Welsh Quotes

Quotes tagged as "welsh" Showing 1-30 of 35
H.L. Mencken
“Where is the graveyard of dead gods? What lingering mourner waters their mounds? There was a time when Jupiter was the king of the gods, and any man who doubted his puissance was ipso facto a barbarian and an ignoramus. But where in all the world is there a man who worships Jupiter today? And who of Huitzilopochtli? In one year - and it is no more than five hundred years ago - 50,000 youths and maidens were slain in sacrifice to him. Today, if he is remembered at all, it is only by some vagrant savage in the depths of the Mexican forest. Huitzilopochtli, like many other gods, had no human father; his mother was a virtuous widow; he was born of an apparently innocent flirtation that she carried out with the sun.

When he frowned, his father, the sun, stood still. When he roared with rage, earthquakes engulfed whole cities. When he thirsted he was watered with 10,000 gallons of human blood. But today Huitzilopochtli is as magnificently forgotten as Allen G. Thurman. Once the peer of Allah, Buddha and Wotan, he is now the peer of Richmond P. Hobson, Alton B. Parker, Adelina Patti, General Weyler and Tom Sharkey.

Speaking of Huitzilopochtli recalls his brother Tezcatlipoca. Tezcatlipoca was almost as powerful; he consumed 25,000 virgins a year.

Lead me to his tomb: I would weep, and hang a couronne des perles. But who knows where it is? Or where the grave of Quetzalcoatl is? Or Xiuhtecuhtli? Or Centeotl, that sweet one? Or Tlazolteotl, the goddess of love? Of Mictlan? Or Xipe? Or all the host of Tzitzimitl? Where are their bones? Where is the willow on which they hung their harps? In what forlorn and unheard-of Hell do they await their resurrection morn? Who enjoys their residuary estates? Or that of Dis, whom Caesar found to be the chief god of the Celts? Of that of Tarves, the bull? Or that of Moccos, the pig? Or that of Epona, the mare? Or that of Mullo, the celestial jackass? There was a time when the Irish revered all these gods, but today even the drunkest Irishman laughs at them.

But they have company in oblivion: the Hell of dead gods is as crowded
as the Presbyterian Hell for babies. Damona is there, and Esus, and
Drunemeton, and Silvana, and Dervones, and Adsullata, and Deva, and
Bellisima, and Uxellimus, and Borvo, and Grannos, and Mogons. All mighty gods in their day, worshipped by millions, full of demands and impositions, able to bind and loose - all gods of the first class. Men labored for generations to build vast temples to them - temples with stones as large as hay-wagons.

The business of interpreting their whims occupied thousands of priests,
bishops, archbishops. To doubt them was to die, usually at the stake.
Armies took to the field to defend them against infidels; villages were burned, women and children butchered, cattle were driven off. Yet in the end they all withered and died, and today there is none so poor to do them reverence.

What has become of Sutekh, once the high god of the whole Nile Valley? What has become of:

All there were gods of the highest eminence. Many of them are mentioned with fear and trembling in the Old Testament. They ranked, five or six thousand years ago, with Yahweh Himself; the worst of them stood far higher than Thor. Yet they have all gone down the chute, and with them the following:

You may think I spoof. That I invent the names. I do not. Ask the rector to lend you any good treatise on comparative religion: You will find them all listed. They were gods of the highest standing and dignity-gods of civilized peoples-worshiped and believed in by millions. All were omnipotent, omniscient and immortal.

And all are dead.”
H.L. Mencken, A Mencken Chrestomathy

Cassandra Clare
“Do you miss Wales?” Tessa inquired.
Will shrugged lightly. “What’s to miss? Sheep and singing,” he said. “And the ridiculous language. Fe hoffwn i fod mor feddw, fyddai ddim yn cofio fy enw.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘I wish to get so drunk I no longer remember my own name,’ Quite useful.”
Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

Diana Wynne Jones
“Wizard Howl," said Wizard Suliman. "I must apologize for trying to bite you so often. In the normal way, I wouldn't dream of setting teeth in a fellow countryman.”
Diana Wynne Jones, Howl’s Moving Castle

Dylan Thomas
“Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
Come closer now.
Only you can hear the houses sleeping in the streets in the slow deep salt and silent black, bandaged night.”
Dylan Thomas, Under Milk Wood
tags: welsh

Lisa Kleypas
“You play with great skill," he said.
"Thank you."
"Is that your favorite piece?"
"It's my most difficult," Helen said, "but not my favorite."
"What do you play when there's no one to hear?"
The gentle question, spoken in that accent with vowels as broad as his shoulders, caused Helen's stomach to tighten pleasurably. Perturbed by the sensation, she was slow to reply. "I don't remember the name of it. A piano tutor taught it to me long ago. For years I've tried to find out what it is, but no one has ever recognized the melody."
"Play it for me."
Calling it up from memory, she played the sweetly haunting chords, her hands gentle on the keys. The mournful chords never failed to stir her, making her heart ache for things she couldn't name. At the conclusion, Helen looked up from the keys and found Winterborne staring at her as if transfixed. He masked his expression, but not before she saw a mixture of puzzlement, fascination, and a hint of something hot and unsettling.
"It's Welsh," he said.
Helen shook her head with a laugh of wondering disbelief. "You know it?"
"'A Ei Di'r Deryn Do.' Every Welshman is born knowing it."
"What is it about?"
"A lover who asks a blackbird to carry a message to his sweetheart."
"Why can't he go to her himself?" Helen realized they were both speaking in hushed tones, as if they were exchanging secrets.
"He can't find her. He's too deep in love- it keeps him from seeing clearly."
"Does the blackbird find her?"
"The song doesn't say," he said with a shrug.
"But I must know the ending to the story," Helen protested.
Winterborne laughed. It was an irresistible sound, rough-soft and sly. When he replied, his accent had thickened. "That's what comes o' reading novels, it is. The story needs no ending. That's not what matters."
"What matters, then?" she dared to ask.
His dark gaze held hers. "That he loves. That he's searching. Like the rest of us poor devils, he has no way of knowing if he'll ever have his heart's desire.”
Lisa Kleypas, Cold-Hearted Rake

T. Kingfisher
“Perhaps Welsh fairies stole children and confiscated their vowels.”
T. Kingfisher, The Twisted Ones

Emma Donoghue
“In the yard of the inn, Daffy Cadwaladyr introduced himself. "Short for Davyd," he said pleasantly.

The Londoner looked as if she'd never heard a sillier name in her life.”
Emma Donoghue, Slammerkin

Joe Dunthorne
“We asked our Welsh teacher, Mr Llewellyn – who is young, to tell us the Welsh sex words. The Welsh word for sex is ‘rhyw’. It sounds like coughing. He said that, in general, Welsh-speakers use English words. When pressed, he gave us a couple of examples to show us why this might be. ‘Llawes goch’ means ‘red sleeve’. ‘Coes fach’ means ‘small leg’. The phrase would be: ‘Put your small leg in my red sleeve’.”
Joe Dunthorne, Submarine

Angela Quarles
“She straightened and crossed her arms. “I can’t sleep with you,” she blurted.
… “As you please.”
“As you please?” She stepped back, the rough wood of the bench bumping her upper calf. She’d braced herself for a battle and now felt oddly deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me into it?”
“I need not talk women into lying with me.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Joe Dunthorne
“Our Welsh teacher thinks he is young. He tells us that the Welsh for skiving in town is ‘mitchio yn y dre’.”
Joe Dunthorne, Submarine

Jo Walton
“Welsh mutates initial consonants. Actually all languages do, but most of them take centuries, while Welsh does it while your mouth is still open.”
Jo Walton, Among Others

Evangeline Walton
“For cleverness and wisdom are as different as are the circuitous passages of a labyrinth and the straight, upward flight of a bird.”
Evangeline Walton, Island of the Mighty

Kamand Kojouri
“In Wales, they love with abandon.
When a Welsh person loves you,
you'll finally know your potential.
They are different from the Americans,
who are precarious with their love.
They are different from the English,
who are reserved even when you stand
in front of them, naked,
handing them your heart.
The English give you their love in cups:
here, you’ve been good. drink another glass.
But the Welsh, they drown you
in an ocean of love.
You have their attention, their
consideration. You have all of them.
They aren’t even careful to keep any
for themselves. It seems to me
that only the Welsh know how to love,
how to make someone feel loved.
Because when a Welsh person loves you,
you’ll finally know how it feels
to belong to poetry.”
Kamand Kojouri

“Perhaps the Irish are so rich in the voice because twas the only thing the English could not take from them. It is why the Welsh sing.”
Owen Parry, Faded Coat of Blue

Gregory Figg
“The wiry man scratched his head, looked the two inquisitors up and down and cleared his throat softly. “We must be quick.” He turned to go, pulling his cloak over his head and shuffling through the door into the moonlight. The two inquisitors moved with impossible silence behind, floating across the straw-covered floor like the cats on the walls outside the hut. The cats froze at the disturbance before scurrying noiselessly into the shadows as the three silhouettes crossed the ten yards of grass before the blackness of the forest swallowed them. No fires flickered at this time, when the full moon was highest in the cloudless summer sky, and the three were the only waking souls in the hamlet.”
Gregory Figg, Threshold

Richard Llewellyn
“So I went to bed, full, happy, and caring nothing for all the hurt of all the englished Welshmen that ever festered upon a proud land”
Richard Llewellyn, How Green Was My Valley

“I live in a beautiful place, I work at something I love, I make enough money to live, and my demands on the world's resources are very meager. What's unusual about this idyllic circumstance is that there is plenty of room for more to join.”
John Brown

Angela Quarles
“Ah, cariad, finally I have you to myself, with a bed behind me, and what do I do?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Margiad Evans
“Give me a sight of you to take back to England with me. I am not speaking Welsh, though indeed it is on the end of my tongue, cariad.”
Margiad Evans, Country Dance

“Our angst springs from coming from South Wales. It's a longing encapsulated in the Welsh word "hireath". The Irish can usually see the better side of things, they have a sense of wonder. The Welsh don't. We think everything is going to turn out shit.”
Nicky Wire, A Version of Reason: In Search of Richey Edwards

Lisa Kleypas
“Taking her left hand, he began to slide the moonstone onto her finger, and hesitated. "How did I propose the first time?" He had been nervous, steeling himself for a possible refusal; he could hardly remember a word he'd said.
Amusement tugged at her lips. "You laid out the advantages on both sides, and explained the ways in which our future goals were compatible."
Rhys absorbed that with chagrin. "No one has ever accused me of being a romantic," he said ruefully.
"If you were, how would you propose?"
He thought for a moment. "I would begin by teaching you a Welsh word. Hiraeth. There's no equivalent in English."
"Hiraeth," she repeated, trying to pronounce it with a tapped R, as he had.
"Aye. It's a longing for something that was lost, or never existed. You feel it for a person or a place, or a time in your life... it's a sadness of the soul. Hiraeth calls to a Welshman even when he's closest to happiness, reminding him that he's incomplete."
Her brow knit with concern. "Do you feel that way?"
"Since the day I was born." He looked down into her small, lovely face. "But not when I'm with you. That's why I want to marry you."
Helen smiled. She reached up to curl her hand around the back of his neck, her caress as light as silk gauze being pulled across his skin. Standing on her toes, she drew his head down and kissed him. Her lips were smoother than petals, all clinging silk and tender dampness. He had the sensation of surrendering, some terrible soft sweetness evading him and rearranging his insides.
Breaking the kiss, Helen lowered back to her heels. "Your proposals are improving," she told him, and extended her hand as he fumbled to slide the ring onto her finger.”
Lisa Kleypas, Marrying Winterborne

Megan Campisi
“The Sin Eater walks among us, unseen, unheard
Sins of our flesh become sins of Hers
Following Her to the grave, unseen, unheard
The Sin Eater Walks Among Us.”
Megan Campisi, Sin Eater

“The true structure of the Welsh grammar will be revealed only when we look at sentences slightly more complicated than its basic VSO pattern. Welsh is no different from the rest of the world: it does involve an extra step, but even that isn't all that unusual. Welsh is like Shakespearean English on acid: the verb always - not just in questions - moves to the beginning. Alternatively, it can be viewed as taking the French grammar a step further. While the verb stops at tense in French, it moves further in Welsh to a position that traditional grammarians call the complementizer (don't ask).”
Charles Yang, The Infinite Gift: How Children Learn and Unlearn the Languages of the World

Geraint Goodwin
“Siarad Cymraeg?" said Old Shacob.
"He wants to know if you speak Welsh," said the surveyor.
"NO!" yelled the official at the old man before him.
"Tamn it all; his language, man!" shouted Dan. "What you expect in Wales - Chinese, or what?!”
Geraint Goodwin, The Heyday in the Blood

Angela Quarles
“She flapped her hands, anxious energy coursing through her. “How can you be so calm?”
He got to his feet, unfolding with an easy grace. He held out a hand, his dark eyes focused solemnly on hers. “Come with me.”
“For what?”
“That’s part of the lesson.” Was it her imagination, or did a twinkle of humor stir in those eyes? “Center yourself, and grab onto the here and now.”
That made no sense—what was he now, Sir Medieval Zen Master? But she slipped her hand into his strong, calloused one. He hauled her up until she bumped into his chest. With a finger under her chin, he tilted her face until she looked in his eyes.
“Listen to the world around you. Hear the birds? Hear the small animals scurrying? You are in this moment, this moment only, and sometimes that’s all you can do, all you can be.” His finger pulled away, brushing against her skin, and he tapped her nose, stepping away.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“She led them to their pallets, again encircled by other pallets. She sat down, sighing at her aching muscles, and caught his gaze. “You may, er, wrap your arms around me if that will make you feel I am safer.”
He chuckled--a hoarse chuckle, rusty, but a chuckle nonetheless. She’d take it.
“May I indeed?” He lay beside her and pulled her back against him, settling her head on his arm, bunching the other hide up to use as a pillow. “If I must.” His warm sigh tickled across her neck. “After all, I must ensure that pinkie does not wander.”
Would Robert never let her forget that?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“She needed a distraction. “Was that your mother?”
The splashing stopped. “Are you going to converse while I bathe?”
“Why not?”
“Feels rather unseemly.”
She laughed, picturing him sitting there, shocked and indignant. “We’re supposed to be married, right?”
“You have a point, however I would rather not discuss her right now.”
“I think you’re evading me.”
“Mayhap. Is it working?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“While you live, whatever your state while on earth, act the generous and manly part; and never, never, either manually or with the lash of satire, war with the weak”
T.J. Llewelyn Prichard, The Comical Adventures of Twm Shon Catty Commonly known as the Welsh Robin Hood

Simon Brooks
“The myth that the island of Britain was the God-given property of Welsh-speaking peoples stolen by the Saxons meant that the Welsh were reluctant to give up their claim on Britain by rejecting Britishness.”
Simon Brooks, Why Wales Never Was: The Failure of Welsh Nationalism

Irvine Welsh
“El paraíso huele de una forma muy concreta: a alcantarilla.”
Irvine Welsh

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