A Quote by Melina Mercouri

England and Greece are friends. English blood was shed on Greek soil in the war against fascism, and Greeks gave their lives to protect English pilots. — © Melina Mercouri
England and Greece are friends. English blood was shed on Greek soil in the war against fascism, and Greeks gave their lives to protect English pilots.
At every point I wished that I was born English. They need to make it colder in here. You could hang meat in this room. But, yeah...I grew up in a very English household. My folks were from Liverpool. I've said this before, but there is nothing more English than an Englishman that no longer lives in England.
My fitness trainer's English, my physio's English, some of my friends are English. I don't have a problem with English people at all.
To write or even speak English is not a science but an art. There are no reliable words. Whoever writes English is involved in a struggle that never lets up even for a sentence. He is struggling against vagueness, against obscurity, against the lure of the decorative adjective, against the encroachment of Latin and Greek, and, above all, against the worn-out phrases and dead metaphors with which the language is cluttered up.
Greeks have to know that they are not alone ... Those who are fighting for the survivor of Greece inside the Euro area are deeply harmed by the impression floating around in the Greek public opinion that Greece is a victim. Greece is a member of the EU and the euro. I want Greece to be a constructive member of the Union because the EU is also benefiting from Greece.
I wouldn't have any fears about coming to England because I have played against English sides in the Champions League and studied the English game.
My father and mother emigrated to Canada in 1958, but there's nobody more English than an Englishman who no longer lives in England, and our home was a shrine to all things English.
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
Even when I speak English to my parents, I'll say an English word differently to my Chinese parents and friends than I do to my English-speaking friends - you know, I'll pronounce 'McDonald's' differently, because it feels right, and that's what I'm used to.
Through my youth, there was imposed on us a culture relentlessly English. English books were all you could buy; English television filled our screens, and in consequence, England seemed to matter in a way that our world didn't.
Malcolm Bradbury made the point, and I don't know whether it's a valid one or not, that the real English at the moment is not the English spoken in England or in America or even in Canada or Australia or New Zealand. The real English is the English which is a second language, so that it's rather like Latin in the days of the Roman Empire when people had their own languages, but had Latin in order to communicate.
Heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives! You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace.
A lot of the demos I write are all in English, so releasing music in English isn't translating to English, it's just keeping them in English.
My English is closer to the literary English, and I'm not very familiar with jokes in English or with, you know, with small talk in English.
English is no problem for me because I am actually English. My whole family are English; I was brought up listening to various forms of the English accent.
We know from our recent history that English did not come to replace U.S. Indian languages merely because English sounded musical to Indians' ears. Instead, the replacement entailed English-speaking immigrants' killing most Indians by war, murder, and introduced diseases, and the surviving Indians' being pressured into adopting English, the new majority language.
Had there been no Renaissance and no Italian influence to bring in the stories of other lands English history would, it may be, have become as important to the English imagination as the Greek Myths to the Greek imagination; and many plays by many poets would have woven it into a single story whose contours, vast as those of Greek myth, would have made living men and women seem like swallows building their nests under the architrave of some Temple of the Giants.
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