Crates Famous Quotes & Sayings
66 Crates Famous Sayings, Quotes and Quotation.
In a burst of movement I'm up the crates, scaling the wall, and rolling onto the tiles of the roof next to me, a handful of stories in the air.— Sara Raasch
Connor strode confidently into the light-filled image. His body blurred for a moment and then there he was, standing among the crates. He paused, stretching his arms and yawning, and then suddenly dropped his pants and mooned us.— Andrea Cremer
"Oh God, Connor!" Adne groaned. "Get through there and bite him, Shay."
"I'm not coming, remember?" Shay objected, but he laughed. "Even if I was, I wouldn't bite his ass."
"Maybe Calla will," Adne grinned.
"Not likely," I muttered though on a second glance I had to admit that Connor's ass wasn't that bad to look at.
Beyond this point on the river Cambridge became a kind of miniature Venice, its river water lapping up against the ancient stone of college walls, here mottled and reddened brick, there white stone. Stained, lichened, softened by water light. Here the river became a great north-south tunnel, a gothic castle from the river, flanked by locked iron gates, steps leading nowhere, labyrinths, trapdoors, landing stages where barges had unloaded their freight: crates of fine wines, flour, oats, candles, fine meats carried into the damp darkness of college cellars.— Rebecca Stott
It's just that I have this funny objection to torturing small animals no matter how scrumptious their body parts might be ... Our food industries are equal opportunity abusers: cows, chickens, pigs, and a special mention to those little calves who for their short, miserable lives are locked into crates too small to allow movement just so we can eat veal.— Ron Reagan
I told her about the best and the worst. The slow and sleepy places where weekdays rolled past like weekends and Mondays didn't matter. Battered shacks perched on cliffs overlooking the endless, rumpled sea. Afternoons spent waiting on the docks, swinging my legs off a pier until boats rolled in with crates full of oysters and crayfish still gasping. Pulling fishhooks out of my feet because I never wore shoes, playing with other kids whose names I never knew. Those were the unforgettable summers. There were outback towns where you couldn't see the roads for red dust, grids of streets with wandering dogs and children who ran wild and swam naked in creeks. I remembered climbing ancient trees that had a heartbeat if you pressed your ear to them. Boomboom-boomboom. Dreamy nights sleeping by the campfire and waking up covered in fine ash, as if I'd slept through a nuclear holocaust. We were wanderers, always with our faces to the sun.— Vikki Wakefield
Being asked to support humane meat means being asked to support the suffering of animals in transport, to approve of treatment that causes them palpable fear, their bodies shaking and their eyes wide as saucers, as they are slung by their legs into crates that are slammed onto the back of a truck.— Ingrid Newkirk
I like keeping music in front of people. I try to sell at shows as much as I can - setting up a distro table and bringing out crates of vinyl and some CDs. That's my favorite way to sell because you're actually face-to-face with the customer.— Chris Black
Hagrid, who had told them last lesson that they had finished with unicorns, was waiting for them outside his cabin with a fresh supply of open crates at his feet. Harry's heart sank at the sight of the crates - surely not another skrewt hatching? - but— J.K. Rowling
A tall, thin, middle-aged man with a long, gray Jovian beard stood outside the Hermitage Museum with an expression of absolute shattered regret.— Paullina Simons
Tatiana instantly reacted to his face. What could make a man look this way? He was standing next to the back of a military truck, watching young men carry wooden crates down the ramp from the Winter Palace. It was these crates the man looked at with such profound heartbreak, as if they were his vanishing first love.
"Who is that man?" she asked, tremendously affected by his expression.
"The curator of the Hermitage."
"Why is he looking at the crates that way?"
Alexander said, "They are his life's sole passion. He doesn't know if he is ever going to see them again.
I had decided that I wanted to earn my living as a writer and the only place in Waterbury where they paid you for writing was at the local newspaper. My opportunity came when the paper had an opening for a night janitor. Opportunities are easy to miss, because they don't always show up in their best clothes. Sometimes opportunities look like beggars in rags. After an eight-hour shift in the shop tossing thirty-pound crates I hustled down to the newspaper building and cleaned toilets, with a vague plan that it would somehow lead to a reporter's position.— John William Tuohy
Our society is monstrously disjunctive, at once so efficient in war and so inefficient in caring for the welfare of its members. It is frightening to see people rooting in garbage pails on streets, living in cardboard crates under bridges, while their government wages war. Even when there is an emergency in a household, decent parents do not forget to feed the children.— Anne Truitt
How many'd we do? is the question frequently asked at the end of the shift, when the cooks collapse onto flour sacks and milk crates and piles of dirty linen, smoking their cigarettes, drinking their shift cocktails,— Anthony Bourdain
The interior was dim like a cave. The ceiling, pressed tin, was stalactited with hooks from the days when the shopkeeper would hang it with buckets, watering cans, coils of rope and paired boots. Refrigerator cases lined a side wall, shallow crates of withered fruit and vegetables the back, and in the vast middle ground were aisles of rickety shelving, stacked with anything from tinned peaches to tampons. The sole cash register was adjacent to the entrance, next to ranks of daily newspapers and weekly and monthly magazines and a little bookcase thumbtacked with a sign, Library. If you were a farmer in need of an axe or some some sheep dip you headed for the far back corner. If you wanted to buy a stamp, you headed a couple of paces past the library.— Garry Disher
When I saw 'Hercules,' my mind just exploded because I was extremely thin; I was insecure. I literally ran out of the theatre and started lifting things, anything I could think of - milk crates. I'm still lifting things. It changed my life.— Sylvester Stallone
Eyuran," I addressed his Node. "What was in this one?"— Jeno Marz
He came closer and studied the huge case, which was easily twice the height of an adult Danna and had body slots for some kind of gear.
"I don't know for sure. I haven't seen this before. It resembles a gearbot sarx, but those are usually larger. Must be a new, compact model." Observing the empty sarx, a wave of bad feelings came over me.
"I also saw some of the weapon crates with broken locks."
"If someone is operating a gearbot, a bunch of guns will be the least of our worries. A hull repairer can't even begin to compete with the power of an assault exomachine." He looked around and frowned. "By the way, the whole hull repairer rack is empty. Counting the one you took out, we should have seven more roaming somewhere on the ship.
She was reading Francis Godwin's Man in the Moone--its man was borne into space in a carriage drawn by swans--when she heard the sound of wheels upon the gravel. Two boxes from Martin & Allestyre were set down on the drive. 'My modest closet plays,' she said. She nearly ran down the stairs--for the recovery of her wayward crates that spring and the preparation of her plays for publication had rekindled inside Margaret a flame she'd feared had gone out. ... But now, in turning the pages, she grew concerned and then incensed: 'reins' where she had written 'veins,' 'exterior' when she had clearly meant 'interior.' The sun went down. The room grew dim. ... 'Before the printer ruined it,' she cried, 'my book was good!'— Danielle Dutton
'Could it be,' he asked, soaking his bread in {lamb's} blood, 'that you were yourself the cause of this misfortune?
There was scarcely a woman alive, it seemed, who could resist the urge to haul men down onto beds, car seats, kitchen floors, dining-room tables, park grass, parlor sofas, or packing crates, entwine warm thighs around them, and pant in ecstasy.— Russell Baker
I thought that ground fire couldn't reach the zeppelins," I said. "I thought that guns on the ground didn't have the range."— Shana Abe
"Eleanore. Do you imagine for one particle of one second that he was thinking clearly enough to fathom that?"
"He was thinking clearly enough to fathom all of this," I retorted, my hand flung out to encompass the roof. Blood stained my palm. "Clearly enough to have men haul all these crates into the castle in broad daylight all week long, so that everyone could see them and wonder what was actually inside!
If there is a record I don't have, I haven't heard it yet. My collection is always growing, but I can't really play it anywhere - no promoter is willing to pay for my crates of vinyl to fly with me, so I have a team of people to digitise it all.— Grandmaster Flash
In the end the real wealth of the Hungarian Jewish community had not been packed in crates and boxes and loaded onto that train. What is the value to a daughter of a single pair of Sabbath candlesticks passed down from her mother and grandmother before her, generation behind generation, for a hundred, even a thousand, years? Beyond price, beyond measure. And what of ten thousand pairs of similar candlesticks, when all the grandmothers, mothers, and daughters are dead? No more than the smelted weight of the silver. The wealth of the Jews of Hungary, of all of Europe, was to be found not in the laden boxcars of the Gold Train but in the grandmothers and mothers and daughters themselves, in the doctors and lawyers, the grain dealers and psychiatrists, the writers and artists who had created a culture of sophistication, of intellectual and artistic achievement. And that wealth, everything of real value, was all but extinguished.— Ayelet Waldman
Be as the birds" He nodded to his pigeon crates. "Finding grace in how God made you, one with this world and the next. The pigeon does not pine to be a lark, or a cat, or a fish.— Umberto Tosi
I always prided myself on the fact that I could live out of milk crates forever. It was kind of my way of detaching from materialism.— Kerry Washington
Kugel didn't like attics, he never did. The roofing nails overhead like fangs, waiting to sink into his skull; the cardboard boxes and plastic crates and leather trunks - tombs, sarcophagi - full of ghosts and regret and longing and loss; worse yet was the implication in all this emotional hoarding that the past was preferable to the present, that what came before bests whatever comes next, so clutch it to your chests in mourning and dread as you head into the unknowable but probably lousy future.— Shalom Auslander
metal in crates to be loaded— Anthony Doerr
Ah, I like the look of packing crates! A household in preparation for a journey! ... Something full of the flow of life, do you understand? Movement, progress ...— Lorraine Hansberry
And so they sat in silence. Sipping cold tea. Smoking. The windows of the house across the street shone molten gold, the silver sickle of the new moon hung in the dark blue sky, and there was a sharp crackling sound coming through the window - they must have been burning old crates again on the street.— Arkady Strugatsky
But even now, with the crates piled high in the hall, what I see most plainly about the books is that they are beautiful. They take up room? Of course they do: they are an environment; atoms, not bits. My books are not dead weight, they are live weight - matter infused by spirit, every one of them, even the silliest. They do not block the horizon; they draw it. They free me from the prison of contemporaneity: one should not live only in one's own time. A wall of books is a wall of windows.— Leon Wieseltier
Stephen King is just one of the numerous modern engineers of human souls. This mega-writer got a mega-advance of seventeen million dollars for his latest book. The communist soul engineers would get an advance on their future historical guilt, crates of vodka, cirrhosis of the liver, and the constant possibility of a knock on the door from the KGB.— Dubravka Ugresic
Oh. Sorry. I just kinda have a thing for cabinets. And chests. And caskets, trunks, crates, cartons ... all kinds of boxes, I guess.— Gary Whitta
Some nights he sat up late on his front porch with a glass of Jack and listened to the trucks heading south on 220, carrying crates of live chickens to the slaughterhouses - always under cover of darkness, like a vast and shameful trafficking - chickens pumped full of hormones that left them too big to walk - and he thought how these same chickens might return from their destination as pieces of meat to the floodlit Bojangles' up the hill from his house, and that meat would be drowned in the bubbling fryers by employees whose hatred of the job would leak into the cooked food, and that food would be served up and eaten by customers who would grow obese and end up in the hospital in Greensboro with diabetes or heart failure, a burden to the public, and later Dean would see them riding around the Mayodan Wal-Mart in electric carts because they were too heavy to walk the aisles of a Supercenter, just like hormone-fed chickens.— George Packer
We stood in the alley where we shot basketballs through hollowed crates and cracked jokes on the boy whose mother wore him out with a beating in front of his entire fifth-grade class. We sat on the number five bus, headed downtown, laughing at some girl whose mother was known to reach for anything - cable wires, extension cords, pots, pans. We were laughing, but I know that we were afraid of those who loved us most.— Ta-Nehisi Coates
I am unpacking my library. Yes I am. The books are not yet on the shelves, not yet touched by the mild boredom of order. I cannot march up and down their ranks to pass them in review before a friendly audience. You need not fear any of that. Instead, I must ask you to join me in the disorder of crates that have been wrenched open, the air saturated with the dust of wood, the floor covered with torn paper, to join me among piles of volumes that are seeing daylight again after two years of darkness, so that you may be ready to share with me a bit of the mood— Walter Benjamin
it is certainly not an elegiac mood but, rather, one of anticipation
which these books arouse in a genuine collector.
McDonald's says it's phasing out pig gestation crates. When I heard that news, I almost started crying.— Jane Velez-Mitchell
I'm a tall woman. At work, that means a lot of my co-stars have to stand next to me on apple crates. But apparently, my height bodes well in the fashion world.— Taylor Schilling
My latex-covered fingers tighten as the warmth abandons them. Mom swears she stored a bag of rice in the underground bunker, but I can't find anything resembling food. A shiver runs down my spine while I move empty crates around. Some light would really help.— Anya Monroe
I like the aspect of technology. For me to spin the way I do, I would have to carry five crates of records with me everywhere I go, which in this day and age would be like two hundred extra dollars in baggage fees. All I need now is a hard drive and a computer and I can rock anywhere in the world.— Neil Armstrong
Someone's moved these crates away from the wall. Go up to the house, will you, and see if you can find a flashlight? I want a better look."— Susan Elizabeth Phillips
"Here." She pulled out the small flashlight she'd stuck in her pocket. "Do you have any idea how annoying that is?"
"I'll try not to do it again.
What I saw next stopped me dead in my tracks. Books. Not just one or two dozen, but hundreds of them. In crates. In piles on the floor. In bookcases that stretched from floor to ceiling and lined the entire room. I turned around and around in a slow circle, feeling as if I'd just stumbled into Ali Baba's cave. I was breathless, close to tears, and positively dizzy with greed.— Jennifer Donnelly
What in Hood's name are you doing down here?'— Steven Erikson
'Hiding, what's it look like? That's always been your problem, Kal, your lack of subtlety. Sooner or later it's going to get you into trouble. Is it dark yet?'
'No. Listen, what's with this damned gale up top? It's all wrong-'
'You just noticed?'
Kalam scowled in the gloom. Well, at least he'd found the wizard. The High Mage of the Fourteenth, hiding between crates and casks and bales. Oh, how bloody encouraging is that?
...
Quick Ben moved further into the narrow space between cargo. 'Here, there's room.'
After a moment, Kalam joined him. 'You got anything to eat? Drink?'
'Naturally.'
'Good.
A nurse and a social worker took fifteen minutes out of their shitty thankless job in the roughest corner of town, sat on a couple of milk crates drinking coffee, flopped their real selves out of the cement and both liked what they saw.— Laura Buzo
Very few people know this, but I love organizational products and tools. One of my favorite places to shop are container stores where you can get bins, boxes and crates to organize your life.— Kimora Lee Simmons
ROOT CELLAR— Theodore Roethke
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!
Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
Tarek Mohamed Bouazizi, who burned himself to death in front of the governor's offices in the town of Sidi Bouzid in December 2010.12 Bouazizi killed himself precisely one hour after a policewoman, backed by two municipal officers, had seized from him two crates of pears, a crate of bananas, three crates of apples and a second-hand electronic weight scale worth $179. Those scales were his only capital. He did not have legal title to his family's home, which might otherwise have served as collateral for his business. His economic existence depended on the 'fees' he paid to officials to allow him to operate his fruit-stand on— Niall Ferguson
Often in the morning he drove a long hour or more to the markets in the city, there to behold what would determine the day's special. With the crates of fresh selesctions snuggled into his station wagon, his thoughts on the ride back confronted the culinary equivalent of the writer's blank page. Sometimes his head swirled with exciting ideas; other mornings he was in a panic upon returning with the same old eggplant and squash and zucchini and nothing but the dullness of the word ratatouille standing by to mock him.— Nancy Zafris
Comedians in their infancy are generally selfish, irresponsible, emotionally retarded, morally dubious, substance-addicted animals who live out of boxes and milk crates. They are plagued with feelings of failure and fraudulence. They are prone to fleeting fits of manic grandiosity and are completely dependent on the acceptance and approval of rooms full of strangers, strangers the comedian resents until he feels sufficiently loved and embraced.— Marc Maron
Perhaps I am only speaking for myself here.
I consider the 3 most cruelly produced foods to be from lobsters, dropped alive into boiling water, veal from calves separated from their mothers and kept in crates, and pate de foie gras.— Cleveland Amory
Nerves were on hair triggers, and if my virgin aunt had stepped out from behind those crates with a puppy in one hand and a baby in the other my guys would have capped her.— Jonathan Maberry
His gaze glossed over a stack of wooden crates and landed on a steamer trunk that was covered with stickers from all over the world.— Megan Frazer Blakemore
Anyone who loves books the way Homer does, loves libraries, too. It doesn't matter if the library has fancy red leather chairs and gold-plated shelves that reach to a vaulted ceiling, or if the library has splintery wooden benches and shelves made of old milk crates. it's the scent that sets the book lover at ease. It's better than grandma's perfume, or freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, or even toast. It's a scent derived from paper, mildew, dust, and human endeavors.— Suzanne Selfors
It was funny, I thought, eyeing the Chinese and English logos on the crates, the names of the companies that supplied both countries, funny because our weapons to kill each other were different. But our medicines to save lives were the same.— James Abel
And finally, it was the place where Father made the crates for those items of our household that we were allowed take with us to our future home in the Reich.— John Tschinkel
If they had to transport black market human organs or drugs or sexbots or whatever was in those crates, he'd do it. Because he was scared.— James S.A. Corey
While the melodrama of hucking crates of tea into Boston Harbor continues to inspire civic-minded hotheads to this day, it's worth remembering the hordes of stoic colonial women who simply swore off tea and steeped basil leaves in boiling water to make the same point. What's more valiant: littering from a wharf or years of doing chores and looking after children from dawn to dark without caffeine?— Sarah Vowell
Mostly, I make sure to stay keenly aware of my own shortcomings so that I am more patient with others. It can be hard to see a friend order a cow-milk latte when almond or soy milk is available, knowing that the friend knows what dairy cows go through, how they mourn their babies, who have been carted off to veal crates so that we can steal their milk.— Karen Dawn
Many nights, Ai-ming said, ignoring my question, her father's music pulled her from sleep. Sparrow, she slowly pieced together, had been one of Shanghai's most renowned composers. But after the Conservatory was shut down in 1966 and all five hundred of its pianos destroyed, Sparrow worked in a factory making wooden crates, then wire, and then radios, for two decades. Ai-ming heard him humming fragments of music when he thought no one was listening. Eventually she came to understand that these fragments were all that remained of his own symphonies, quartets and other musical works. The written copies had been destroyed.— Madeleine Thien
Her moment came. Nobody was looking. She sidled quickly across the deck and lost herself among the crates that clustered at the base of the boat's shuddering, discoloured funnel. The air tasted of salt and guilt, and she felt alive.— Frances Hardinge
Into crates, but threw the bad ones away. 49 That is the— Anonymous
Chickens were packed into wire crates stacked ten high, without room to stand or protection from the elements. They had likely traveled hundreds of miles to get here, without access to food or water.— Rachel Lacey
In a sooty kettle. In one corner, orange-colored sodas were stacked in wooden crates. I had never been in such a wretched hovel.— Jan-Philipp Sendker
We are America.— Anne Sexton
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
You're the last line of defense. When you're dead, Hitler will march through Leningrad the way he marched through Paris. Do you remember that?'— Paullina Simons
'That's not fair. The French didn't fight,' Tatiana said, wanting to be anywhere right now but standing in front of men loading artwork from the Hermitage onto armored trucks.
'They didn't fight, Tania, but you will fight. For every street and for every building. And when you lose
'
'The art will be saved.'
'Yes! The art will be saved,' Alexander said emotionally. 'And another artist will paint a glorious picture, immortalizing you, with a club in your raised hand, swinging to hit the German tank as it's about to crush you, all against the backdrop of the statue of Peter the Great atop his bronze horse. And that picture will hang in the Hermitage, and at the start of the next war the curator will once again stand on the street, crying over his vanishing crates.
She lived upstairs in the farmhouse; guests and visitors occupied the B&B rooms downstairs. She kept crates tucked all over the house, in which herding dogs-border collies and shepherds-slept while waiting to work, exercise, or play.— Jon Katz
These working dogs, I'd come to learn, led lives very different from my dogs'. Carolyn let them out several times a day to exercise and eliminate, but generally, they were out of crates only to train or herd sheep. While they were out, Carolyn tossed a cup of kibble into their crates for them to eat when they returned. I asked her once if she left the lights on for the dogs when she went out, and she looked at me curiously. "Why? They don't read...
Still, they were everywhere. If you bumped into a sofa it might growl or thump. Some of her crew were puppies; some were strange rescue dogs.
The real slums are another matter. The bad parts of Tondo are as bad as any place I've seen, ancient, filthy houses swarmed with the poor and stinking of sewage and trash. But there are worse parts - squatter areas where people live under cardboard, in shipping crates, behind tacked-up newspapers. Dad would march you straight to the basement with a hairbrush in his hand if he caught you keeping your hamster cage like this.— P. J. O'Rourke
Forgetting takes space./Forgotten matters displace/as much anything else as/anything else. We must/skirt unlabeled crates/as thought it made sense/and take them when we go/to other states.— Kay Ryan
My brother and I had saved $15,000 by working many years nailing fruit crates together.— Robert Mondavi
An entire aisle of cereal...hundreds of choices....Of course I had eaten cereal before. I'm not a savage....Cereal was a small, affordable luxury. An effort. A point of pride. Something special....Those crates of cereal meant that we deserved what others do not.... Here the choices that stand before me in the store aisles seem to exist only to mock me. Cereal isn't a luxury...the boxes laugh at me...Two aisles down I count 27 varieties of peanut butter....it is really necessary?— J.C. Carleson
