When men feel the wound that cannot heal, they either bury themselves in woman's arms and ask her for healing, which she cannot provide, or they hide themselves in macho pride and enforced loneliness.
Sir Beldevere: What makes you think she's a witch? Peasant 3: Well, she turned me into a newt! Sir Beldevere: A newt? Peasant 3: [meekly after a long pause] ... I got better. Crowd: [shouts] Burn her anyway!
I have a sickness doctors can't cure, Inexorably pulling me to the well of my destruction, Consented to be a sacrifice, killed for her love, Eager, like the drunk gulping wine mixed with poison, Shameless were those my nights, Yet my soul loved them ...
But the people only talked about how ugly her face looked. No one even bothered to mention what a sweet, kindhearted girl she was. Now, don’t be amazed! That is just the nature of humans, to notice the one flaw among a person’s ten good qualities...
She knew exactly how he was feeling, because experience had taught her that the kind of excitement she was feeling at that moment was never, ever one-sided. On the contrary, she knew that it was born of acute and mutual anticipation, and she knew, to...
Beirut is the Elizabeth Taylor of cities: insane, beautiful, falling apart, aging, and forever drama laden.She'll also marry any infatuated suitor who promises to make her life more comfortable, no matter how inappropriate he is." (p.88)
She’d never been any kind of camper, never had been good at relieving a full bladder on a whim. Never had quite figured out that squat; it seemed like she’d always wet her right foot.
You're amazing," she whispered hoarsely. He pushed back the hair from her face. "You too." "How? All I do is let you play me like a piano." He chuckled. "You've got a great keyboard.
Then she opened her eyes, Veronika did not think 'this must be heaven'. Heaven would never use a fluorescent tube to light a room, and the pain - which started a fraction of a second later - was typical of the Earth. Ah, that Earth pain - unique, unm...
Laws on killing, even God's demands, didn't allow for peace. Not always. There'd still be pain; missing that child would break her parents' hearts. But what Helen knew, what she'd seen in those woods, would be too much for them, for everybody.
Then, in a whisper, Sam said, “I met someone else.” Just like that, Darcy's world melted and distorted into something she no longer recognized. His words hung like poison in the air, and she held her breath, afraid to breathe it in.
Devrimler, seçkinlere karşı kendiliğinden isyanlardan daha fazlasına ihtiyaç duyar. Devrimler, sadece yöneticinin veya birkaç yasanın değişmesiyle yetinmeyen, ama aşağıdan yukarıya toplumun her yönünü kavrayan yeni bir etik sistem g...
Kathy was a Republican, one of those people who used the unforgivable phrase "meant to be"--usually when describing her own good fortune or the disasters that had befallen other people.
My mother said I broke her heart...but it was my integrity that was important. Is that so selfish? It sells for so little, but it's all we have left in this place. It is the very last inch of us...but within that inch we are free.
. . . the only way to tell off an asshole was face-to-face and to look fantastic doing it. So, here she was, with perfect makeup, hair done in a riot of waves that had taken a ridiculously long time to create, and a brand new dress laid out on her be...
It's easy to make women happier and busier. How? Buy her a talking mirror beside bitching it has to be programmed to say, "You are looking very beautiful and slimmer," at precisely every hour.
Other than along certain emotional tangents there was little in the book that felt as if it had actually been lived. It was a fiction produced by someone who knew only fictions, The Tempest as written by isolate Miranda, raised on the romances in her...
They’d be complaining about having to walk, and screeching at me to ‘do something, Freddy, do something!’” “But what could you do?” she said, puzzled. “Carry them, probably.” He gave her a hopeful look. “Do you want me to carry you?
Gail had a baby named Ned who was four months old, and a new look of baffled hurt, a left-behind sadness, like she saw that the great world kept spinning onward and away while she'd overnight become glued to her spot.
A writer writes with his genius; an artist paints with hers; everyone who creates operates from this sacramental center.
Maybe we’ll admit this thing we have is perfect, not worth messing around with. And stay together forever. If you’re interested, that is.” She glanced away. “I could think about that.” He buried his face in her neck. “Think fast
