A Quote by Wendell Phillips

Politicians are like the bones of a horse's foreshoulder-not a straight one in it. — © Wendell Phillips
Politicians are like the bones of a horse's foreshoulder-not a straight one in it.
My father had owned a ranch when he was younger, in Montana, and he remembered riding his horse across the prairie and seeing some large bones sticking out of the ground. He was enough of a geologist, being a sand and gravel man, to have a pretty good notion that they were dinosaur bones.
This one isn’t just any old horse. There’s a nobility in his eye, a regal serenity about him. Does he not personify all that men try to be and never can be? I tell you, my friend, there’s divinity in a horse, and specially in a horse like this. God got it right the day he created them. And to find a horse like this in the middle of this filthy abomination of a war, is for me like finding a butterfly on a dung heap. We don’t belong in the same universe as a creature like this.
The Englishman walks before the law like a trained horse in the circus. He has the sense of legality in his bones, in his muscles.
Doreen had intuition. Everything she said was like a secret voice speaking straight out of my own bones.
Heath [Ledger] would walk up to a horse and could like silence the horse. Just literally he'd be like, 'Shh. Shh.' And then he'd get on the horse. I'd be like, 'I'm going to get on you.' They'd be like, 'F - off!' I didn't really have that style.
If we meet an honest and intelligent politician, a dozen, a hundred, we say they aren't like politicians at all, and our category of politicians stays unchanged; we know what politicians are like.
I dreamed horse and lived horse and expected, if necessary, to marry a horse; for all practical purposes I was a horse.
There's no pleasing the British, or winning their favor. They simply hate politicians. All politicians. Hatred goes with politicians like mint sauce with lamb. It's as old as Parliaments.
How the horse dominated the mind of the early races especially of the Mediterranean! You were a lord if you had a horse. Far back, far back in our dark soul the horse prances...The horse, the horse! The symbol of surging potency and power of movement, of action in man!
I don't mind when my horse is left at the post. I don't mind when my horse comes up to me in the stands and asks, "Which way do I go?" But when the horse I bet on is at the $2 window betting on another horse in the same race...
I have no time for real horses, so I have a plastic horse. Large size. Called Max Von Sydow. For photographs it looks real. If I do a photo shoot and it stands in the background, you think it's a horse. A horse is a horse.
My arm bones looked like chicken bones.
If you're straight, if you're gay - hey, if you're a horse - and I appeal to you, great!
The bones of the story of 'War Horse' is a love story. That's what makes it universal.
My horse needs to be quiet enough not to draw my attention. You want your horse always aware of you. Be aware of your horse! Fidgeting? Direct that! Think of it as a gift. Do something with that energy; redirect it or it will be a negative. Don't let your horse check-out. A horse wants peace. Trade movement for peace.
He’s sort of a homeless horse,” I said. “I’m leaving for the airport in two seconds, and I won’t be back for a couple days. You can put the horse in the garage, but I don’t want that horse in my apartment.” “Who would put a horse in an apartment? That’s dumb.” “Where’s the horse staying now?” “My apartment.” “I can always count on you to brighten my day,” Ranger said. And he disconnected.
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