Victor patted my hand. 'I like you, Sky. You're a fighter.' 'I am, aren't I? Hear that, Zed? No more bambi comparisons. I'm a Rottweiler -with a temper.' 'A very small Rottweiler,' said Zed, still not convinced.
There she stood. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her face was pale, almost snow-white. She probably hadn't slept, either. She was still wearing the same dress. Her hair looked like a bomb had gone off. She was beautiful.
It had to be U. U. was the only town I could still bear, the one spot in the atlas I'd already absorbed head-on. When you take too many of your critical hits in one place, that place can no longer hurt you.
I’ve found I still serve a purpose. I remind people to pray, to calculate the odds, to thank the fates, the gods, good karma, whatever it was that made this happen to me and not them. I’m in the worst sort of club. The one no one else wants to be...
So las ich falsch in deinem Aug, dem tiefen? Kein heimlich Sehnen sah ich heiß dort funkeln? Es birgt zu deiner Seele keine Pforte Dein feuchter Blick? Die Wünsche, die dort schliefen, Wie stille Rosen in der Flut, der dunkeln, Sind, wie dein Plaud...
Conner hadn’t liked leaving the gravesite with his father still not buried. But he’d learned from his grandmother’s funeral that you have to go. It’s expected. Nobody hangs around the cemetary. Grief—a little or a lot—is tucked into your ...
Free women," said Anna, wryly. She added, with an anger new to Molly, so that she earned another quick scrutinizing glance from her friend: "They still define us in terms of relationships with men, even the best of them.
I'll have you understand the United States has got the best navy in the world." "Well, . . . why, then, do we need a bigger navy?" "We've got to have a still bigger navy because we're the richest nation on earth.
Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
Ruin still used Reen’s voice—it was familiar, something that had always seemed a part of her. Discovering that it belonged to that …it was like finding out that her reflection really belonged to someone else, and that she’d never actually see...
The Book of Life, I’m still writing it—both literally and literarily. So far I’ve written the Table of Contents. Right now it’s more of a coffee table.
Just because there are things you still want, that doesn’t mean you can’t feel gratitude for all the wealth and abundance already in your life.
A Great Teacher is like a fountain; she draws from the still, deep waters of personal growth and professional knowledge to serve others from her abundant overflow.
You still know that boy. He was very angry at fourteen, fifteen, in summer and winter, at home or in the world. So angry that his face contorted in photos. The camera was a question and his face did not know the answer.
But you're dead,' said Harry. 'Oh, yes,' said Dumbledore matter-of-factly. 'Then... am I dead too?' 'Ah,' said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. 'That is the question, isn't it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not.
He felt that he was still groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering whether he had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way.
Some people, very many actually, both men and women, complained of having enjoyed a very loving relationship with someone, but of no longer feeling the same way despite still being very fond of that person, with whom they generally lived.
Or rather, he was sad because that morning he'd understood that he'd understood nothing, because while he still understood nothing he wasn't sad at all, but now that he'd understood that he'd understood nothing he felt sad, if you follow.
In the old days, trouble was kept in the family, which is still the best place for it, not that there's ever a best place for trouble. Why stir everything up again after that many years, with all concerned tucked, like tired children, so neatly into ...
My advice to the reader approaching a poem is to make the mind still and blank. Let the poem speak. This charged quiet mimics the blank space ringing the printed poem, the nothing out of which something takes shape.
How can it be, after all this concentrated effort and separation, how can it be that I still resemble, so very closely, my own detestable mother?
