Bee bak in a whale. For she could not spell either.
Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave, and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.
Barbara Broccoli was a great friend of my late wife's and continues to be someone who is very gracious with me, my family, and our life.
Hello, Hazel Levesque.
Mabel Elsworth Todd,The Thinking Body,
Isabelle.
It was always Isabelle.
The world was her oyster, except she didn't care for oysters. Better yet, the world was her raspberry. She liked raspberries.
She can go places we cannot, associate with people we cannot, understand things about society types and women that we never can. (Why Mr. Burke hires Violet Strange.)
Who are you, Lucy Snowe?
When my ma went off a old woman called Aunt Emmaline kep' me. (She kep' all de orphunt chillun an' dem who's mammas had been sent off to de breedin' quarters. When dem women had chillun dey brung 'em an' let somebody lak Aunt Emmaline raise em.)
She was Grandma Will. That term felt foreign and unfitting to the relationship they had. She wondered if her father had ever called her Mother, Ma, Mom, Mama? Maybe in private he might have, but to the world, all the world, it was Aunt Will.
My mother was a stout woman with a man's name - Billie. She was plain-faced with honest eyes - no black grease by the lash line, no blue powder on the lids, eyebrows not plucked up high and thin.
For Mary, the world is something to be mastered, manipulated, and made; for Fanny, the world is a gift to be received with thanksgiving. Fanny is the eucharistic heroine, giving thanks in all times and places.
She's the kind you don't take home to mother.
Gertrude's remedy for her mood swings was to print up hundreds of black-bordered calling cards embossed with the single word "Woe," which she handed out gaily declaring, "Woe is me.
Alison Rosen IWHI! From the easter egg chapter.
My great-great-great-grandmother
She loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others.
She was one of those women who kind of numb a fellow's faculties. She made me feel as if I were ten years old and had been brought into the drawing-room in my Sunday clothes to say how-d'you-do.
I think that she's a great dame. I'm crazy for Lucille.
comfort. I'd decided Lucy
She's dearer than life itself, that's all I know.
She liked to keep her scent a mystery
She was of the stuff of which great men's mothers are made. She was indispensable to high generation, feared at tea-parties, hated in shops, and loved at crises.
DeFrees, a dealer in nineteenth-century watercolors who for all her stiff clothes and strong perfumes was a hugger and a cuddler, with the old-ladyish habit of liking
But I had never seen her that way. I had never known her as Pauline, the name he parents had given her, or as Posey, the name her friends had given her; only as Mom, the name I had given her. I could only see her carrying dinner to the table with kitchen mitts, or carpooling us to the bowling alley.
Recent accomplishments and insouciances of her child.
Edith (the future Mrs. Teddy Roosevelt) developed a lifelong devotion to drama and poetry. "I have gone back to Shakespeare, as I always do," she would write seven decades later.
Aunt Agatha is like an elephant- not so much to look at, for in appearance she resembles more a well-bred vulture, but because she never forgets.
Life has always poppies in her hands.
Testimony to her belief that life could be managed if things were only kept in their proper places.
Jessica, who loves stories,
...and, my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find out.
She was a genius, my mother.
Her mother was a cultivated woman - she was born in a greenhouse
From now on, she was Juliette Gervaise, code name the Nightingale.
Who was she, what was she that she should hold herself superior? What view of life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that she pretended to be larger than this large occasion? If she would not do this, then she must do great things, she must do something greater.
ultimate demonstration of Constance's taste for the
Her handwriting was curious - small sharp little letters with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?).
Interesting people were her favorite hobby. She collected them: the type who did gay things late at night and smoked cigarettes in mixed company, those would have most scandalized her own mother.
What did it mean to her, this thing she called life? Oh, it was very queer.
Majesty. The word seemed to ripple through her. "I haven't been crowned, Lazarus." "No matter, Lady. I see the queenship in you, and I never saw it in your mother, not one day of her life.
Agatha has a dangerous ease about her. She's the kind of person you want to like you.
Who hated as passionately as she loved, who asked questions that couldn't be answered, who
It is a wise woman who knows her place.
No one had ever looked at me before Suzanne, not really, so she became my definition. Her gaze softening my centre so easily that even photographs of her seemed aimed at me, ignited with private meaning.
She's life, and I'm death. Prescott Burlington-Smyth is everything I want to be. A storm moving out of a shit situation at the speed of light, not looking back to spare a glance at the casualties of her actions. How
She ne'er was really charming till she died.
She had an unusual name. She knew that much. It wasn't the kind of name that you found on ceramic coffee mugs at airport gift shops or emblazoned on mini-license plate souvenirs you could hang on your bedroom door after you returned from Disneyland. Her name was pretty and unusual and had meaning.
She that asks
Her dear five hundred friends, contemns them all,
And hates their coming.
What she wanted was to donate to the world a good Maud Martha. That was the offering, the bit of art, that could not come from any other. She would polish and hone that.
A woman not yet seen, but whose perfume accumulates on the horizon like a storm cloud.
[The] BBC was known as Auntie suggesting someone prudish and Victorian and that she still is on some days. On others she's a champagne-soaked floozie, her skirts in disarray, her mind in the gutter, and the mixture can be quite wonderful.
Mrs. Crawford. As she walked into her
Sally, or rather Sarah (for what young lady of common gentility will reach the age of sixteen without altering her name as far as she can?) must from situation be at this time the intimatre friend and confidante of her sister.
My mum, a strange creature from the time when pickles on toothpicks were still the height of sophistication.
Like most girls she had been brought up on the warm milk prepared by Annie Fellows Johnston and on novels in which the female was beloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities, always mentioned but never displayed.
In the fifteen or so years he has known her, A.J. thinks Ismay has aged like an actress should: from Juliet to Ophelia to Gertrude to Hecate.
Linda Evans Shepherd has blessed many by her warmth and openness. She's not only a delightful person, but she encourages others as she shares her joy.
She used to be a teacher but she has no class now.
Her cuisine is limited but she has as good an idea of breakfast as a Scotchwoman.
[Sherlock Holmes, on Mrs. Hudson's cooking.]
Constance: Tell me, what happened to William's little maid? I never saw her again after that dinner.
Mary Maceachran: Elsie?
She's gone.
Constance: Oh, it's a pity, really. I thought it was a good idea to have someone in the house who is actually sorry he's dead.
She's the sort of woman now,' said Mould, ... 'one would almost feel disposed to bury for nothing: and do it neatly, too!
Eliza, my pancreas.
I have long admired Caroline Leavitt's probing insight into people, her wit and compassion, her ability to find humor in dark situations, and conversely, her tenderness towards characters.
The Lady: a fluty voice, sensible shoes, a melancholy sense of living by rules few still remember.
She was a do-gooder,
I am her friend, and her tongue is in my mouth. I can speak her sentiments for her, though Ethel Waters can do very well indeed in speaking for herself.
The trouble with Irene is that she has a valise instead of a cunt. She wants
fat letters to shove in her valise.
this woman I have always adored. I think
madeleine soaked in her decoction of lime-flowers which my aunt used to give me (although I did not yet know and must long postpone the discovery of why this memory made me so happy)
owned a fabric store. She
She is the fragrance of a dozen jasmines.