A Romantic Quotes

You fell in love with a storm. Did you really think you would get out unscathed?

Imaginary evil is romantic and varied; real evil is gloomy, monotonous, barren, boring. Imaginary good is boring; real good is always new, marvelous, intoxicating.

Daemon pressed his forehead against mine. "Oh, I still want to strangle you. But I'm insane. You're crazy. Maybe that's why. We just make crazy together.

You are damaged and broken and unhinged. But so are shooting stars and comets.

Light flashed in her eyes. In fact, it clung to her—flaring around her skin, her hair, her whole body. It was a trick of the eyes, his mind, when adrenaline hit his system. But she glowed. Vivid. Alive. And for a moment, he’d have given anything to be like her.

Maybe you should be the one to get naked for me. 'Breslin Cooper's Revealing Interview. Take a peek at the real ass inside those hot baseball pants.

The love stories sold us the wrong thing. The best kind of love doesn’t happen on moonlit walks and romantic vacations. It happens in between the folds of everyday life. It’s not grand gestures that show how you feel, it’s all the little secret things you do to make her life better that you never tell her about. Taking the end piece of the bread at breakfast so she can have the last middle piece for her sandwich when you pack her lunch. Making sure her car always has gas so she never has to stop at the pump. Telling her you’re not cold and to take your jacket when you are in fact, very, very cold. It’s watching TV on a rainy Sunday while you’re doing laundry and turning her light off when she’s fallen asleep reading. Sharing pizza crusts and laughing about something the kids did and taking care of each other when you’re sick. It isn’t glamorous, it isn’t all butterflies and stars in your eyes. It’s real. This is the kind of love that forever is made of. Because if it’s this good when life is draining and mundane and hard, think of how wonderful it will be when the love songs are playing and the moon is out.

I think it's helpful to know how sunsets work. I don't buy the romantic notion that scientific understanding somehow robs the universe of its beauty, but I still can't find language to describe how breathtakingly beautiful sunsets are--not breathtakingly, actually, but breath-givingly beautiful. All I can say is that sometimes when the world is between day and night, I'm stopped cold by its splendor, and I feel my absurd smallness. You'd think that would be sad, but it isn't. It only makes me grateful.

It occurred to me then, like one of those moments I’d remember years from now . . . the crisp November air, the amber-colored field lights so bright they eclipsed the moon. The electricity of the win suffusing every breath, every cell, every particle of the world that was Vanquer, Texas . . .  Everyone has a story.

Cairo. In Rustum Buildings, the location of the SOE’s Balkan Desk, Leonora, Countess Malkovic, looked up from the decrypted message that had just arrived on her desk. English by birth, married to a Serbian count, she had been seconded to work there because of her intimate knowledge of Serbia and her ability to speak the language.

See, I’m the worst breed of human. Let me explain. Some people are dead inside. They go through life knowing this, and they manage fine enough, because, well, they’re dead inside. They aren’t bitter because they don’t care enough to change. They just try to get by with the things they can control. Others live in the fucking clouds, watch romantic comedies, and dream about everything being perfect one day. These people are always fine because they have an everlasting well of hope inside them, and no matter what happens they’ll just romanticize their existence. But when it comes to me…I’m someone who’s mostly dead inside but still has a little hope for something extraordinary, which, as I said, is the worst breed of human, because it means that I know everything is bullshit, but that I secretly hope for the day when it might not be. The tension makes me wish I were just completely dead inside. It would makes things much easier for me.

According to Ellen Rothman, even in the early nineteenth century wedding rituals affirmed ties of community. A week of neighborly visiting following the wedding was more common than a journey, and when couples did take a trip, other people often went along. This practice began to change in the second half of the nineteenth century. “Beginning in the 1870s, etiquette books advocated that the couple leave the church—where middle-class weddings increasingly took place—together and alone, and that instead of the ‘harassing bridal tour,’ they enjoy ‘a honeymoon of repose, exempted from claims of society,’ ” By the 1880s, “honeymoon trips to ‘romantic’ locations were expected to follow weddings.” 8

queer people deserve to have their bad romantic decisions documented for the whole country to consume, too.

There might be someone you love, some one you wanted to be with, and then, found your self with, there were such things, such lives and lovers. I am like that sometimes, I think, some distant romantic wrapped in music. I wanted to know myself, and found that was a lifetime's work, the twists and zig zags, dips and turns, all could disorient you, that you were no longer you but somebody else masquerading as yourself's desire. Rain could come. The sky grow light. It could even be twilight, in a foreign town. Where you walked under far noises of invisible worlds. But when you remember all of your faces, blown now gone forever in the wind, you'll see that you were always wanting to be you, you were always wanting to know and love yourself, and you found a few faces, a few names, that extended your life into other lives, and as time marches, hours, days, decades dance, you'll find your hand in someone else's hand, you'll hear yourself thinking about some person other than you and then look up and yes there will be some other person some closeness and echoed tenderness, that makes us more than dots under the far away, that make us more than split seconds of light