And that was the thing: you couldn't just stand there gawking at the world. A car slipped by. Then another. It was as if she'd stood frozen by the river of the world and gratefully stepped back into it, resuming her place... The world waited, cold, g...
What else could have happened? Car wouldn't start? House caught on fire? Escaped convict climbed through his bedroom window and tied him with duct tape? Poison eggnog? Or maybe I just didn't matter to him.
It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Harry, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartmen...
I had a dream about you. I was a used car salesman, and you were in the market for a new horse. I suggested we both compromise, and meet in the middle—like the year 1950.
A car is a couch with wheels. My windshield wipers don’t work, so I’ve decided to stop watering my living room carpet. Honk if you want coffee, and I’ll pour you an umbrellaful.
Mom was adamantly pro-choice. She had a bumper sticker on the car that read If you can't trust me with a choice, how can you trust me with a child? But in her case the choice was to keep me.
I decided the least I could do was to sit with Mrs. Anderson. Heading to the dining car, I ordered my third pot of tea (my first three-pot problem — Mr. Holmes would be so proud) to be delivered to her compartment rather than mine.
There is your car and the open road, the fabled lure of random adventure. You stand at the verge, and you could become anything. Your future shifts and warps with your smallest step, your shitty little whims. The man you will become is at your mercy.
A divorce is much like a ten-car pile up. It affects not just two drivers but a whole slew of perimeter vehicles that get caught in the chaos. Not even innocent bystanders come out unscathed.
It will never belong in a Hallmark card, but I drove a car into a house and killed a man for you. You chained me up for days and I still wanted to come back and talk over our darkly sordid, slightly kinky, and a lot warped relationship. Face it, you'...
My car would look better with a mustache for a bumper. Then pedestrians would know that I am a superior lover, just before I hit on them.
I asked what year the car was that was sitting in the driveway, but what I meant was how long had it been parked there. If it’s been there since 1982, I’ve been in love longer than it is wide.
I get out of the car, and I'm blasted by the stench of body odor. Cricket is beside me, and he's talking, but his words don't reach my ears. Because it's my mother. Smelling. On my porch.
... I looked through the car's rear window for a final wave, and it felt like someone had invaded my chest and squeezed all the juice out of my heart until it was a tiny dry sponge.
Le paradis des écrivains, c’est l’endroit où vous décidez de réécrire la vie comme vous auriez voulu la vivre. Car la force des écrivains, Marcus, c’est qu’ils décident de la fin du livre.
The poorest person on earth is not the person who has no job, no cars, no money and no house. The poorest person is the one who has no vision. Visionlessness is poverty in disguise.
Since when are you so 'faithful'? just a couple of years ago you would show up in your tight jeans and borrow our car to pick up one of your five girlfriends. You think that beard makes you a man of God?
Have you slept yet?' 'Sure. I took a power nap on the way over.' 'Didn't you drive there?' 'Yeah. Other drviers kept waking me up. Car horns should be illegal.' - Charley & Cookie
It's just going to add to him thinking that I am a crazy, wanky, greenie, hybriddriving hippie," I complained. "Has he seen your bomb of a car?" Fran asked in disbelief. "Greenpeace arranges a protest every time it leaves your driveway.
What if I wrenched the steering wheel hard to the right and we went crashing into those mist-shrouded trees? Hell, Jane’s hunkload of men would probably appear from nowhere to rescue us, throwing themselves in front of the car to protect my beautif...
I really couldn't see what the Socs would have to sweat about - good grades, good cars, good girls, madras and Mustangs and Corvairs - Man, I thought, if I had worries like that I'd consider myself lucky. I know better now.
