Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Grenfell. 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 Grenfell Quotes And Sayings by 88 Authors including Alexander Pope,James Ellroy,Sara Pennypacker,John Owen Theobald,Virginia Woolf for you to enjoy and share.
Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
Bergen, and Oldfield. The
The war-sick camp,
If the ravens leave the Tower, Britain will fall.
Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.
I locate Essential Spain at last - the cruel winds, the grinding poverty, the unforgiving landscape. It could be Wales.
The King in the North!" "The King in the North!" "THE KING IN THE NORTH!
That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there go to hell, they come back for a blanket.
For a fair maid of England hath told me
That the crows are departed the Tower.
So I'll seek for my bailiwick elsewhere,
Sniffing out some new dungheap of power.
The countryside they
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Istanbul ... the constant beating of the wave of the East against the rock of the West ...
Necklace. The parchment curled, blackened, and took flame. Theon was aghast. "Have you gone mad?" His father laid a stinging backhand across his cheek. "Mind your tongue. You are not in Winterfell now, and I am not Robb the Boy, that you should speak to me so. I am the Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke,
The Duke of Clarence ... a prisoner in the Tower, was secretly put to death and drowned in a barrel of Malmesey wine.
A merchant came by a few years ago - he told me there was a mortal High King who had set himself up there. But I heard a whisper on the wind recently that said he'd been deposed by a young woman with wine-red hair who now calls herself their High Queen.
places, and incidents
Where are the rough brave Britons to be found With Hearts of Oak, so much of old renowned?
Angleterre Hotel,
amassed at Wenden and, unless they
Aberdeen, a city in the northern reaches of HSBC-London. Their
Peace to the shacks! War on the palaces!
A house made of ice in the middle of desert! And that house is the house of lies!
Arden Shore Camp in Lake Bluff, Illinois, a camp for poor children and those at risk for delinquency.
I dedicate this book to the rock of hospitality and liberty, to that portion of old Norman ground inhabited by the noble nation of the sea, to the island of Guernsey, severe yet kind, my present asylum, my probable tomb.
Youngstown - the place where, you know, we were told, people got killed.
Now, having left cities behind me, turned
Away forever from the strange, gregarious
Huddling of men by stones, I find those various
Great towns I knew fused into one, burned
Together in the fire of my despising ...
London.
In two days.
London, England.
May God save her ... forget the queen.
away from Clive.
That was the end of Grogan... the man who killed my father, raped and murdered my sister, burned my ranch, shot my dog, and stole my Bible!
the slaughterhouse where we had been locked up at night as prisoners of war.
Hung Island, Georgia,
Up the hill, sheep bleat, oblivious to human empires rising and falling.
What inn is this
Where for the night
Peculiar traveller comes?
Who is the landlord?
Where are the maids?
Behold, what curious rooms!
No ruddy fires on the hearth,
No brimming tankards flow.
Necromancer, landlord,
Who are these below?
Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.
This city belongs to ghosts, to murderers, to sleepwalkers. Where are you, in what bed, in what dream?
When nine-and-ninety hostages had shuffled by them to pass beneath the Wall, Tormund Giantsbane produced the last one. My son Dryn. You'll see he's well taken care of, crow, or I'll cook your black liver up and eat it.
It's only castles burning
In his den the monster keep, Giver of eternal sleep.
Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. There
Leave nothing for death but a burned-out castle
You know nothing John Snow
the wildling Ygritte
Where will you go?" "To the safest place in London," he says with a rueful smile. "A place that loved your husband and will never forgive Duke Richard for betraying him. The only honest business in London." "Where d'you mean?" "The whorehouse," he says with a grin.
London is yours. If you want it.
London's like a forest ... we shall be lost in it.
Town VIII. Monseigneur in the Country IX. The Gorgon's Head
Where are they going to hide the boy next?
He was a Stark of Winterfell, and who can say? Mayhaps his name was Brandon. Mayhaps he slept in this very bed in this very room
Death,
The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,
I'll probably go to London and hide.
I've got no other home to go to, not anymore. When I look at England now I see a dead place, Rupert. A wasteland. I won't live in a wasteland. I'd rather die in paradise.
Gwynned lies two days westwards; still further south, the weregeld calls. Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour, my deeds may yet inspire the skalds.
Bite me, Rhys.'
'Where?
Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is STARK.
I'll have peace on those terms," Lord Karstark said. "They can keep their red castle and their iron chair as well." He eased his longsword from its scabbard. "The King in the North!" he said, kneeling beside the Greatjon.
This souls'prison we call England.
Clare. Give me a reason to stay.
The Emperor died forsaken by all, on this horrible rock. (St. Helena) His death struggle was awful!
There is a special place in Hell reserved just for me, it's called the throne.
A cold, miserable little hamlet on the eastern coast of America called Piper's Grave.
The only place that's holier than St. Andrews is Westminster Abbey.
Spain- a great whale stranded on the shores of Europe.
Castles in the air - they are so easy to take refuge in. And so easy to build too.
from his current place of safety on
London! the needy villain's general home, The common sewer of Paris and of Rome! With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state.
Graved inside of it, "Italy".
England that little gray island in the clouds where governments don't fall overnight and children don't sell themselves in the street and my money is safe.
The musical equivalent of St Pancras Station.
(on Elgar)
The most amazing set where I've shot 'Game of Thrones' is definitely Croatia, in Dubrovnik. It's such a stunning country with lots of good watersports there as well. Just a beautiful, beautiful place.
CEMETERY, n. An isolated suburban spot where mourners match lies, poets write at a target and stone-cutters spell for a wager.
little white house near the foot of the lighthouse with a little path between. The two buildings stood on a rocky point of land, almost in the water.
Where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans of the storm?
The Bog Kingdom. Bidding him enter! Ah, enter! There, all wishes are fulfilled. The more forbidden, the more delicious.
Abed, the walls pressed close and the ceiling hung heavy above him; abed, the room was his cell and Winterfell his prison. Yet outside his windows, the wide world still called. - Bran
The mongrel tongue of Slaver's Bay, an ugly blend of Old Ghiscari and High Valyrian.
house at Otowi Bridge.
Ask whomever you will but you'll never find out where I'm lodging
Locked up from mortal eye in shady leaves of destiny.
I used to spend my holidays there in my grandparents' large family house, with my numerous cousins. When I die, I am going to be buried in the village cemetery.
Harrenhal must be held, though, and Baelor Butthole here is the man that Cersei chose to hold it.
Revolt, for you have nothing to lose but your chains and your [refugee] tents!
A prison! heav'ns, I loath the hated name,
Famine's metropolis, the sink of shame,
A nauseous sepulchre, whose craving womb
Hourly inters poor mortals in its tomb;
By ev'ry plague and ev'ry ill possess'd,
Ev'n purgatory itself to thee 's a jest.
Some cities bustle, some meander, I have read; London blazes and it incinerates. London is the wolf's maw. From the instant I arrived there, I loved every smoldering inch of it
The changes taking place in this part of Europe are enormous and very rapid. One world is disappearing. I am trying to photograph what's left. I have always been drawn to what is ending, what will soon no longer exist.
In the last, lorn fight
'gainst the fall of long night,
the mountains stand guard,
and dead shall be ward,
for the grave is no bar to my call.
As I came down the Highgate Hill, The Highgate Hill, the Highgate Hill, As I came down the Highgate Hill I met the sun's bravado, And saw below me, fold on fold, Grey to pearl and pearl to gold, This London like a land of old, The land of Eldorado.
The stone is strong. Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.
It's very kind of 'Wuthering Heights' where my parents' house is, moors and deserted. It's very wild and mystic.
In that temple of silence and reconciliation where the enmities of twenty generations lie buried, in the great Abbey which has during many ages afforded a quiet resting-place to those whose minds and bodies have been shattered by the contentions of the Great Hall.
Here a tower shining bright
Once stood gleaming in the night
Where now
There's just the rubble in the hole
from White City
A place like the meadow in the song I sang to Rue as she died. Where Peeta's child could be safe.
Benevolent throne set someplace high up on the moon.
I enjoy travelling the world, but nowhere beats Walsall.
A waste land lit by holy candles.
it the bloody-brinjal-and-bugger-all. Which is
Whenever I'm in Glasgow I go and stand outside the front of the house I grew up in, which is in Mount Vernon.
Next year he would suggest they hire a chalet on the edge of an icy fjord in Norway, as far away from the Jacobs family as possible.
Scotland: That garret of the earth - that knuckle-end of England - that land of Calvin, oatcakes, and sulfur.
There are places I cannot visit. Places of unbearable sadness, grief, mourning. They say places are made by people. I say places are defined by the memories they conjure - the lunge of a curse, a shared and shattered history, a loved one drowned and lost in the ocean of forgetting.
Kingsport or feel at home there. Before
Whose house is that, Constable?