Horse Quotes

“You never get a second chance to have a first impression.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Only horses were honest, in the end.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“You have to know that bigots are unwittingly handing you an edge. By thinking you're lesser than they are, they underestimate you. Lean on that. Learn to use it, and you'll get the upper hand.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“It had seemed to him an evil fate, a geographical accident, that had forced them to take up arms in what was, to him, a war to secure the rich man’s wealth. Beyond what was strictly required for their care, he would talk to them, to better know their minds. But after a time, he had stopped seeking such dialogue. They were, all of them, lost to a narrative untethered to anything he recognized as true. Their mad conception of Mr. Lincoln as some kind of cloven-hoofed devil’s scion, their complete disregard—denial—of the humanity of the enslaved, their fabulous notions of what evils the Federal government intended for them should their cause fail—all of it was ingrained so deep, beyond the reach of reasonable dialogue or evidence.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Well, they say trauma etches the neurons, and I was traumatized by my appalling behavior.” Typical, Theo thought. He’d been accused, yet she was traumatized.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“They were, all of them, lost to a narrative untethered to anything he recognized as true. Their mad conception of Mr. Lincoln as some kind of cloven-hoofed devil’s scion, their complete disregard—denial—of the humanity of the enslaved, their fabulous notions of what evils the Federal government intended for them should their cause fail—all of it was ingrained so deep, beyond the reach of reasonable dialogue or evidence. Scott had become convinced that a total obliteration of their rebellion was the only way forward.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“It wasn’t his job to enlighten White people about their own racism.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“All men are equal on the turf or under it.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“He led Jess to a painting of a Black woman selling flowers. She leaned in and read the wall plate. “Frédéric Bazille, Young Woman with Peonies. I don’t know this artist.” “He was in the outer circle of the French Impressionists. Look how she offers the bouquet to a potential client, but she doesn’t seem to care if he buys them or not. She’s got that little frown line between her eyes—see, there?—‘Take it or leave it, mister’—as if she’s impatient that he can’t make up his mind. She’s not a bit ingratiating. And the peonies, of course, are Bazille’s bisou to Manet, who was the leader of the French avant-garde at the time. Manet loved peonies, cultivated them. There’s a peony at the center of the bouquet that the Black servant is offering the prostitute in Manet’s Olympia. That painting was at the height of its notoriety when Bazille painted this one. Everyone in the Paris art world would’ve got the reference.” “A Black servant in Olympia? I only remember the scowly White nude, and how upset everyone was that Manet didn’t paint her in a classical style.” Theo pulled out his cell phone and called up the image with a few taps. “Here,” he said, handing it to Jess. “Wow. I’ve looked at that picture dozens of times. How could I not have noticed her?” Theo frowned. “I’d be surprised, I guess, except that I once sat through a forty-minute lecture on that painting and the professor didn’t mention her. He spent more time on the black cat at the nude’s feet than the interesting woman who occupies half the canvas. I call it the Invisible Man effect, or in this case, Invisible Woman. Which is kind of the whole point of my work. To say, Hey, we’re here. We’ve always been here.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Perhaps you don’t have a painter’s hand… But I do know this: you have a critic’s eye. You can see what makes a painting good. That’s also a gift.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“It wasn’t a good idea to speak without putting a deal of thought into it. Words could be snares. Less of them you laid out there, less likely they could trap you up.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“You have to know that bigots are unwittingly handing you an edge. By thinking you’re lesser than they are, they underestimate you. Lean on that. Learn to use it, and you’ll get the upper hand.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Hard to say the right thing, these days.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“I still can’t believe it.” Daniel ran a hand through his locs. “Yeah. Right.” She caught the thin wedge of anger in his voice. “Well. I can’t.” “He couldn’t, either. Whereas I—we—all his friends—can believe it, no problem. Who does that? Go help some White girl. In a park. In Northwest DC. At night.” He shook his head and dropped another book into the box. “What else could he have done?” Daniel straightened. “Girl, he should have sped up, kept on running right to a well-lit road, and called some White folk to help her. He just didn’t know how he needed to be if he was going to live in this country.” He sighed. “We tried. Gave him ‘the talk,’ like our parents did when we were little kids.” He shook his head. “He thought he knew about cops. But the cops he knew in England, ninety percent of them weren’t carrying guns. No, make that a hundred percent, the bougie ’hoods where he came up. Art historian, Lord Fauntleroy accent, Yale and Georgetown—none of it was ever going to keep him safe. Like I said, we tried to warn him. But seems like it never sank in.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“I don't rightly know who was my great-grandfather, much less his father. How come you know that about a horse?”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“it. “You express surprise that I see my future in Canada. Let me tell you: I saw it the day I first crossed the border. I could vote there, you see, when I was still counted three fifths of a man here.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Nothing illegal. Just the business itself—racing horses before they should even be ridden, wrecking their bones before they’ve finished growing.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Viley’s Harry, Charles and Lew. Theo felt whipsawed. Troye may have portrayed these men as individuals, but perhaps only in the same clinical way that he exactly documented the splendid musculature of the thoroughbred. It was impossible not to suspect some equivalence between the men and the horse: valued, no doubt, but living by the will of their enslaver, submitting to the whip. Obedience and docility: valued in a horse, valued in an enslaved human. Both should move only at the command of their owner. Loyalty, muscle, willingness—qualities for a horse, qualities for the enslaved. And while the horse had two names, the men had only one. Theo let the resentment rise inside him.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Jess loved the interior architecture of living things. Ribs, the protective embrace of them, how they hold delicate organs in a lifelong hug. Eye sockets: no artisan had ever made a more elegant container for a precious thing.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Life looked well enough there. It was what you couldn’t see that rubbed your soul raw.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“I will not trade my horse for any that walks on four legs. When I sit astride him I soar, I am a hawk. He trots on air. The earth sings when he touches it.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“This here is God, bragging on how he create the horse.” He cleared his throat and read aloud in a preacher voice. Who gives the horse its strength or clothes his mane with thunder? Who makes him spring like a locust? His splendid snort is terror. He churns up the earth, rejoicing in his power, And charges towards the clash of arms. He laughs at fear, afraid of nothing; He does not shy away from the sword. Over him rattles the quiver, the glittering spear and blade. In frenzy he devours the ground; He cannot stand still when the trumpet sounds. At the blast of the trumpet he snorts, “Hurrah!” And from afar he scents the fray, Hears the clamor of the captains, the battle cry. When he finished reading, he patted the page. “I think that’s mighty fine, don’t you?” Jarret ran the words through in his mind. “Clothes his mane with thunder,” he repeated softly. “That’s good. It makes you see the power in the neck. And the part about how he devours the ground, rejoicing in his strength. It feels just that way some time. But I don’t know about being afraid of nothing. Most horses I know are afraid of plenty.” “Well, the Scripture here is talking about war horses. I guess they’s trained to be brave.” “That ain’t it. A cavalry horse will charge a cannon because he don’t know the cannonball can kill him. All he wants is to stay close to the rest of the herd. Army just learned to use that fear they have, of being left behind.” “Well,”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Perhaps he was like a horse rescued from a barn on fire, who runs back into his burning stall simply because the place is familiar.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“value of face time: never write a memo if you can make a phone call, never make a phone call if you can meet in person.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Mares had the capability to slow birthing so that the foal would have the dark hours to find its feet and be ready to run from a predator by dawn.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“He wants to think he’s from the best breeding. He wants to think himself brave. Can he win against all comers? And if not, does he have self-mastery to take a loss, stay cool in defeat, and try again undaunted? Those are the qualities of a great racehorse and a great gentleman.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Those are the qualities of a great racehorse and a great gentleman. A gentleman likes to have a horse that gives the right answers to those questions, then he can believe that he will give the right answers too. To do my part, I have to give a man a likeness that shows not just how beautiful the horse looks, but how beautiful it feels to him.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“Hoodies up, heads bent, they passed one another in silence, like monks on their way to matins.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“To the worst of them, she had been just another piece of Mr. Alexander’s choice livestock, and her pallet, in an alcove off the laundry room, had afforded her no lock or door bar. Since then, she and Jarret had managed to live in the precarious intimacy that is the only kind possible when one partner still ardently loves another. When Jarret sat by his hearth under the oil painting of Lexington, gazing at her lovely face in the firelight, he tried to forget that. As he tried to forget that it wasn’t a legal marriage and that, for all his authority at Woodburn, he was still enslaved.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse

“No one cared about injuries. Not when you’re flying down the field, you and the horse—” He was suddenly animated. “You’re one being, like a centaur. The best ponies are total athletes. They find the line of the ball without you doing anything. One time I came off—my fault, not the pony’s—and she went on, tearing down the field, and blocked my opponent’s shot as if I were still riding her.”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse