Brrr Quotes

We've searched our database for all the quotes and captions related to Brrr. Here they are! All 20 of them:

I have the distinct feeling I'm not in Oz anymore,' said Brrr.
Gregory Maguire (A Lion Among Men (The Wicked Years, #3))
„– Będę czujny – westchnął. – Ale nie sądzę, żeby twój wytrawny gracz był w stanie mnie zaskoczyć. Nie po tym, co ja tu przeszedłem. Rzucili się na mnie szpiedzy, opadły wymierające gady i gronostaje. Nakarmiono mnie nie istniejącym kawiorem. Nie gustujące w mężczyznach nimfomanki podawały w wątpliwość moją męskość, groziły gwałtem na jeżu, straszyły ciążą, ba, nawet orgazmem, i to takim, któremu nie towarzyszą rytualne ruchy. Brrr... - Piłeś?
Andrzej Sapkowski (Czas pogardy (Saga o Wiedźminie, #2))
I could not be a zombie. They had no thoughts. Their brains were gruel. They said little beyond "Brrr!" unable, even, to articulate completely what they sought. "Brains,"I said distinctly. "And I feel no burning urge to partake of any." Forsooth, the idea sent a wave of nausea through me. Therefore I was not a zombie.
Lori Handeland (Zombie Island (Shakespeare Undead, #2))
In her time Nor Tigelaar had faced insurrectionists and collaborationists and war profiteers. She'd endured abduction and prison and self-mutilation. She'd sold herself in sex not for cash but for military information that might come in handy to the resistance, and in so doing she'd come across a rum variety of human types.
Gregory Maguire (Out of Oz (The Wicked Years, #4))
Brrr, who had never admired books particularly...didn't remember that a mere book might reek of sex, possibility, fecundity. Yet a book has a ripe furrow and a yielding spine, he thought, and the nuances to be teased from its pages are nearly infinite in their variety and coquettish appeal. And what new life can emerge from a book. Any book, maybe.
Gregory Maguire (A Lion Among Men (The Wicked Years, #3))
You’re welcome,” he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. “Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.
Suzanne Collins (The Hunger Games Trilogy)
Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.
Suzanne Collins (Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2))
Asked me what?” Just the sound of his voice twists my stomach into a knot of unpleasant emotions like guilt, sadness, and fear. And longing. I might as well admit there’s some of that, too. Only it has too much competition to ever win out. I watch as Peeta crosses to the table, the sunlight from the window picking up the glint of fresh snow in his blond hair. He looks strong and healthy, so different from the sick, starving boy I knew in the arena, and you can barely even notice his limp now. He sets a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the table and holds out his hand to Haymitch. “Asked you to wake me without giving me pneumonia,” says Haymitch, passing over his knife. He pulls off his filthy shirt, revealing an equally soiled undershirt, and rubs himself down with the dry part. Peeta smiles and douses Haymitch’s knife in white liquor from a bottle on the floor. He wipes the blade clean on his shirttail and slices the bread. Peeta keeps all of us in fresh baked goods. I hunt. He bakes. Haymitch drinks. We have our own ways to stay busy, to keep thoughts of our time as contestants in the Hunger Games at bay. It’s not until he’s handed Haymitch the heel that he even looks at me for the first time. “Would you like a piece?” “No, I ate at the Hob,” I say. “But thank you.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own, it’s so formal. Just as it’s been every time I’ve spoken to Peeta since the cameras finished filming our happy homecoming and we returned to our real lives. “You’re welcome,” he says back stiffly. Haymitch tosses his shirt somewhere into the mess. “Brrr. You two have got a lot of warming up to do before showtime.” He’s right, of course. The audience will be expecting the pair of lovebirds who won the Hunger Games. Not two people who can barely look each other in the eye. But all I
Suzanne Collins (Catching Fire (The Hunger Games, #2))
was no one else there to comfort her. There was only him. The real him. She stepped forward and laid her head against his chest. Samantha: I’ll never forget the moment when Perry and Celeste walked into the trivia night. There was like this ripple across the room. Everyone just stopped and stared. 23. Isn’t this FANTASTIC!” cried Madeline to Chloe as they took their really very excellent seats in front of the giant ice rink. “You can feel the cold from the ice! Brrr! Oh! Can you hear the music? I wonder where the princesses—” Chloe had reached over and placed one hand gently over her mother’s mouth. “Shhh.” Madeline knew she was talking too much because she was feeling anxious and ever so slightly guilty. Today needed to be stupendous to make it worth the rift she’d created between herself and Renata. Eight kindergarten children, who would otherwise be attending Amabella’s party, were here watching Disney On Ice because of Madeline. Madeline looked past Chloe at Ziggy, who was nursing a giant stuffed toy on his lap. Ziggy was the reason they were here today, she reminded herself. Poor Ziggy wouldn’t have been at the party. Dear little fatherless Ziggy. Who was possibly a secret psychopathic bully . . . but still! “Are you taking care of Harry the Hippo this weekend, Ziggy?” she said brightly. Harry the Hippo was the class toy. Every weekend it went home with a different child, along with a scrapbook that had to be returned with a little story about the weekend, accompanied by photos. Ziggy nodded mutely. A child of few words. Jane leaned forward, discreetly chewing gum as always. “It’s quite stressful having Harry to stay. We have to give Harry a good time. Last weekend he went on a roller coaster— Ow!” Jane recoiled as one of the twins, who was sitting next to her and fighting his brother, elbowed her in the back of the head. “Josh!” said Celeste sharply. “Max! Just stop it!” Madeline wondered if Celeste was OK today. She looked pale and tired, with purplish shadows under her eyes, although on Celeste they looked like an artful makeup effect that everyone should try. The lights in the auditorium began to dim, and then went to black. Chloe clutched Madeline’s arm. The music began to pound, so loud that Madeline could feel the vibrations. The ice rink filled with an
Liane Moriarty (Big Little Lies)
She lived and breathed, Brrr knew, with a high tolerance for detachment - like a lake jellyfish floating in a glass casket, oblivious of japing crowds.
Gregory Maguire (Out of Oz (The Wicked Years, #4))
Brrr,” Nic complained, her voice drifting across the darkness. “It’s so cold. Do you have a spare bearskin over there?” An image of naked limbs on a bear skin rug flashed through his mind. He cleared his throat. “I thought you were asleep.” “I dozed for a bit. My boots were killing me, so I took them off. Now my feet are cold, and that makes me uncomfortable and cranky.” Gabe hesitated a moment before saying, “Well, we can’t have cranky. Scoot them over here. I’ll rub your feet for you.” “God bless you, Gabe Callahan.” She whipped her legs out from beneath her covers and set them in his lap. She wore thin trouser socks, and when he took her right foot between his hands, he sucked in a breath. “You have ice cubes for feet.” “I told you so.” He tugged off her sock and began rubbing her bare, freezing foot. While he tried to keep his touch clinical and his thoughts impersonal, he couldn’t help noticing her foot’s slender width, the graceful arch of her instep, the softness of her skin. It was the most personal touch he’d shared with a woman in months, and damn his soul, he enjoyed it. While he massaged her right foot, her left foot crept up and rested on his thigh, inches from his torso. Inches from his erection. He should put her ice cubes right on his crotch, but he settled for the next best thing. He tugged his shirttail from his jeans and yanked her sock off her left foot. “Look, don’t take this personally. Consider it payback for doctoring my scratches that day.” He took both her feet and tucked them against his belly, sucking in an audible breath. It truly was like putting ice on his stomach. “Whoa. Have you no circulation in your feet whatsoever?” “Oh, you feel good, Callahan,” she purred. “How can you be so warm? Are you hiding a heater or something?” A heater? Was that a come-on? Or was she just clueless? He wished he could see her expression to help him judge. Wryly he replied, “Or something.” Gabe
Emily March (Angel's Rest (Eternity Springs, #1))
De oesters kwamen, opengekraakt op een grote schaal. Ze lustten ze niet, geen van beiden, maar wilden niet bij voorbaat 'nee' zeggen. De ogen van de gastheer glansden boven de schotel, alsof de oesters op hem afstraalden en het feestje chic en exclusief maakten. Om hen heen stonden mensen met een schelp in de hand en een enkeling liet de inhoud al slordig in de mond glijden. Voorzichtig pakten ze er een, druppelden wat met citroen en vroegen aan elkaar hoe het moest. Hij ging als eerste, met een elegante snelheid liet hij de oester in zijn keelgat glibberen en maakte een slikbeweging. Even balanceerde zijn uitdrukking tussen afkeer en genot, maar sloeg toen om naar het laatste. Ter afronding smakte hij met getuite lippen. 'Nu jij.' Ze bracht haar oester in stelling, schuin boven haar mond, opende haar lippen en liet met stijf gesloten ogen het weekdier haar mond in glibberen. Koud en dood lag hij op haar tong. Wat nu, dacht ze? Ik moet dat ding zo snel mogelijk kwijt. 'Vijf euro per stuk,' fluisterde hij, 'minstens.' Ze slikte en opende haar ogen. 'Brrr,' zei ze, schudde met haar hoofd, slikte nog een paar keer om de zeewatersmaak te verdrijven en nam een grote slok wijn. Het duurde zeker een minuut of tien, toen kwam het plotseling op: trek in nog zo'n vies ding, een onbestemd verlangen naar meer. Ze keek om, maar de schalen waren leeg, gelukkig.
Mirjam Boelsums (Dronk)
Thomas Mann-nak nagy, elementáris ereje volt, írja Monika Mann: "Ha fázik, nem úgy csinál, hogy »brrr!« és megrázza magát, hanem nagyon hideg lesz körülötte.
Tilmann Lahme (Die Manns. Geschichte einer Familie)
Here’s a typical British–Swiss chat about the weather: Brit, coming in from outside: ‘Brrr, it’s so cold out today.’ Swiss: ‘It’s winter.
Diccon Bewes (Swiss Watching: Inside the Land of Milk and Money)
[comes out of the bathroom] Brrr. [He trumpets again.] BERENGER: That's not what you believe fundamentally—I know you too well. You know as well as I do that mankind... JEAN: [interrupting him] Don't talk to me about mankind! BERENGER: I mean the human individual, humanism... JEAN: Humanism is all washed up! You're a ridiculous old sentimentalist. [He goes into the bathroom.] BERENGER: But you must admit that the mind... JEAN: [from the bathroom] Just clichés! You're talking rubbish! BERENGER: Rubbish! JEAN: [from the bathroom in a very hoarse voice, difficult to understand] Utter rubbish! BERENGER: I'm amazed to hear you say that, Jean,
Eugène Ionesco (Rhinoceros and Other Plays (Evergreen Original, E-259))
She'll have to cross the distance herself. Trust me on that, Brrr. I know about it. Either she'll choose to visit us when there is enough of her present to visit, or day by day she'll learn to survive without needing what you need and I need.
Gregory Maguire (Out of Oz (The Wicked Years, #4))
Nah-uh! Bad one!” everybody moaned. “No way,” said Frank. The note shot out of his mouth and landed smack-dab in the middle of Rocky’s desk. Slobber City! “Gross!” yelled Rocky. Mr. Todd passed out the quizzes. Mr. Todd cleared his throat. “Question number one: How many times did I wear a purple tie to school this year?” Everybody shouted answers. “Ten!” “Twenty-seven!” “One hundred!” “Four!” “Never!” called Jessica Finch. “Never is correct!” said Mr. Todd. “Number two: How long did it take our class to go around the world?” “Eight days!” said Frank. “Eight and a half days,” said Judy. “Too easy. Let’s skip ahead. Here’s one. This is big. Really big. We’re talking MUCHO GRANDE!” “Tell us!” everybody shouted. “Can anyone — that means YOU, Class 3T — guess what I, your teacher, Mr. Todd, will be doing THIS SUMMER?” “Working at the Pickle Barrel Deli?” asked Hunter. “I saw you there.” “That was last summer,” said Mr. Todd. “But this summer, if you find me, you win a prize.” “We need a clue,” said Judy. “Give us a clue.” “Clue! Clue! Clue! Clue! Clue!” yelled the class. “Okay, okay. Let me think. The clue is . . . COLD.” Mr. Todd hugged himself, pretending to shiver. “Brrr.” Jackson waved his hand. “Refrigerator salesperson!” “Snow-remover guy!” said Jordan. “Polar-bear tamer!” said Anya.
Megan McDonald (Judy Moody and the Not Bummer Summer (Judy Moody, #10))
This is what it feels like to be a piece of shit, thought Brrr; being pummeled on all sides by the world, forced forward, outward, into naked stink and light.
Gregory Maguire (A Lion Among Men (Wicked Years, #3))
They were supposed to be discussing Yeats that afternoon and Gray didn’t appreciate having Charlene’s minion stop her on the way to class with a message that her sister planned on plunging to her death before the day was out. That would teach Blake Foster—or so Charlene thought. The jerk had dumped her sister after first period and, worse, had been seen sucking face with Stacey Morehouse at lunch. Gray started shivering the moment she’d stepped onto the roof. It was friggin’ February for crying out loud and she was wearing shorts. Granted, she had thick black tights on underneath, but still—brrr! Couldn’t Charlene have scheduled her dramatic death scene in the warmth of their home over a bottle of pills?
Nikki Jefford (Entangled (Spellbound, #1))
Crossing the river under the cover of night was something new to me; never before had I arrived at this juncture without sufficient daylight to make safe passage. Lowering myself down the darkened riverside embankment and cautiously wading into the water, it was unnervingly cold and bracing. The American River was mostly fed by snowmelt from the higher elevations, and the the uninitiated, crossing it could be catastrophic. To those unlucky few, the Western States journey ended at this point when their muscles seized up upon exposure to the whirling, cold-water torrent. Thankfully, some of us found the occasion just the opposite, renewing. I submerged fully in the chilly liquid, then jumped up and shook vigorously like a wet dog. "Brrr!" It felt so good I did it again. Once sufficiently doused and thoroughly chilled, I began the crossing. A line was strung across the waterway for safety, and I held tight as I stepped farther into the depths, the waterline rising over my waist. I thought about other races and how Western States compared. To a runner at, say, the Boston Marathon the idea of forging a river midrace would seem preposterous, unimaginable. But here I was, 78 miles into a 100-mile footrace grasping a flimsy rope for dear life trying to avoid being swept downstream. If marathoning is boxing, ultramarathoning is a bare-knuckes bar brawl. p221
Dean Karnazes (A Runner's High: My Life in Motion)