I once asked him why he smoked the world's most expensive cigarette, and he told me it was because he was a man of wealth and taste, at least according to Mick Jagger.
She did what she could for him. She kissed him in return. She lost her breath and both her hearts, and finally Turned to smoke and back.
The world was full of dangers now that she was pregnant: mercury in tuna, hot tubs, beer, secondhand smoke, over-the-counter medicine. Not to mention crazy baby-abducting fairy kings.
Eton produced Society's Monsters - everyone knew that. Politicians, mostly, and occasionally people who ran banks and all the other institutions that stole the world's spoils for themselves.
It's quite simple, they poisoned it with smoke, chemicals and pollution from factories and cars, and power stations. Silly humans knew what they were doing, but carried on poisoning the planet anyway.
Hey!” I said, indignation filling me. “I’m immortal! Doesn’t that mean I won’t get saggy boobs and gray hair? Because if it doesn’t mean that, I want a refund—
Nothing good is free, and nothing free is good. You want the world to change, you have to force that change behind gun smoke and lead. Blood is the price, always and ever, if you want to buy freedom.
Sweat, scalded meat, puke, blood, smoke and a dozen kinds of bad ale and wine: the bouquet of civilized nightlife
The spell...curled around...like smoke before settling in. Sophie: "Okay, do you guys feel protected?" Archer: "Yes. Also a little violated, but that's neither here nor there.
You need time, and I respect that. But make no mistake about it, I intend to make you mine again. I’m fully aware this won’t be easy. I gave up on us once; it won’t happen again.
Heart cannot think what outrage and what cries, with black smoke and flashing fire, the beast threw forth, turning the whole world to darkness.
I'm interested in things women do that aren't spoken about. Manto's stories let me breathe. They make me feel like less of a monster.
We are all brothers and we are all suffering the same fate. The same smoke floats over all our heads. Help one another. It is the only way to survive. (pg. 39)
...and on that thin-mooned night, I could see little more than her silhoutte except for when she smoked, the burning cherry of the cigarette washing her face in pale red light.
There was not one straight floor from the foundation to the roof; the ceilings were so fantastically clouded by smoke and dust, that old woman might have told fortunes in them better than in grouts of tea;
It is not that I was credulous, simply that I belived in all things dark and dangerous. It was part of my young creed that the night was full of ghosts and witches, hungry and flapping and dressed completely in black.
People talk about books that write themselves, and it's a lie. Books don't write themselves. It takes thought and research and backache and notes and more time and more work than you'd believe.
The irritating question they ask us -- us being writers -- is: "Where do you get your ideas?" And the answer is: Confluence. Things come together. The right ingredients and suddenly:
None of them seemed to mind sliding around in the faeces and choking in the smoke. They were determined not to miss the opportunity of watching a foreigner make a fool of himself.
Mudit was smoking for me I wasn’t ready to give up. Arjun was the Alcohol Anonymous, I wasn’t even ready to enroll; someone had to make me forcefully join it
He's the boy who smokes Marlboro cigarettes and I'm the girl who makes theater puppets. Dreams and ashes—two things in the universe that should never meet because they are opposites, right?
