“Desmond ushered the man inside. He was stooped and ugly, with an unkempt beard and unwashed clothes, yet Father greeted him pleasantly and asked his name.“Yoren, as it please m’lord. My pardons for the hour.” He bowed to Arya. “And this must be your son. He has your look.”“I’m a girl,” Arya said, exasperated. If the old man was down from the Wall, he must have come by way of Winterfell. “Do you know my brothers?” she asked excitedly. “Robb and Bran are at Winterfell, and Jon’s on the Wall. Jon Snow, he’s in the Night’s Watch too, you must know him, he has a direwolf, a white one with red eyes. Is Jon a ranger yet? I’m Arya Stark.” The old man in his smelly black clothes was looking at her oddly, but Arya could not seem to stop talking. “When you ride back to the Wall, would you bring Jon a letter if I wrote one?” She wished Jon were here right now. He’d believe her about the dungeons and the fat man with the forked beard and the wizard in the steel cap.””

A Game of Thrones

“Now, like, I’m President. It would be pretty hard for some drug guy to come into the White House and start offering it up, you know? I bet if they did, I hope I would say, ‘Hey, get lost. We don’t want any of that.””

“I'm really white trash. ””

“Well, I'm saying that your intelligence comes from the blood of my people. Whenever they trot out some smart nigger and say, "See? Look how brilliant niggers are," what they usually show you is a part-white man with some nigger blood in him. This doesn't prove that niggers are great. On the contrary; it proves that white blood can make a part-nigger more intelligent.””

“My seams gape wide so I'm tossed asideTo rot on a lonely shore,While the leaves and mould like a shroud unfold, For the last of my trails are o'er,But I float in dreams on Northland streams That never again I'll see,As I lie on the marge of the old portage With grief for company.When the sunset gilds the timbered hills That guard Timagami,And the moon beams play on far James Bay By the brink of the frozen sea,In phantom guise my spirit flies As the dream blades dip and swingWhere the waters flow from the Long Ago In the spell of the beck'ning spring.Do the cow-moose call on the MontrealWhen the first frost bites the air,And the mists unfold from the red and gold That the autumn ridges wear?When the white falls roar as they did of yore On the Lady Evelyn,Do the square-tail leap from the black pool deep Where the pictured rocks begin?Oh! the fur fleet sings on Temiscaming As the ashen paddles bend,And the crews carouse at Rupert's House At the sullen winter's end;But my days are done where the lean wolves run, And I ripple no more the path,Where the grey geese race 'cross the red moon's face From the white winds Arctic wrath.Tho' the death-fraught way from the Saguenay To the storied Nipigon,Once knew me well, now a crumbling shell I watch as the years roll on,And in memory's haze I live the days That forever are gone from me,As I rot on the marge of the old portage With grief for company.””

Quotes by George M. White