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  • Kill me then,’ panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. ‘Kill me like you killed him, you coward-‘DON’T-‘ screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the house behind them- ‘CALL ME A COWARD! – J. K. Rowling

Kill me then,’ panted Harry, who felt no fear at all, but only rage and contempt. ‘Kill me like you killed him, you coward-‘DON’T-‘ screamed Snape, and his face was suddenly demented, inhuman, as though he was in as much pain as the yelping, howling dog stuck in the house behind them- ‘CALL ME A COWARD! – J. K. Rowling

Published on 2019-09-08 by Says The Parrot

Quotes courage, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, J.K. Rowling

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You exist in time, but you belong to eternity- You are a penetration of eternity into the world of time-You are deathless, living in a body of death- Your consciousness knows no death, no birth- It is only your body that is born and dies-But you are not aware of your consciousness-You are not conscious of your consciousness-And that is the whole art of meditation;Becoming conscious of consciousness itself. – Osho

Courage is not simply one of the virtues but the form of every virtue at the testing point, which means at the point of highest reality. – C.S. Lewis

There are those who scoff at the schoolboy, calling him frivolous andshallow: Yet it was the schoolboy who said ‘Faith is believing what youknow ain’t so’. – Mark Twain

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Next Next post: A day of dappled seaborne clouds.The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose? – James Joyce

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