Quotes & Sayings About Mr Jones

I spotted Mr. Reyes Farrow standing next to his stunning '70 Plymouth 'Cuda. Classic. Dark. And all muscle. The car was hot, too. — Darynda Jones

His face searching the bus windows looked expectant, impatient, and a little anxious. It was a husband's face. Familiar, known, increasing beloved. Mary Ann, I reflected, had an awful lot to learn. And actually, I reflected, I wouldn't be in her shoes right now for all the flowers in Bermuda ... having it all to learn again.
— Ann Head

After a geological epoch passed in which single-celled organisms evolved into talk show hosts, Mr. Coffee was still holding out on me. — Darynda Jones

Let's all do it," said Mr. Watts. "Close your eyes and silently recite your name."
The sound of my name took me to a place deep inside my head. I already knew that words could take you into a new world, but I didn't know that on the strength of one word spoken for my ears only I would find myself in a room that no one else knew about.
"Another thing," Mr. Watts said. "No one in the history of your short lives has used the same voice as you with which to say your name. This is yours. Your special gift that no one can ever take from you. — Lloyd Jones

We'll fix it before then," said Denny. "Don't worry."
Mr. Jones didn't look convinced. "If it wasn't for this dumb leg," he shouted, "I'd jump ship and give you a hand."
"No need," yelled Denny, "I remember everything you taught me."
Mr. Jones shook his head and smiled. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said. — Jackie French Koller

Have you ever read Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?" "Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to do." Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question, but he prevented her by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the others, they are the stupidest things in creation. — Jane Austen

Care for a leg?' Mr. MacDonnell held the basket of chicken up toward Fenris Jones.
'Is that some kinda comment?' Fenris Jones demanded.
'Of course not,' Mr. MacDonnell said. 'It's an offer of dinner. — Martha Finley

Just in case, though, I stormed into my apartment, tossed a quick hello to Mr. Wong, then rummaged through my entertainment center to lay out all my exorcism equipment. I kept it in my entertainment center because exorcisms were nothing if not entertaining. — Darynda Jones

Repeat after me, Mr. Black: I do believe in commas. I do, I do. — Jaida Jones

Up here, far away from everybody, the night is peaceful: there's no sound except the hum of the Earth. At school, when I sang the note to Mr Hughes Music he said it was B flat but he laughed when I said it was the note the Earth hummed. He said: You'll be hearing the music of the spheres next, Gwenni. But he doesn't know how the Earth's deep, never-ending note clothes me in rainbow colors, fills my head with all the books ever written, and feeds me with the smell of Mrs. Sergeant Jones's famous vanilla biscuits and the strawberry taste of Instant Whip and the cool slipperiness of glowing red jelly. I could stay up here for ever without the need for anything else in the whole world. — Mari Strachan

Well, then," said Mr. Jones. "Denise, what do you say you and I go get some mussels?"
Denny eyed him skeptically. She didn't particularly want muscles. "Doing what?" she asked.
"Pardon?" said Mr. Jones.
"What do we have to do to get these muscles?" she asked.
"Cut them off of rocks."
"Cut muscles off of rocks?" said Denny.
"Yeah. They usually cling by their beards."
Denny gave him such a look of total bewilderment that her mother burst out laughing. "I think we have another communication problem here," she said. "The only muscle Denny has ever heard of is the kind in your arm."
Mr. Jones threw back his head and laughed. "Well, then, come along," he said. "It's time you learned a thing or two about the creatures you're sharing this island with. — Jackie French Koller

since I know for a fact that her class had been in the physics labs when Mr. Fibs got attacked by the bees he thought he'd genetically modified to obey commands from a whistle. (Turns out they only respond to the voice of James Earl Jones.) — Ally Carter

Mr. Crossley suddenly wondered why he was why he was worrying about the note. It was only a joke, after all. He cleared his throat. Everyone looked up hopefully. 'Somebody,' said Mr. Crossley, 'seems to have sent me a Halloween message.' And he read out the note: 'SOMEONE IN THIS CLASS IS A WITCH.'
6B thought this was splendid news. Hands shot up all over the room like a bed of beansprouts.
'It's me, Mr. Crossley!'
'Mr. Crossley, I'm the witch!'
'Can I be the witch, Mr. Crossley?'
'Me, Mr. Crossley, me, me, me! — Diana Wynne Jones

You can't have an honest fourth grade school teacher. Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Johnny, your son, your only child, the fruit of your loin, is a moron. I have no idea how this kid finds a door to get out of the house in the morning. If I were you, I would waste him and start over. Now, I say that with all due respect. — Dom Irrera

I strode toward Mr. Coffee with lust in my eyes. We'd had a thing for quite some time now Mr. Coffee and I ... — Darynda Jones

Mr. Stock came out of the competition tent carrying his zeppelin marrow on one shoulder and demanding to know what was going on. When he saw the hordes advancing on Aidan, he charged off that way, whirling the great vegetable. The Puck, who was rushing behind the horde, yelling at them to grab Aidan and kill Rolf, was Mr. Stock's first victim. The marrow caught him THOCK! on the side of the head. It laid the Puck out cold on the grass, but the mighty vegetable remained intact, mottled and glossy — Diana Wynne Jones

Mr. Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the popholes. — George Orwell

Booker T. Jones sounds more pithy and forceful than ever on "Potato Hole" ... Mr. Jones still jabs terse, unhurried melodies that sound as if he knows the lyrics but would never tell. Where the M.G.'s suavely underplayed their aggression, the rockers' multiple-guitar attack, with distortion and feedback, gives the music teeth. — Jon Pareles

Beckett Rush spotted in London Saturday. 'Tinseltown's It Boy reportedly had three dates with three different girls at La Trattoria ... all over the course of six hours. Two ladies discovered the duplicity, and catfight broke out. Taylor Risdale broke up the fight before storming out. Beckett's camp could not be reached at the moment.'" Mr. Rush laughed. "You know what this means, right?"
"That once again my name is trashed."
"That your DVD sales will spike at least 5 percent. — Jenny B. Jones

Mr. and Mrs. Lowell are not receiving."
What the hell did that mean? "I'm not throwing a forty-yard pass. I just have a few questions. I think their daughter is in danger. — Darynda Jones

Really the truth is just a plain picture. A plain picture of, let's say, a tramp vomiting in the sewere. You know, and next door to the picture Mr. Rockefeller or Mr. C. W. Jones on the subway going to work. You know, any kind of picture. Just make a collage of pictures. — Bob Dylan

A man does not learn very well, Mr. Robbins. Women, yes, because they are used to bending with whatever wind comes along. A woman, no matter the age, is always learning, always becoming. But a man, if you will pardon me, stops learning at fourteen or so. He shuts it all down, Mr. Robbins. A log is capable of learning more than a man. To teach a man would be a battle, a war, and I would lose. — Edward P. Jones

His knees locked and he pushed his weight against Mr. Jones's hand. It wasn't the dim light coming through the skylights or the giant steel fan that waited to chop them up or the smell of urine or the dank-dungeon cells that lined both sides of the aisle that made Danny step back. It was a sense of panic, of fear, that saturated the atmosphere like an electrical current, tingling in his bowels. The boys ahead of him didn't seize up, but they stutter-stepped. Like the end of a ship's plank was dead ahead. Danny felt this type of fear spreading through his groin like cold fingers once before. A memory emerged in the soupy sea of memories inside his head. He remembered getting pulled out of the back seat of a car with his hands cuffed behind his back by someone. But then like everything he tried to remember, there were gaps. — Tony Bertauski

Tell them I'm coming, mr. Jones. — James O'Barr

The canvases which Mr. St. Jones referred to with a paintbrush that was long and slightly bowed: for the most part interiors, or undergrounds, of pocked and craggy holes, rock vaults with mossy floors and slimy walls, or narrow scenic vistas that skinny silver streams squirmed through like sidewinders flipped on their backs, beneath downward grasping tentacles of roots, stalactites dagger-sharp and dangling by threads of stone, stalagmites teetering, all doused, frozen in molten electric white that suggested what a glimpse of hell might be, too beautiful, some still lifes too, great bulbous beets, hoary legumes, giant scallions, white carrots, tomatoes, berries, squash in huge radiant bowls, and portraits, signed by Ionia, of shadows, from which gleamed eyes and teeth and nails and, here and there, a glowing bubble, or scrotum, caught the eye. Near the door a counter clacked but rather quietly. — Douglas Woolf

Lulu writes: When Mother, Mr. Jones and I were walking through those strange, crowded downtown streets, where people were sticking their hands into pickle barrels, pointing to smoked fish, and eating sliced herring, I saw the scene in a whole new way. They weren't buying food: They were finding their way home. — Ruth Reichl

Do I need to ask Mr. Colt to move?" She wiggles her lips. "Are we having a little love in the afternoon?"
Everybody titters-not laughs, but titters. I can feel my face turning red. "No. No, it's fine. He's fine."
"He sure is," mutters some girl with mall bangs at the next table. Her table mate slaps her five. — Carrie Jones

You got the good heart. Underneath all the other stuff. Good heart is eighty-five percent of everything in life.' ...
'What is the other fifteen percent?' Nat said. 'Just out of curiosity?'
'Politeness,' Mr. Jones said without hesitation. 'And keeping a level head. — Michael Chabon

When the great Greek cry breaks into the Latin of the Mass, as old as Christianity itself, it may surprise some to learn that there are a good many people in church who really do say kyrie eleison and mean exactly what they say. But anyhow, they mean what they say rather more than a man who begins a letter with "Dear Sir" means what he says. "Dear" is emphatically a dead word; in that place it has ceased to have any meaning. It is exactly what the Protestants would allege of Popish rites and forms; it is done rapidly, ritually, and without any memory even of the meaning of the rite. When Mr. Jones the solicitor uses it to Mr. Brown the banker, he does not mean that the banker is dear to him, or that his heart is filled with Christian love, even so much as the heart of some poor ignorant Papist listening to the Mass. — G.K. Chesterton

To Mr. Jones, she said, imagine you're looking up at a blue sky, and imagine a tiny airplane skywriting the letter Z. Then let the wind erase the letter. Then imagine the plane writing the letter Y. Let the wind erase it. Then the letter X. Erase it. Then the letter W.
Let the wind erase it. — Chuck Palahniuk

Dear Mr Worsthorne,
My attention has only been drawn to an astonishing attack you made some months ago in 'The Sunday Telegraph' on that fine man Lord Longford.
'That Lord Longford should team up with Janie Jones, the convicted procuress,' you wrote, 'may not at first glance seem to be a matter meriting much adverse comment. It might even be thought desirable, and a mark of a civilised society, for such a universally execrated wretch to have at least one friend in high places'.
Well! Calling Lord Longford a universally execrated wretch is irresponsible journalism at it's worst, in my opinion, and I would strenuously dispute that Miss Janie Jones moves in high places. — William Donaldson

Aidan was fascinated by Mr. Stock's hat. Perhaps it had once been a trilby sort of thing. It may once hace even been a definite color. Now it was more like something that had grown - like a fungus - on Mr. Stock's head, so mashed and used and rammed down by earthy hands that you could have thought it was a mushroom that had accidentally grown into a sort of gnome-hat. It had a slightly domed top and a floppy edge. And a definite smell — Diana Wynne Jones

What you should be asking yourself," he said, indicating Mr. Wong with a nod as the departed man hovered in my corner, "is why a being that ungodly powerful is hanging out in your apartment. — Darynda Jones

Let me explain something you already know. I'm from Texas and we understand the nature of a border. From what I've seen, vigilant Texans are being ordered to stand down and allow criminals to pass. Mr. President, prepare to see Texans ignoring those orders. — Tommy Lee Jones

You think about people like Hank Williams, who stood on that spot of wood, and Mr. Acuff, and, of course, George Jones. And just about anybody you can think of who has made country music has been on that stage. That's what makes you so nervous - to think about the historical part of the Opry and how it's played such a part in country music. — Alan Jackson

Mr. Jones's book is a cleareyed examination of the British class system, and it poses this brutal question: 'How has hatred of working-class people become so socially acceptable?' His timely answers combine wit, left-wing politics and outrage. — Dwight Garner

The most killer questions in sales: "Mr. Jones, when I say (insert your product, your company, or anything you want an opinion about here) what one word comes to mind?" This is the most powerful question because it not only gives you top of mind awareness (the customer "hot button"), it also tells you their attitude towards it. — Jeffrey Gitomer

Get a dog biscuit out of that cabinet there," Mr. Jones told Denny.
Denny found a box of Milk-Bones and took one out.
Mr. Jones was picking up his tools. Denny held the bone out to him.
"Give it to him, not me," said Mr. Jones. "Do I look like I want a Milk-Bone? — Jackie French Koller

Most of the time, if you ask a kid who's their best friend, it's usually a classmate or their neighbor or something, but for me, it was my granddad. Everybody knew him - they called him Mr. Jones. — Chris Paul

Mr. Wallace, would you please repeat what you recall that this Dylan Jones chap told you. Particularly about what he claimed is needed to free up your inheritance — James Ignizio

Some stories will help you find happiness and truth. Some stories teach you not to make the same mistakes twice. These ones offer instructions. — Lloyd Jones

The Jeep was parked at the beginning of the causeway when Denny got off the bus. She ignored it and started toward the island.
"Denise . . ."
Denny ignored Mr. Jones's call and kept on walking.
She heard the engine start, and soon the Jeep was rolling along beside her.
"Picked up your mail," said Mr. Jones. He handed some envelopes out the window. Denny grabbed them without a word.
"There's a letter there from some old coot named Jones," Mr. Jones said. "Looks like an apology."
Denny looked down and ruffled through the envelopes. "There is not," she said.
"No?" said Mr. Jones sheepishly. "Well, there should be. Guess he didn't get around to writing it. He feels real bad though. I know that for a fact."
Denny stopped and put her hand on her hip and stared at Mr. Jones. — Jackie French Koller

I wrote to Mr. McEnroe, Senior. I said: "Here is the sentence once written by the immortal Bobby Jones. I thought you might like to have it done in needlepoint and mounted in a suitable frame to hang over Little John's bed. It says, The rewards of golf - and of life, too, I expect - are worth very little if you don't play the game by the etiquette as well as by the rules." I never heard from Mr. McEnroe, Senior. I can only conclude that the letter went astray. — Alistair Cooke

I never had any thought the whole week. I figured my caddie [Jerry Beard] knew the course a lot better than me, so I put out my hand and played whatever club he put in it. I'd say, "How hard do I hit it?" He'd tell me and I'd swing. The guys who come down here once a year and try to get smart with Mr. Jones' course are the dumb ones. — Fuzzy Zoeller

That cotton trade was almost the deal breaker for me. It was at that point that I said, Mr. Stupid, why risk everything on one trade? Why not make your life a pursuit of happiness rather than pain? — Paul Tudor Jones

Mr. Vice President, the most fiscally conservative thing this government has ever done, is to invest massively in the green part of the recovery. Because those green dollars are the hardest working dollars in the history of American politics. That same dollar that is being used to cut energy bills, is also cutting global warming gas emissions, is also cutting unemployment, is also cutting poverty, through retrofits it's also raising the value of homes, is also by cleaning the air, cutting asthma rates. — Van Jones

See you in a few. Hold down the fort, Mr. Wong! — Darynda Jones

Mr. Baptiste, I love Sid with all that I am and I would greatly treasure the opportunity to spend the rest of our lives showing her just how much she means to me. — M. Yvonne Jones

The pigs had an even harder struggle to counteract the lies put about by Moses, the tame raven. Moses, who was Mr. Jones's especial pet, was a spy and a tale-bearer, but he was also a clever talker. He claimed to know of the existence of a mysterious country called Sugarcandy Mountain, to which all animals went when they died. It was situated somewhere up in the sky, a little distance beyond the clouds, Moses said. In Sugarcandy Mountain it was Sunday seven days a week, clover was in season all the year round, and lump sugar and linseed cake grew on the hedges. The animals hated Moses because he told tales and did no work, but some of them believed in Sugarcandy Mountain, and the pigs had to argue very hard to persuade them that there was no such place. — George Orwell

There used to be two kinds of kisses: First when girls were kissed and deserted; second, when they were engaged. Now there's a third kind, where the man is kissed and deserted. If Mr. Jones of the nineties bragged he'd kissed a girl, everyone knew he was through with her. If Mr. Jones of 1919 brags the same, everyone knows it's because he can't kiss her any more. Given a decent start any girl can beat a man nowadays. — F Scott Fitzgerald

Busy editors cannot be expected to put on their posters, "Mr. Wilkinson Still Safe," or "Mr. Jones, of Worthing, Not Dead Yet." They cannot announce the happiness of mankind at all. They
cannot describe all the forks that are not stolen, or all the marriages that are not judiciously dissolved. Hence the complex picture they give of life is of necessity fallacious; they can
only represent what is unusual. — Gilbert K. Chesterton

What did one say to a stalker? Um, pardon me, Mr.Stalker, but could you, like, not? — Darynda Jones

Matthews asked:
"How intimate was your relationship with Dr. Miller?"
"Intimate?" Phil still couldn't grasp what they were asking.
"My colleague is asking if you'd ever had sex with Dr. Miller before that evening." Jones added curtly.
"I've never ... We've never ... We're friends. We'd never had sex before that evening, and we didn't have sex that evening either."
"How do you explain your semen in her sheets then, Mr. Marshall? — Olga Nunez Miret

One viewer - a Mr. Dionne from California... fired off an angry, rambling letter, complaining haughtily that "the most disciplined attention I could give [The Cube] was a belch from the grave of Marcus Aurelius, occasioned, I might add, by the dead weight of its own dust caving in on itself." Two weeks later came Jim's one-sentence response:

Dear Mr. Dionne:
What the fuck are you talking about?
Yours truly,
JIM HENSON — Brian Jay Jones

Mr. Lynn gave her one of his considering looks. "People are strange," he said. "Usually they're much stranger than you think. Start from there and you'll never be unpleasantly surprised. Do you fancy doughnuts? — Diana Wynne Jones

How does that put me in danger?" Nick asks. It's the first question he's asked the entire time. Devyn, however, has been Mr. Nonstop Wondering Question Guy.
"Because . . ." I don't know how to say it, struggle for the words. "Because you and I are a thing and you're a threat."
"You better believe I'm a threat," Nick growls. The entire car seems to shake with his energy. Little hairs on my arm lift and vibrate.
"He's going macho again," Dev says, totally nonchalantly, while he unlocks the door.
"He's always going macho," Is adds. "It must be the wolf thing."
"I am not going macho. I am always macho," Nick says, and for a moment the tension ratchets down, but then his face muscles become rigid again. — Carrie Jones