So, yes, I believe in angels, absolutely, I do.
yes, writing is mostly a dream, but angels visit in dreams
The Farmer: You're like an angel. Abby: I wish I was.
Nicholas Angel: Shit just got real!
Nicholas Angel: That's what I'm talking about.
Nicholas Angel: What the f-! Inspector Frank Butterman: Sergeant!
Neil: You called me your fucking... angel.
If there is anything that keeps the mind open to angel visits, and repels the ministry of ill, it is human love.
The Phantasm: Sal Valestra, your Angel of Death awaits...
It is by suffering that human beings become angels.
Anyone who seeks to destroy the passions instead of controlling them is trying to play the angel.
The real question is: How sturdy and solid is the floor our civilization stands on? How many lives with no prospects, shattered and senseless, can it bear the weight of before it cracks somewhere or other, splits at the joints?
In California, the state's huge dairy herd produces twenty-seven million tons of manure a year, the particulates and vapors from which have helped to make air quality in the argiculturally intensive San Joaquin Valley worse than it is Los Angeles.
The angel’s lower body was covered by a pair of faded jeans that showcased the strong muscles in his thighs…along with a few other things she’d only dared dream about. His upper body was bare, showing off honeyed skin, washboard abs, and a kill...
The quotation falsely attributed to Stalin, 'One death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic,' gets the numbers wrong but captures a real fact about human psychology. (p. 220)
Man, you weigh a freaking ton," he told me. "What've you been eating, rocks?" "Why, is your head missing some?" I croaked. His mouth almost quirked in a smile, and that's when I knew how upset he'd been
The only way you can truly get to know an author is through the trail of ink he leaves behind him. The person you think you see is only an empty character: truth is always hidden in fiction.
As I walked, I ran my fingers along the spines of hundreds of books. I let myself be imbued with the smell, with the light that filtered through the cracks or from the glass lanterns embedded in the wooden structure, floating among mirrors and shadow...
I don't suppose you have many friends. Neither do I. I don't trust people who say they have a lot of friends. It's a sure sign that they don't really know anyone.
Senor Sempere believed that God lives, to a smaller or greater extent, in books, and that is why he devoted his life to sharing them, to protecting them, and to making sure their pages, like our memories and our desires, are never lost.
I discovered that seventeen-year-old girls have such huge verbal energy that their brain drives them to expend it every twenty seconds. On the third day I decided I had to find her a boyfriend -- if possible, a deaf one.
