To Scarlett, there was something breath-taking about Ellen O'Hara, a miracle that lived in the house with her and awed her and charmed and soothed her.
She wakes in a puddle of sunlight. Her hands asleep beside her. Her hair draped on the lawn like a mantle of cloth.
Wolves mated for life. Where was he? Where was the echo to her howl, her mate? Was there no other lone wolf, searching the hills for her?
Becky Renee Apple - can you believe her mom named her that and then had all of her sweaters monogramed with 'BRA'?
I'm a big fan of Courtney Love. I love Hole and I love her acting and I love her attitude. I just hope I never meet her in a dark alley.
When I looked further into my mother's history, I realised that her anxieties and her neuroses could be accounted for by facts from a very early age. Her parents, William Henry Jones and Sarah Emily, were desperately poor.
The one person whom I would like to be is Meryl Streep. Even at her age, she sits alongside the younger heroines at the Oscars with her name in the nominee list, and others around her wonder whether they still stand a chance.
Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter...
Woman must have her freedom, the fundamental freedom of choosing whether or not she will be a mother and how many children she will have. Regardless of what man's attitude may be, that problem is hers - and before it can be his, it is hers alone.
My godchildren went to see Taylor Swift in concert and got to meet her. They literally ran toward her and hugged her, and it was amazing. I got big bonus points for it. I'll remind them when they're teenagers.
Anything and everything made her think about him. He was so much a part of her, embedded in her soul. [Mina and Diego]
I wanted to wear her as you would a piece of clothing, to fold into her ribs, be a stone in her mouth.
She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.
Stapled to her gaze, sucked into the potency of her focus, only the trace of her blood in my mouth reassures me this is not a vision but a hallucinogenic pause from responsibility.
He wanted to claim her, to possess her and be possessed, to sink into her soul until neither of them could tell their own being from the other.
She lost herself in the kiss, moving her body against his, her excitement rising, the tension inside her spinning tighter and tighter.
Pride filled him. He'd put that soft look in her eye, the purr in her voice, and given her loose limbed ease.
My grandmother had no time for old, no matter how her face crinkled or her days folded like an apron around her middle.
In Jane Austen it was the critical faculty that would not be quieted; and that faculty in her, played on men and women.
I felt a pull toward her even before I actually spotted her in her car and I’m glad I didn’t resist.
..her smile, which was her pretty feature, was never so pretty as when her sprightly phrase had a scratch lurking in it.
