欧宝娱乐

“It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die.”
― Maggie Stiefvater, The Scorpio Races

“October extinguished itself in a rush of howling winds and driving rain and November arrived, cold as frozen iron, with hard frosts every morning and icy drafts that bit at exposed hands and faces.”
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

“If you are a woman, if you're a person of colour, if you are gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, if you are a person of size, if you are a person od intelligence, if you are a person of integrity, then you are considered a minority in this world.

And it's going to be really hard to find messages of self-love and support anywhere. Especially women's and gay men's culture. It's all about how you have to look a certain way or else you're worthless. You know when you look in the mirror and you think 'oh, I'm so fat, I'm so old, I'm so ugly', don't you know, that's not your authentic self? But that is billions upon billions of dollars of advertising, magazines, movies, billboards, all geared to make you feel shitty about yourself so that you will take your hard earned money and spend it at the mall on some turn-around creme that doesn't turn around shit.

When you don't have self-esteem you will hesitate before you do anything in your life. You will hesitate to go for the job you really wanna go for, you will hesitate to ask for a raise, you will hesitate to call yourself an American, you will hesitate to report a rape, you will hesitate to defend yourself when you are discriminated against because of your race, your sexuality, your size, your gender. You will hesitate to vote, you will hesitate to dream. For us to have self-esteem is truly an act of revolution and our revolution is long overdue.”
― Margaret Cho

“AUTUMNAL

Pale amber sunlight falls across
The reddening October trees,
That hardly sway before a breeze
As soft as summer: summer's loss
Seems little, dear! on days like these.

Let misty autumn be our part!
The twilight of the year is sweet:
Where shadow and the darkness meet
Our love, a twilight of the heart
Eludes a little time's deceit.

Are we not better and at home
In dreamful Autumn, we who deem
No harvest joy is worth a dream?
A little while and night shall come,
A little while, then, let us dream.

Beyond the pearled horizons lie
Winter and night: awaiting these
We garner this poor hour of ease,
Until love turn from us and die
Beneath the drear November trees.”
― Ernest Dowson, The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson

“Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t鈥檞as his intent
To blow up the King and Parli鈥檓ent.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England鈥檚 overthrow;
By God鈥檚 providence he was catch鈥檇
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!”
― Alan Moore, V for Vendetta

“I know that I have died before鈥攐nce in November.”
― Anne Sexton

“But there is always a November space after the leaves have fallen when she felt it was almost indecent to intrude on the woods鈥or their glory terrestrial had departed and their glory celestial of spirit and purity and whiteness had not yet come upon them.”
― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Windy Poplars

“LONDON. Michaelmas Term lately over, and the Lord Chancellor sitting in Lincoln鈥檚 Inn Hall. Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth, and it would not be wonderful to meet a Megalosaurus, forty feet long or so, waddling like an elephantine lizard up Holborn Hill. Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snow-flakes 鈥� gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another鈥檚 umbrellas in a general infection of ill-temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if the day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. Fog in the eyes and throats of ancient Greenwich pensioners, wheezing by the firesides of their wards; fog in the stem and bowl of the afternoon pipe of the wrathful skipper, down in his close cabin; fog cruelly pinching the toes and fingers of his shivering little 鈥檖rentice boy on deck. Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon, and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time 鈥� as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look.

The raw afternoon is rawest, and the dense fog is densest, and the muddy streets are muddiest near that leaden-headed old obstruction, appropriate ornament for the threshold of a leaden-headed old corporation, Temple Bar. And hard by Temple Bar, in Lincoln鈥檚 Inn Hall, at the very heart of the fog, sits the Lord High Chancellor in his High Court of Chancery.”
― Charles Dickens, Bleak House

“The house was very quiet, and the fog鈥攚e are in November now鈥攑ressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.”
― E.M. Forster, Howards End

“This November there seems to be nothing to say.”
― Anne Sexton, Anne Sexton: A Self-Portrait in Letters

“In November, the smell of food is different. It is an orange smell. A squash and pumpkin smell. It tastes like cinnamon and can fill up a house in the morning, can pull everyone from bed in a fog. Food is better in November than any other time of the year.”
― Cynthia Rylant, In November

“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures. The bed is white and silent, and much life can hide beneath its blankets.”
― Cynthia Rylant, In November

“Every November of my boyhood, we put on red poppies and attended highly patriotic services in remembrance of those who had 'given' their lives. But on what assurance did we know that these gifts had really been made? Only the survivors鈥攖he living鈥攃ould attest to it. In order to know that a person had truly laid down his life for his friends, or comrades, one would have to hear it from his own lips, or at least have heard it promised in advance. And that presented another difficulty. Many brave and now dead soldiers had nonetheless been conscripts. The known martyrs鈥攖hose who actually, voluntarily sought death and rejoiced in the fact鈥攈ad been the kamikaze pilots, immolating themselves to propitiate a 'divine' emperor who looked (as Orwell once phrased it) like a monkey on a stick. Their Christian predecessors had endured torture and death (as well as inflicted it) in order to set up a theocracy. Their modern equivalents would be the suicide murderers, who mostly have the same aim in mind. About people who set out to lose their lives, then, there seems to hang an air of fanaticism: a gigantic sense of self-importance unattractively fused with a masochistic tendency to self-abnegation. Not wholesome.

The better and more realistic test would therefore seem to be: In what cause, or on what principle, would you risk your life?”
― Christopher Hitchens, Hitch 22: A Memoir

“The last dying days of summer, fall coming on fast. A cold night, the first of the season, a change from the usual bland Maryland climate. Cold, thought the boy; his mind felt numb. The trees he could see through his bedroom window were tall charcoal sticks, shivering, afraid of the wind or only trying to stand against it. Every tree was alone out there. The animals were alone, each in its hole, in its thin fur, and anything that got hit on the road tonight would die alone. Before morning, he thought, its blood would freeze in the cracks of the asphalt.”
― Poppy Z. Brite

“In November, some birds move away and some birds stay. The air is full of good-byes and well-wishes. The birds who are leaving look very serious. No silly spring chirping now. They have long journeys and must watch where they are going. The staying birds are serious, too, for cold times lie ahead. Hard times. All berries will be treasures.”
― Cynthia Rylant, In November

“The widower reviewed his past in a sunless light which was intensified by the greyness of the November twilight, whilst the bells subtly impregnated the surrounding atmosphere with the melody of sounds that faded like the ashes of dead years.”
― Georges Rodenbach, Bruges-La-Morte

“NOVEMBER

Now chill & grey November
Come slowly o'er the plain,
Drearily the winter wind
Sings songs of future pain.

Wrapped closely in deep grey,
She scarcely will let pass
A little ray of sun
To cheer the sodden grass.

She scatters with her hand
The leaves dried up and brown,
The few that yet remain
From gay October's crown.

Her eyes and dark and sad,
Sad for the dying year,
And often in the mist
There falls a silent tear.

Beneath a cheerless sky
The trees are standing bare,
The fog has risen thick
And she is no more there.”
― Beatrice Crane

“Her smile adds an air of enigma to her. Like a melting cup of warm dark chocolate on a November evening.”
― Ipsita Upasana, Inexplicable Distances

“It was one of those early November mornings that are as beautiful as any in spring. There was gold everywhere, drifts of it on the elm tree, flakes of gold under our feet, gold dust on the hedges, liquid gold in the refracted falling light.”
― Elizabeth Goudge, The Dean's Watch

“As November鈥檚 crisp, rustling leaves surrender to cool autumn breezes and whirl away in all directions, we are reminded that 鈥榝or everything there is a season.”
― Peggy Toney Horton, Unseen Angels

“When it rains in Paris, it bleeds
into swift little gutters.
You can see your reflection
over its mercury embryo.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“I wore the scent of weather inside
my body like a sacred love.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“It was a time of hope 鈥� a time to shine. The best moment of my life awaited me, with the most loved person calling me to meet her. It was spring in November 鈥� it was a blossom in desolation. It was the month of my exams 鈥� and exams led to glory. It was the last few days with the best of friends before departing to chase our own dreams. It was the season of jackets and sweaters. And those meant warmth and protection and love. And I stood, with an evening of November promising to be something truly special.”
― Tshetrim Tharchen, A Play of the Cosmos: Script of the Stars

“November evenings are often cold and dry. It is a season of loss and a season of despair. The world is brown and yellow and naked. The bears had hibernated and the migrants from the north had moved to the south. It was a time of no harvest 鈥� and a time of no plantation. All that the people around knew were to sit around the warmth of the bukharis and spend family time with their loved ones. It was the beginning of the spell of despondency. It was the parallel of summer and the heart the autumn-winter transitions. It was a season of sweaters and yathras and jackets. The earth around was cold and barren.”
― Tshetrim Tharchen, A Play of the Cosmos: Script of the Stars

“Hello Here November...

November traditionally signals shifts in the human spirit, may our kind actions in gifting seasons transcend our culturally attended timelines...
to consistently circulate the ethereal fluid of "mindful love" that can endlessly~pulse the power of spirit to touch lives without calendar & watchclock reminders that tick or tock us to do so...Dr. Tracey Bond”
― Dr. Tracey Bond

“November was my favorite time of the year because so many of the foods that stirred my cooking spirit burst into the season---mussels, oysters, and a variety of squashes exploding in yellows and oranges, including my former nemesis: the potimarron.”
― Samantha Verant, Sophie Valroux's Paris Stars

“It was November. The trees were
full with smells of oncoming smoke.”
― Sneha Subramanian Kanta

“Summer came in November, and it came in blazing”
― Amelia Mellor, The Bookseller's Apprentice

“An Eleventh Pretender by Stewart Stafford

Pardon me, thou art king
Of paling November鈥檚 hedgerow,
Demanding fealty from December,
That crowns the year, and justly so.

I hear thy shrill trumpets blow,
They shake my windows so.
None shun the stepping stone.
To Christmas feasting鈥檚 glow.

Thou host saints and souls indeed,
Commemorate foiled plots.
Martinmas turns harvest to winter,
And mirth at Guildhall spots.

Thou art an impostor yet
in the Western world, or here.
Blow hence, ninth month of Rome,
Paucity鈥檚 envy of double-digit's year.

漏 Stewart Stafford, 2023. All rights reserved.”
― Stewart Stafford

“Twig, leaf, flint, thorn,
Straw, feather, all that men scorn,
Pounded up and sodden by flood,
Condemned as mud.”
― Edward Thomas, Selected Poems and Prose