Ciao For Now Quotes

(Actually now I’m remembering that the goodbye chow isn’t spelled that way. It’s ciao or something weird like that. It’s Italian, right? But I’m not an Italian gypsy, I’m a hungry gypsy. So spelling it chow makes total sense.)

No duties. I don’t have to be profound. I don’t have to be artistically perfect. Or sublime. Or edifying. I just wander. I say: ‘You were running, That’s fine. It was the thing to do.’ And now the music of the worlds transforms me. My planet enters a different house. Trees and lawns become more distinct. Philosophies one after another go out. Everything is lighter yet not less odd. Sauces, wine vintages, dishes of meat. We talk a little of district fairs, Of travels in a covered wagon with a cloud of dust behind, Of how rivers once were, what the scent of calamus is. That’s better than examining one’s private dreams. And meanwhile it has arrived. It’s here, invisible. Who can guess how it got here, everywhere. Let others take care of it. Time for me to play hooky. Buena notte. Ciao. Farewell.

It’s always the quiet, serious ones. They know what they’re doing. That’s why they’re so quiet. They’re just sitting there thinking about what they’re going to do to you, twenty-four-seven.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back.

There’s beauty in every inch of a woman. In art, in fashion, in life, there will always be people who want to mold our bodies into ways that will suit them, but this can never be. There is nothing more beautiful and deserving of respect than the shape of a woman.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that

There was always something abrupt about that word. It wasn't, "See you later!" or "Take care now!" or even "Ciao!" "Later" was a chilling slam dunk salutation that shoved aside all our honeyed European niceties. "Later" always left a sharp aftertaste to what until then may have been a warm heart to heart moment. "Later" didn't close things neatly or allow them to trail off. It slammed them shut. But "later" was also a way of avoiding saying goodbye, of making light of all goodbyes. You said "later" not meaning farewell but to say you'd be back in no time. It was the equivalent of saying "Just a sec," when my mother asked him to pass the bread and he was busy pulling apart the fishbones on his plate.

There are plenty of boys clustered around the wall, laughing, shoving each other playfully, yelling, competing for the attention of the girls. But somehow I know that the one who’s staring at me is the boy leaning against the post holding up the canopy, his shoulders square to it, his head ducked over the cigarette he’s holding, a tiny red point flaring in the shadow as he pulls on the filter. I shake my head and say firmly to myself, Smoking’s disgusting. I’m still looking, though. He’s tall and slim, I can tell that much. And his hair, dropping over his forehead, is jet-black, as if he were a hero in a manga book, drawn with pen and ink, two or three thick glossy strands separating into perfect dark curves. I snap my head back from the lurker in the shadows to the actual boy still holding my hand, only to see that Leonardo is looking over my shoulder in the same direction. “Luca!” he exclaims, dropping my hand to wave at someone. “Finalmente!” I am determined not to turn. Just in case it’s the same boy. I don’t want to look too interested, or too eager. Besides, he might be really ugly. Or spotty. Or have some silly chinstrap shaved onto his face-- “Eccolo!” Leonardo’s saying happily, and it would be silly of me, by now, not to turn to face the person who’s strolled over and is leaning against the side of the table. I look up at him, and my heart stops for a moment. “Luca!” Andrea says, echoing Leonardo. “Finalmente!” “This is Luca, our friend,” Leonardo says happily as I think: Luca. Finally. “Ciao,” Luca says, nodding at us, his long legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into black jeans, and silver rings on a couple of his long fingers, the cigarette held loosely between them. His inky hair tumbles over his forehead, and I see, with a shock like a knife to the chest, that his eyes, heavily fringed with thick black lashes, are the midnight blue of sapphires or deep seawater. I can’t speak.

My dad always told me that everything was clear when you were out on the water.

gave her a commando look that Leo found kind of hot—and then immediately felt guilty about. Next to her sat her boyfriend Frank Zhang, dressed in black workout pants and a Roman tourist T-shirt that said CIAO! (was that even a word?). Frank’s old centurion badge was pinned to his shirt, despite the fact that the demigods of the Argo II were now Public Enemies Numbers 1 through 7 back at Camp Jupiter. His grim expression just reinforced his unfortunate

…Similar to the way we loved each other. I do miss our time together in Italy. It’s been great fun. Did you keep in contact with Andy after your departure from the Sekham? There is so much to catch up on, I don’t know where to begin. For now I’ll say Ciao to my ex- “Grande Fratello” (“Big Brother”) Oscar! Love, Young.

We take the original plays of William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe, and Markus gives them . . . well, the necessary polish.” “Aren’t the plays good enough by themselves?” Barbara asked. “Well, for the general public they’re sometimes just too difficult and dry, so we cut out the long monologues and concentrate on the funny parts and, above all, the bloody passages. Many of the pieces have not yet been translated into German, and Markus takes care of that, as well.” “I butcher Shakespeare’s plays by turning them into bloody spectacles for the masses,” Markus sighed in despair. “Carefully constructed pentameter, beautiful images—for that the world clearly has no taste nowadays. The more blood, the better. But I myself have written original pieces that—” “Yes, yes,” Malcolm interrupted, “that would be enough to make Shakespeare cry, I know—or simply put him to sleep. I’m afraid you’re boring the ladies, Markus. Just like your plays. We can’t afford experiments. After all, I have a whole troupe to feed,” he said, clapping his hands. “But now it’s time to get back to building the stage. Will you excuse us?” He bowed to Magdalena and Barbara and stomped off toward the stage, but not without first casting a final, reproachful look at his two actors. “Old slave driver,” Markus mumbled and followed him, while Matheo paused a moment and winked at Barbara. “Then can we look forward to seeing you again at tomorrow’s performance? We’ll save a few seats for you up in the gallery. Ciao, signorine.” “Ciao,” Barbara said, batting her eyelashes as Matheo, in one single, flowing movement, jumped back onto the stage. Magdalena grinned at her sister. “Ciao?” she asked. “Is that the way a Schongau hangman’s daughter says good-bye, or are you an Italian contessa addressing her prince just before their wedding?

I met myself there, too. I met part of myself that I never would have known if I hadn’t gone.

Because what I learned from him is that love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift

yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that strengthens you. That stays with you.

But no matter what I do, I always get in my own way. And as sad as it is, sometimes it almost feels good to hate myself. It’s just so easy.

Marco just polished off his third espresso, so he’s walking that flirty line between happily energized and possessed by a demon.

His soft touches drive me to push against him harder, needing more friction to take the edge off. Before I know it, I’m turning frantic—tugging at Matt’s black T-shirt until it’s off and flying across the room. When I lean down again, Matt lifts me higher, lining my chest up with his face. He slips a hand up to cup a breast and moves his mouth to the other. His tongue circles and tastes and there’s no stopping my quiet but lusciously tortured groan. My hands fist into the sheets as he switches positions, giving my other breast equally tantalizing attention. He seems like he can go on like this forever when I finally pull back, ready to scream in such a good way when my clouded eyes find his.

love isn’t something that you find or that finds you—love is something you gift yourself. You design it. You decide who you are going to love and who will have the privilege of loving you back. Once I understood that, I met the person who I knew brought out the best in me. And I chose to love him because of that. Day after day we choose each other, and that’s the kind of love that strengthens you. That stays with you.

Heat is spreading in the pit of my stomach, and I lower myself down for another haze-inducing kiss. My chest brushes against his as I slowly start to rock forward and backward. Considering how thin my tank top is, there might as well be nothing there. I sit up and pull the flimsy piece of fabric over my head, tossing it onto the sheets beside me and basking in the dazed look that crosses Matt’s face. His hands drift higher, pressing down on the small of my back, then returning to where they were—only this time slipping under my shorts and panties. I suck in an uneven breath as the pads of his fingers tease and tickle my bare skin.

Benno recalled how Lucy had sighed when Tom had said—well, Benno couldn’t actually remember what he had said, that’s how incredibly not funny his comment was, but he remembered clearly how she gazed admiringly at the person Benno now realized was a snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a— “Hey, Benno!” He looked up to see Tom, the person he now hated more than anyone in the world, waving cheerfully at him from the sidelines. Benno picked up the ball and trotted over, trying to look casual and elegant, like the best players on the Italian national team. This effect was ruined when he stepped on a small rut in the field, tripped, and dropped the ball. “Ciao, Tom,” he called out. “Come stai?” As usual, Tom was flummoxed by this most basic Italian greeting. Benno imagined that he could actually hear the wheels in Tom’s brain turning as he tried to remember the correct response.

Ciao, papa,” she said in as deadpan a voice as she could manage. “You look very well this evening. Quite dashing.” He couldn’t help himself; he glanced down and preened for just a moment before he remembered that this was his daughter speaking. She hadn’t said anything that wasn’t sarcastic since she turned thirteen. He felt a touch of nostalgia for the twelve-year-old Silvia, who had prepared her bedroom walls with photos of clean-cut pop stars and cute puppies, who had begged to go to work with him just so they could be together, who had blushed if a neighbor chided her for being too loud . . . But that Silvia was gone. In her place was this, this alien who said everything with a sneer and eyed him disdainfully and made him feel like the oldest, most ridiculous man on earth. “More to the point, I am dressed appropriately,” he said. He realized that he was gritting his teeth. He remembered what his dentist had said about cracked molars, and made a conscious effort to relax his jaw. “You, on the other hand—” He glanced at the tattoo and closed his eyes in pain. “The invitation said formal,” she said, innocently. Her face darkened as she remembered that she had a grievance of her own. “I wanted to buy a new dress for this party, but you said it would cost too much! You said that the babies needed new high chairs! You said that our family now had different financial priorities! And this is the only formal dress I have, remember?” “Yes, and I also remember that there used to be a bit more of it!” her father hissed. Silvia glanced down complacently. “I know,” she said. “I altered it myself. It’s an original design.” “Original.” Her father glared at her. “You’ll be lucky not to be charged with indecent exposure. And if you are”—he gave her a warning look—“don’t expect any favors just because you’re the mayor’s daughter!” Silvia ignored this comment with the disdain it deserved. First, she never told anyone she was the mayor’s daughter. Second, her father was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an authority on fashion. She curled her lip at his tuxedo (which was vintage, but not in a good way), his high-heeled shoes (which kept making him lose his balance), and that scarlet sash (which made him look like an extra in a second-rate opera company). “Fine,” she said loftily. “If the police arrest me, I will plead guilty to having a unique and inventive fashion sense.” He remembered what his wife had said about keeping his temper and forced himself to smile.

Ciao, Violetta.” The sound of his voice, low and almost caressing, is such a shock that for a moment I think I’ve hallucinated hearing it. But as I jerk my head back, I see his shoes, his jeans, and swiftly I swing my legs under me, scrabbling for a foothold in the squishy mud of the riverbank, digging in my toes, and stand up waist-high in the water. Luca has bent his long legs now, and is sitting down in front of me, halfway down the bank on a stone outcropping, so we’re almost level. I stare at him, still disbelieving. “It was you!” I blurt out, and then feel stupid. “Cosa?” He lifts his dark brows. I can see his face clearly in the moonlight, the pale skin, the perfect bone structure, the black lock of hair that falls over his forehead, inky-dark. “Before,” I say. “Up by the club. You were smoking.” He nods. “Which you think is a disgusting habit,” he observes, amusement in his voice. “Yes, I do,” I say firmly, glad of the way the conversation is going; ticking him off is much easier than…anything else. “It’s revolting. Schifoso,” I add, having learned the word in Italian. “Bene.” He pulls the packet from his jeans pocket, raises it to show me, and then, quite unexpectedly, releases it, his long fingers empty, the packet falling into the river beside me. “No more cigarettes,” he says. “Since you say they are schifoso.” “You’re stopping? Just like that?” I fish out the packet before it becomes so waterlogged it sinks, and put it on the grass. He shrugs. “Perchè no?” I swallow. “You shouldn’t just throw things in the water like that. It’s bad for the environment,” I say, sticking with the severe, ticked-off voice, as it makes me feel safe. If I lose this voice with him, I’m in much deeper, more dangerous waters than this pretty little river. “Mi scusi,” he says lightly, an apology with not a flicker of contrition in his voice. “You are good for me, Violetta. The only one who tells me when I do wrong.” When he calls me by the Italian version of my name, I can’t help it: I feel like I’m melting. Dissolving, helpless, gone.

Ciao, Violetta.” The sound of his voice, low and almost caressing, is such a shock that for a moment I think I’ve hallucinated hearing it. But as I jerk my head back, I see his shoes, his jeans, and swiftly I swing my legs under me, scrabbling for a foothold in the squishy mud of the riverbank, digging in my toes, and stand up waist-high in the water. Luca has bent his long legs now, and is sitting down in front of me, halfway down the bank on a stone outcropping, so we’re almost level. I stare at him, still disbelieving. “It was you!” I blurt out, and then feel stupid. “Cosa?” He lifts his dark brows. I can see his face clearly in the moonlight, the pale skin, the perfect bone structure, the black lock of hair that falls over his forehead, inky-dark.

I wonder if it’s typical in Italy for shopkeepers to randomly see into your soul.