Gatsby pale as death gezegde

 Gatsby, pale as death, with his hands plunged like weights in his coat pockets, was standing in a puddle of water glaring tragically into my eyes.
  F. Scott Fitzgerald

 And he returned unto his brethren, and said, The child is not; and I, whither shall I go? / And they took Joseph's coat, and killed a kid of the goats, and dipped the coat in the blood; / And they sent the coat of many colours, and they brought it to their father; and said, This have we found: know now whether it be thy son's coat or no.

 After Gatsby’s death the East was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eye’s power of correction.
  F. Scott Fitzgerald

 And it came to pass, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him; / And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it.

 Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
  F. Scott Fitzgerald

 We keep pushing the envelope on ticket prices and I think it's finally gone beyond the pale a little bit. Consumers are voting with their wallets and they're keeping them in their pockets.

 My father never feared death. He never saw it as an ending. I don't know why Alzheimer's was allowed to steal so much of my father before releasing him into the arms of death. But I know that at his last moment, when he opened his eyes -- eyes that had not opened for many, many days -- and looked at my mother, he showed us that neither disease nor death can conquer love.

 CARMELITE, n. A mendicant friar of the order of Mount Carmel.

As Death was a-rising out one day, Across Mount Camel he took his way, Where he met a mendicant monk, Some three or four quarters drunk, With a holy leer and a pious grin, Ragged and fat and as saucy as sin, Who held out his hands and cried:
"Give, give in Charity's name, I pray. Give in the name of the Church. O give, Give that her holy sons may live!" And Death replied, Smiling long and wide:
"I'll give, holy father, I'll give thee --a ride."

With a rattle and bang Of his bones, he sprang From his famous Pale Horse, with his spear; By the neck and the foot Seized the fellow, and put Him astride with his face to the rear.

The Monarch laughed loud with a sound that fell Like clods on the coffin's sounding shell:
"Ho, ho! A beggar on horseback, they say, Will ride to the devil!" --and _thump_ Fell the flat of his dart on the rump Of the charger, which galloped away.

Faster and faster and faster it flew, Till the rocks and the flocks and the trees that grew By the road were dim and blended and blue To the wild, wild eyes Of the rider --in size Resembling a couple of blackberry pies. Death laughed again, as a tomb might laugh At a burial service spoiled, And the mourners' intentions foiled By the body erecting Its head and objecting To further proceedings in its behalf.

Many a year and many a day Have passed since these events away. The monk has long been a dusty corse, And Death has never recovered his horse. For the friar got hold of its tail, And steered it within the pale Of the monastery gray, Where the beast was stabled and fed With barley and oil and bread Till fatter it grew than the fattest friar, And so in due course was appointed Prior. --G.J.
  Ambrose Bierce

 I was lucky enough to see with my own eyes the recent stock-market crash, where they lost several million dollars, a rabble of dead money that went sliding off into the sea. Never as then, amid suicides, hysteria, and groups of fainting people, have I felt the sensation of real death, death without hope, death that is nothing but rottenness, for the spectacle was terrifying but devoid of greatness... I felt something like a divine urge to bombard that whole canyon of shadow, where ambulances collected suicides whose hands were full of rings.
  Federico Garcia Lorca

 This guy has a history of bringing forward these grandiose schemes that basically melt into a puddle of water on the floor. As a hacker, Pex Tufvesson is in a class of his own.

 Death there was a relative thing, we were all carrying death certificates in our pockets and were just waiting for the date to be filled in.

 They each have a story to tell about what they went through: an 82-year-old lady standing on her bed in chest deep water before it started to recede. After you talk to them, listen to them, you see that glimmer of hope in their eyes that people in this country still do care.

 And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth.

 Erica tragically experienced death in the early morning of life. But this was not God's will ... but the will of wrong.

 I will venture to affirm, that the three seasons wherein our corn has miscarried did no more contribute to our present misery, than one spoonful of water thrown upon a rat already drowned would contribute to his death; and that the present plentiful harvest, although it should be followed by a dozen ensuing, would no more restore us, than it would the rat aforesaid to put him near the fire, which might indeed warm his fur-coat, but never bring him back to life.
  Jonathan Swift


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Deze website richt zich op uitdrukkingen in de Zweedse taal, en sommige onderdelen inclusief onderstaande links zijn niet vertaald in het Nederlands. Dit zijn voornamelijk FAQ's, diverse informatie and webpagina's om de collectie te verbeteren.


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