...I felt the wall between the world of secrets and the real world start to collapse. I felt the girls from the portrait becoming us and us becoming them...
All my parents' music came from greatest hits albums. It was like the thought of getting even one bum track was too much for them to handle.
He took a moment, as if he were deciding which tack to go with. I think he chose honesty, but it's so hard to tell. And if you chose honesty as a strategy, is it still honesty?
One of the many difficult things about women was that they tended to pick the most unsuitable times to tell you something they considered to be important, and then became irrationally upset when you failed to remember it.
Id you're finished picking out my flaws,maybe you'd like to tell me what you want now.I have other customers--" "You." "What was that?" "I Want You.
Bill is a writer, but he writes in the first-person voice in a style that is tell-all confessional; in fact, his fiction sounds as much like a memoir as he can make it sound.
Gray,” he whispered in his ear. Grayson moaned softly in return. “I'm here for you. I exist only for you. Tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it.
Who can know when his world is going to change? Who can tell before it happens, that every prior experience, all the years, were a preparation for . . . nothing.
There were no ideas in music, only touch and instinct and sometimes grace—the mechanical tools—and that among those who were given the tools, only a few, a scant few, would be able to tell you something true.
Nothing in my beliefs tells me to let my relationship with the divine interfere with romantic love, the friction of sects never getting in the way of the friction of sex.
If you can't feel the touch of the gods on your own, it greatly behooves you to work on that before some lecher tells you his touch is just as good.
If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?" "No", said the priest, "not if you did not know." "Then why," asked the Eskimo earnestly, "did you tell me?
Is that your cheap way of telling me you want to kiss me?” He looks into my eyes, his dark gaze capturing mine. “ , I always want to kiss you.
In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death.
If I could turn you on, if I could drive you out of your wretched mind, if I could tell you I would let you know.
Sometimes the journey to love involves some bumpy detours, as any girl with an - ex-fiance will tell you. But I've learned a smooth trip isn't particularly important. Getting there is what matters.
This beautiful body, sweetness? It’s made for pleasure. It’s singing to me, telling me what it wants and needs. Those other idiots you were with weren’t fuckin listening.
In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.
Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything.
Thus I rediscovered what writers have always known (and have told us again and again): books always speak of other books, and every story tells a story that has already been told.
Her body was rounded like earth. Stories. Breath. . . . Her eyes have been painted closed. I understand. To tell a story you must travel inward.
