Curley Quotes

This wind is mystical yet tame, and it sings to me.

He says, "I have loved you since the first moment I saw you. I wanted you then, and when I thought you didn't want me, I turned my love into hate." "Ethan..." Before I say another word his mouth comes down over mine and he kisses me.

Nothing will be resolved here. Nothing is ever resolved without war. It is the way of the universe.

Isabel sends her brother a look that could boil him in oil if she had that particular paranormal talent. A thought hits me: maybe she has. It will be fun to find out.

Not to know what happened before you were born is always to remain a child. For what is a man’s life if it is not linked with the life of future generations by memories of the past?

Grief and passion make a volatile mix.

For a moment Ethan simply stares. Before him is the monster of his nightmares: his sister's murderer, the beast who robbed him of his greatest love. How easy, how fulfilling would it be to take Marduk's life? But the arrow in Ethan's fingers slips to the ground. "No. even revenge is too great an honor for you." As the night falls and brings an end to this long day of darkness, Marduk inhales his last staggered breath and his body turns to stone.

As if some kind of demon were racking his brain, Curley Joe stood in front of the jukebox with a small, silver handgun still pointed at the hole its bullet had blown through the shattered Plexiglas.

The price for Jarrod's freedom is to be my imprisonment.

Yeah,” said George. “I’ll come. But listen, Curley. The poor bastard’s nuts. Don’t shoot ‘im. He di’n’t know what he was doin’.

Lennie rolled off the bunk and stood up, and the two of them started for the door. Just as they reached it, Curley bounced in. "You seen a girl around here?" he demanded angrily. George said coldly, "'Bout half an hour ago maybe." "Well, what the hell was she doin'?" George stood still, watching the angry little man. He said insultingly, "She said--she was lookin' for you." Curley seemed really to see George for the first time. His eyes flashed over George, took in his height, measured his reach, looked at his trim middle. "Well, which way'd she go?" he demanded at last. "I dunno," said George. "I didn't watch her go." Curley scowled at him, and turning, hurried out the door. George said, "Ya know, Lennie, I'm scared I'm gonna tangle with that bastard myself. I hate his guts. Jesus Christ! Come on. There won't be a damn thing left to eat.

Her smile cut sharper than a knife’s edge.

The cottages are full of life. It's incredible to think they are filled with people who know nothing of computerised technology, nor even running water, sewage systems or electricity. And yet here they live. Surviving.

The gods may have spoken, but Nature only bends to a goddess.

Love is not weakness, father: it is strength. Love is what taught my skin to feel and my eyes to see. Love is not a weapon: it is light.

Blood trickles from my throat, on to Kate's white nightgown. She screams at the sight. 'Jarrod, you're bleeding!' 'I'm all right, don't struggle I won't let it get to you.

A true healer is the one who heals himself first so others can benefit from his own healing.

I recall the look in Rhauk's eyes the moment he spotted Kate. It will stay with me forever, carved into my brain like an engraving on a headstone. It's as if he found something he treasured, something he's been looking for all his life.

Love is weakness, Icarus, the man had said, grim, 'It is Man’s deadliest weapon, greater than the sword and mightier than the axe—because it can destroy you with a single breath.

I push throughthe wind to the north-facing window and stand before it. 'I will bring her back!' I shout into the darkness. I do this because I know Rhauk will be listening.

I did a research assignment on life in the Middle Ages only last year. I found the era fascinating, all that chivalry and court romance. But I never pictured anything as poor as this village. This is the pits. There's no romance here, definitely no chivary. And it stinks--of sweat and smoke and sewage.

But George sat stiffly on the bank and looked at his right hand that had thrown the gun away. The group burst into the clearing, and Curley was ahead. He saw Lennie lying on the sand. “Got him, by God.” He went over and looked down at Lennie, and then he looked back at George. “Right in the back of the head,” he said softly. Slim came directly to George and sat down beside him, sat very close to him. “Never you mind,” said Slim. “A guy got to sometimes.” But Carlson was standing over George. “How’d you do it?” he asked. “I just done it,” George said tiredly.

Darkness at Blacklands is scary.

Malcom clears his throat and Jarrod spins around, Jillian's amulet reflecting the morning sun. 'Kate!

You what. Curley’s like a lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He’s alla time picking scraps with big guys. Kind of like he’s mad at ’em because he ain’t a big guy. You seen little guys like that, ain’t you? Always scrappy?

Curley's wife lay with a half-covering of yellow hay. And the meanness and the plannings and the discontent and the ache for attention were all gone from her face. She was pretty and simple, and her face was sweet and young. Now her rouged cheeks and reddened lips made her seem alive and sleeping very lightly. The curls, tiny little sausages, were spread on the hay behind her head and her lips were parted

From stars, he was born, and to stars, he shall return.

I sense a deep despair inside this boy that must be hard to live with.

Boston Mayor James Michael Curley once summarized the philosophy of many politicians as, “There go the people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.

Each night he would give up on sleeping in his pain and drowning in his silence; he would watch the few stars that were in the sky that night, but he would never be living them. Something has taken his warmth and replaced it with a starless sky.

Instinctively, and against my better judgement, I pull her closer to me. She rests her head on my shoulder as if it is the most natural thing in all the worlds to do. But it's a mistake. I become aware of her heart beating, her lungs expanding with every breath, her skin beneath my touch. She moves, and her head slides to my chest. Shifting into sleep, she wraps her arm around my waist. Now I'm aware of my heart beating too, slowly, in sync with hers. I know I should push her away. But if my life depended on it, right now, that would be impossible.

Sun-brushed hands trailed circles on his wings, opening new ways to touch the sky. The dance is the dalliance of the whispers, unsaid desires brighter than eternal suns. His teeth of flint and steel, the sun boy’s lips like ichor.

Well, Gascon, I'm going to miss your long blue hair. How on earth will I find you in a crowd now?

Looking straight into Rochelle's eyes he adds, "I don't cave in to temptation.

There was something beautiful about his scars, something lovely about his fallibility.

The labyrinth was dirty, constricting. The smell of wet and rotted vines littered the air, making his tentative hands twitch and curl with desperation. How he wished to be free again! To feel the glaciers melt into springs and witness the stars turn themselves over and over again under his fingertips.

Never did seem right to me. S'pose Curley jumps a big guy an' licks him. Ever'body says what a game guy Curley is. And s'pose he does the same thing and gets licked. Then ever'body says the big guy oughtta pick somebody his own size, and maybe they gang up on the big guy. Seems like Curley ain't givin' nobody a chance.

I can't be a mummy, I'm a daddy!

Be kind. Be strong. Be funny when you can.

Your self-assurance scares me.’ 'That’s only because you don’t have any.

He looked at all the people in that room, their tears and their smiles merging together as one, and at the care they all had for him, as if he was worth something great.

I won't show weakness here, but, damn it, tears don't mean I'm frail and pathetic, only that I'm unhappy.

Here he was now, stuck in the labyrinth of his mind, a labyrinth of demolished roses, staring at the cosmos between his eyelids and feeling the star spots on his skin.

Curley's like a lot of little guys. He hates big guys. He's alla time picking scraps with big guys. Kind of like he's mad at 'em because he ain't a big guy.

He stayed under the fluorescent street light until the sounds of traffic and nightlife faded into silence, and only then did he look up into the night sky, the way he usually did when he was looking for answers.

Throughout the slow burning of the day, the silver-skinned boy kissed the air with the ghost of moon-soaked lips, images circling his head and under his jaw, and paint spilled onto paper. He said he was not an artist, but the boy he remembered told him once that the language of art is such a sacred dream. And he believed him.

Slim, "Buna mecburdun George," dedi. "Başka hiçbir çaren yoktu. Hadi gel benimle." George'u kolundan tutup anayola çıkan patikaya doğru götürdü. Curley ile Carlson onların arkasından baktılar. Carlson "Yahu," dedi, "nedir bu heriflerin derdi?

Daedalus’s blood ran cold. “No?” he shook off his son’s arm. “For once you have tasted flight …” His voice was desperate now. “…you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.

I live in sin.” The winged boy’s eyes had turned downwards, his soft mouth setting grimly with despair. “To kill myself I live. No longer my life my own, but sin’s; my good is given to me by heaven, my evil by myself, by my free will, of which I am deprived.

No.” The word burned in his mouth and sizzled on his tongue. “A wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand.” His last words were with finality, his eyes no longer sparked. “I think, I too have known autumn too long.

He painted until his cursive brushes were only whispers of rawness on the thin ivory. Only the walls and the ravens that watched knew the boy with the paint-stained palms weaved his art onto his sketchpad on the park bench at lunchtimes, and only the trees whispered it like a prayer.

All my life my heart has sought a thing I cannot name,' the silver boy said, eyes dancing over the horizon. 'But now that I have found it, I am not so sure I can handle knowing it.

Millions of colors spring up from behind his eyelids, lighting up the dark world like a thousand urns pouring out of the sun.

Imperfect. Beautiful. The most extraordinary thought of all.

Now she smiles as if I'm her favorite chocolate bar. "And I love you, Jordan.

Her eyes are liquid and draining out of her.

Being Married does´t mean you have to give up your sight!

If you don’t want anyone to misunderstand you, go into yourself and thoroughly investigate and understand yourself. No one will ever misunderstand you ever again.

But the dream is over. He has no one to fly to now. He is among strangers, and his memories would only be a murmur in a darkened room lit by one, snuffing candle.

I’m fine,” is the reply he gives. I think I am surviving, in all the wrong ways, is the reply he thinks.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life, you know.” His mother smiled at him and sat across the table, spreading her papers around as if they were a tablecloth made of silken letters.

Frowning, puzzled, I cross my arms over my chest. "Go to hell." His eyebrows lift as he draws near enough so that I can accept his offer of wine, and smell his pungent breath. " Not without you, my dear

Some would say that the winged boy loved the sun, loved him with his very own soul and every fibre in his body. His father had warned him: Don’t fly too close to the sun, boy, you know better. But who was he to listen?

Their gazes locked, and together they saw the squandered mirages slain beneath their feet, cemeteries of lonesome dreamers who gave up their wings under the name of love, salt-soaked kisses half-forgotten and twice-remembered.

Either way, his dreams were filled with bronzed faces and heavenly wings, hallucinating millions of eyes and Angels staggering on tenement rooftops, screaming unworldly oaths over the tops of cities, and drowning in their imagination.

When he ran to him, his strong arms caged around him and his sun-streaked skin burned under his fingers. He ignored the burning. The soft mumble on his neck told him that he understood, that he loved him. He dared to kiss the sunlight and it kissed him back.

The relief Kieran felt was staggering. The sick-satisfaction of justice burned through him like an oil spill, waiting for him to drop a match, to let it all go up in flames as he laughed through the rain of hellfire. But he didn’t. He pocketed the metaphysical match. He vacuumed the torrential oil spill. He had just turned his wasteland into a rain forest; he would not let his resentment burn down the trees he had grown out of the garden of his own mind. Kieran himself had come too far to let the angry hand of vengeance burn away his fertile terrains, ruin his harvests of the pure flora kingdom and slaughter his animals to ribbons in sacrifice to greater demons whose jaws never shut. Homeostasis was a hard-earned tendency. Bonfires were clumsy and unwarranted; if he let it consume him and everything he’d built, all he had cultivated would be for nothing. He did not want his flowers to die.

horse slobber is good for your hair… makes it curley.

She was done running! The stars were above her head and shining too brightly; all she had to do now was tip her head back and look.

Alice placed her trembling hand atop Rhæna’s, marveling at how well they fit; how surely they belonged. It was almost as if they were the same person—one heart, one mind, one body to shelter them both in warmth; against the cold, against the world. A beautiful monster born from something as pure as love, that existed in serenity.

They were so peculiar, these days. They were so absurdly hopeful that their faces had taken on some of the stupidity of domestic beasts.

The snow had vanished, and already the grass had returned to the fields, and the leaves to the branches: what a marvelous time! To kiss the sky with his sun-drenched lips?

And all through the tireless motions of stripping a boy’s soul to the bone, his mother listened with the tear-filled awe that one inspired after a particularly wonderful symphony. Her eyes held sadness, yes; but they also held realization, and by the end of it, she embraced him with her whole being.

He laughed suddenly, a rough, light sound that filled the small space effortlessly, and Kieran let himself say the words in his head, examining them at every angle, let his tongue curl around the syllables and taste them, around the eight vowels and fourteen consonants, without making a sound: If I am anything, it is light. They all tasted oddly familiar.

That is what Lincoln saw in them, this love in all his friends, who held a close place in his heart, and Oscar, the one dream of his soul. He found it in them, in all of them, with their dirty pasts and their still recovering minds, in their words and in their friendship, and in their souls that spoke to each other in the mist of the clouds or the surging of the trees that knew that, in eternity, they would always find beauty. And that was an incredible world to wake up to.

Children began by loving their parents; as they grew older, they either became them or abandoned them. Sometimes, they forgave them.

And like a rushing tide against his skin, Kieran felt the full weight of the very heavens press against his shoulders; and Kieran marvelled at the whole unfairness of it all.

The thought would not leave him. How God, if there were such a dictator, could allow the cruel to inherit the earth and poison the cups of the innocents, was lost on him.

The world, Kieran thought, is cruel. But it was the people in it who made it filthy.

After all, courage is knowing that fear is inevitable, but living your life despite of it,' she murmured, the words partly obscured by his shoulder. 'Don’t fear love anymore. Sometimes, you just have to keep going and remember that you are not your heartache...' her voice was soft, pronounced, '...and you will find a way.

The two girls grew up with the same feeling of love for years and knew it was home, and better than Heaven, which was only a place.

And when their hands connected in the space between their bodies, they realised that it didn’t matter how or where they grew up, or who they were now, because in that moment they knew that home wasn’t a place, it was a feeling.

She had rosemary in her hair and stardust on her cheeks, and she was a mess of beautiful chaos, and Rhæna loved her more than life.

And once and for all; Lincoln knew to his sorrow, further and further, what it meant to love against reason, against hope, against duty, against moral, against promise, against expectation, against any obstacle that could be.

At long last, his parents no longer symbolized immoveable fixtures that scared him, but rather a chance of a future, a future where he could come into this house without knocking, because he had been given a key.

Now, Kieran whispered those names in the darkness of the night as if they were prayers, when sleep was a sluggish yet heavy pull on his eyelids, when his thoughts would start to slowly evaporate in tandem, when he was lonesome for his Angels.

The words would circulate through the wintry air, and not even a little bit of time would pass before he would awaken again, in the morning, with his hands clutched to his chest and his throat stinging of pure joy.

But now they were done running, lying, hiding, apologising, pretending. They were there because they wanted to be, because they had gotten there from years of fighting alone, and had stayed when they found they didn’t have to anymore.

Oscar squeezed his hand softly. 'Do we really need to know? Can we truly know? Perhaps this whirlwind we call our lives is too big and too vast to be known by our small minds? Perhaps our purpose is not to know, but to be okay with that, to be comfortable with not knowing, and still have the courage to love

Nobody said that that admission, that truth, settled something within them—not a reassurance of purpose, but a profound, faraway recognition, something so deeply buried inside them that the only thing they felt was that tiny fragment of themselves, calmly and easily, open up.

But the seraphs that watched from above knew the tale: Gods and mortals may change their skies, but not their souls, who rush across the sea.

They were sitting close to each other, heads together as if in scheme. He had suddenly wished that she had been with him at their house. He could imagine her as a little girl, eyes wild and hair untamed, running on her small but sturdy feet, climbing trees and earning scrapes, picking fruit from the highest branch.

Soon their arms were wrapped around her, and at that moment Alice knew she had found a home, a permanent one, for the first time in her life. Not just within the brownstone walls of that house, but in the people who resided there. For the first time, Alice was apart of a family.

But the question always snuck up on her whenever it could, between comfortable, drawn-out moments of silence, through the breaking of dawn when they were gallantly trying to stay up to catch a glimpse of the sunrise, or through their watered down smiles and hands clutching wine glasses, yearning desperately for a quick abandonment of their too-sharp, too-stark minds.

A realization struck her: I can only see her. The world is filled with her alone.

But there would also be a time when these fears would slowly ease—when the need to constantly lock and hide and protect would soften, and she would no longer startle at the gentle passing of fingertips on her back in the morning, or a playful jostle of her shoulder by a laughing girl. These things she hoped for, and knew would come. These things she held closest to her heart, like the first peak of sun over a mountain that whispered: You can have this. You can keep this. You deserve this. 

A man is only ever himself when he has let go of the follies of being a man, and sobriety is that steel door separating man from his true conception.

Silences like these were never uncomfortable for them, never an awkward space squabbling for meaningless words to fill it. It was acceptance, of a sort, an understanding. These were the people who had lived long and fitfully enough to discover that they were not alone, that there were people out there who would love and fight with them.

Now that he had caught a glimpse of the world, he could no longer bear to be away from it.

I guess—I’ve been hurt by him,' he continued, not sounding like himself, 'but the reason I am hurt is because I love him. And I know that love is weakness, and that you always told me not to give my heart to anyone who could destroy it, but I guess, that is the point of love, is it not? To give yourself so fully to another, knowing that they have the power to destroy you?