Curse Like A Sailor Quotes

Rob looked a little shocked. "Don't you look at me like that," I snapped at him. "Just because I can't trim a beard don't mean I can't swear." "Like a sailor," he added. "I've never heard so many curses in my whole life. All combined.

Then allow me to finish it. Categorically. I am happy for you to pursue all the adventure you like. Here. In this house. Under this roof. Drink until you can no longer stand. Curse like a dockside sailor. Set your embroidery aflame, for God’s sake. But, as your elder brother, the head of the family, and the earl,” he stressed the last words, “I forbid you from frequenting taverns, public houses, or other establishments of vice.

„I bet she's hot,” Sykes said. „Most demonesses are total babes,” He and Remy bumped first. I shook my head. They really had one-track minds. „She's okay, if you like big boobs and girls who curse like sailors.” „Me like.. me like,” Sykes said, bobbing up and down. I glared at him. „Too bad. Next time we meet, I'm vanquishing her.” Izzy grinned. „That's the spirit.

Swear toads infested every damp patch, cursing like sailors.

Some days I feel more comfortable using sexuality in my work, and then some days I feel like being a little more reserved. I think that’s why I’m in the middle of this whole conversation of, what is she? Is she a good girl or is she a bad girl? I think that I’m both. I don’t need to be either. I don’t need to be a pop princess who is America’s sweetheart or the next rebellious, wild, young thing. I don’t need to pick or choose. I can show skin and swear like a sailor but also be a good role model. I think that I’m a good person. I don’t think cursing makes you a bad person. I don’t think showing skin or kissing boys makes you a bad person. I don’t think that expressing sexuality makes you a bad person at all. I don’t think that’s bad… I think it’s great!

The creative act is primitive. Its principles are of birth and genesis. Babies are born in blood and chaos; stars and galaxies come into being amid the release of massive primordial cataclysms. Conception occurs at the primal level. I’m not being facetious when I stress, throughout this book, that it is better to be primitive than to be sophisticated, and better to be stupid than to be smart. The most highly cultured mother gives birth sweating and dislocated and cursing like a sailor. That’s the place we inhabit as artists and innovators. It’s the place we must become comfortable with. The hospital room may be spotless and sterile, but birth itself will always take place amid chaos, pain, and blood.

Within are shabby shelves, ranged round with old decanters, bottles, flasks; and in those jaws of swift destruction, like another cursed Jonah (by which name indeed they called him), bustles a little withered old man, who, for their money, dearly sells the sailors deliriums and death.

I didn’t curse in front of the neighbors, I swore like a sailor at home.

Waiting until you can afford to live in the style you’d like to become accustomed to is a curse against setting sail for distant horizons.

Shit. Fallon! Shit, shit, shit, dammit, shit, shit.” I hear Ben cursing like a sailor, but I don’t understand why. I feel his hands meet my shoulders. “Fallon the Transient, wake the hell up!” I open my eyes and he’s sitting up on the bed, running one hand through his hair. He looks pissed. I sit up on the bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes. The sleep. We fell asleep? I look over at my alarm clock and it reads 8:15. I reach over and pick it up to bring it closer to my face. That can’t be right. But it is. It’s 8:15. “Shit,” I say. “We missed dinner,” Ben says. “I know.” “We slept for two hours.” “Yeah. I know.” “We wasted two fucking hours, Fallon.” He looks genuinely distraught. Cute, but distraught. “I’m sorry.

The most highly cultured mother gives birth sweating and dislocated and cursing like a sailor. That’s the place we inhabit as artists and innovators. It’s the place we must become comfortable with.

But sailors were much better adversaries than the average aristocrat. They flipped cards with feral tricks, swore when they lost, swore when they won, would gouge the last silver keystone coin out of a friend. And they cheated. Kestrel especially liked it when they cheated. It made beating them not quite so easy. She

I felt more comfortable when you were cursing like a sailor and calling me filthy names." "Are you conceding defeat?" She tried to keep the hopeful tone from her voice when he tucked his laptop into his leather briefcase. "Of course not." His dark eyes flashed with mirth. "I have a business meeting in half an hour which I had hoped to conduct here, but I'm too much of a gentleman to intrude on your privacy while you crush the hearts of ten sad and lonely men. I look forward to battling with you tomorrow, Miss Patel. May the best man win." After the door closed behind him, she sat back in her chair surrounded by his warmth and the intoxicating scent of his cologne. She knew his type. Hated it. Arrogant. Cocky. Egotistical. Ultra-competitive. Fully aware of how devastatingly handsome he was. A total player. She would have swiped left if his profile had popped up on desi Tinder. So why couldn't she stop smiling?

My wife and I said good-bye the next morning in a little sheltered place among the lumber on the wharf; she was one of your women who never like to do their crying before folks. She climbed on the pile of lumber and sat down, a little flushed and quivery, to watch us off. I remember seeing her there with the baby till we were well down the channel. I remember noticing the bay as it grew cleaner, and thinking that I would break off swearing; and I remember cursing Bob Smart like a pirate within an hour. ("Kentucky's Ghost")

Kestrel though that Arin was someone who had fallen far. She couldn’t ask if that was true. She remembered his angry response when she had asked why he had been trained as a blacksmith, and that question had seemed innocent enough. Yet it had hurt him. She did not want to hurt him. “How did you learn to play Bite and Sting?” she asked. “It’s Valorian.” He looked relieved. “There was a time when Herrani enjoyed sailing to your country. We liked your people. And we have always admired the arts. Our sailors brought back Bite and Sting sets a long time ago.” “Bite and Sting is a game, not an art.” He folded his arms across his chest, amused. “If you say so.” “I’m surprised to hear that Herrani liked anything about Valorians. I thought you considered us stupid savages.” “Wild creatures,” he muttered. Kestrel was sure she had misheard him. “What?” “Nothing. Yes, you were completely uncultured. You ate with your hands. Your idea of entertainment was seeing who could kill the other first. But”--his eyes met hers, then glanced away--“you were known for other things, too.” “What things? What do you mean?” He shook his head. He made that strange gesture again, lifting his fingers to flick the air by his temple. Then he folded his hands, unfolded them, and began to mix the tiles. “You have asked too many questions. If you want more, you will have to win them.

How will we seize Wensan’s ship?” a Herrani asked. “We’ll climb its hull ladder.” Kestrel laughed. “You’ll be picked off one at a time by Wensan’s crew as soon as they realize what’s happening.” The room went still. Spines stiffened. Arin, who had been facing the Herrani, turned to stare at Kestrel. The look he gave her prickled the air between them like static. “Then we’ll pretend we’re their Valorian sailors who have been on shore,” he said, “and ask for our launches to be winched up to the deck from the water.” “Pretend to be Valorian? That will be believable.” “It will be dark. They won’t see our faces, and we have the names of sailors on shore.” “And your accent?” Arin didn’t answer. “I suppose you hope that the wind will blow your accent away,” Kestrel said. “But maybe the sailors will still ask you for the code of the call. Maybe your little plan will be dead in the water, just like all of you.” There was silence. “The code of the call,” she repeated. “The password that any sane crew uses and shares with no one but themselves, in order to prevent people from attacking them as you so very foolishly hope to do.” “Kestrel, what are you doing?” “Giving you some advice.” He made an impatient noise. “You want me to burn the ships.” “Do I? Is that what I want?” “We’ll be weaker against the empire without them.” She shrugged. “Even with them, you won’t stand a chance.

Yes, my friend, ship wreckage was once the wood of a tree, nothing special about it - just like any other kind of wood. Men cut down the tree. They sawed and worked and planed and shaped and polished and caulked and tarred it. They made a ship out it, and they celebrated the birth of that ship, they christened it like a child. And they entrusted themselves to it. But the men were no longer very much in charge. The ship too had its say. A ship’s a being in its own right, like a person, so to speak, that thinks, and breathes, and reacts. A ship has its own mission to accomplish. It has its own destiny. So it sinks, this vessel, it founders because it was meant to founder, on such a day at such a time, on account of this or that, and in such a place. Maybe it was already written in the stars. And then long afterwards, other men discover the wreck, they refloat it, they bring to the surface the bits of wood — and you should see with what respect they do this. And you think a piece of wreckage like that doesn’t know anything, doesn’t remember anything, isn’t capable of anything, that it’s as senseless as it is hard, that it’s. . . as thick as a plank? I’ll tell you something worth remembering, that sailors well know: wood from a shipwreck is “back-flash” wood. Whatever takes place under the auspices and under the sign of even the smallest fragment ot a shipwreck cuts more than just one way. One swinish deed is multiplied a thousandfold; one flower’, (he meant, a kindness),'will bring you a field full of flowers, an entire province, tulips, cyclamens, take your pick. For instance: there’s shipwreck wood in the base frame of the sign of the four sergeants. That’s something “the likes of us” know. Well, once that guy was through,’ (he meant, the man who’d been praying), ‘I guarantee, the judge, every member of the jury, the prosecutor, the warders, the hangman, his assistants, the whole damn lot of them are going to get their comeuppance, and how! From now on they’re jinxed. Seriously jinxed. And for a long time to come.

While we all grow and mature and change from that awkward little worm we were in high school, it is still a pretty consistent indicator of who we become as adult butterflies. High school sets a tone for how the next decade of your life plays out, good or bad. It is the first set of steps in your journey. If you want to know who you were as a person during this hormonal time, refer to your yearbook. You will find a theme and you will see a pattern. Most definitely, you will notice these themes and patterns carried on into your twenties and so on. Take those signatures serious.

Build your Fantasy Five. Figure out who influences you and who impresses you. Notice the common qualities that appear in your lineup. Those common qualities speak directly to who you are as a person and who you aspire to be. They serve as a guide for you to understand your own personal definition.

Yeah, that’s right. I may be blunt, curse like a sailor on leave, and dress like a biker bitch, but if I’m going to stab you, it won’t be in the back. It will be face to face where I can see the pain flash in your eyes.

Lucy gets drunk and curses like a sailor, which everyone finds hilarious. Me, especially.

The skin on his palm was thicker than the hide on a man's heel, but across it and between the fingers were deep raw cracks from the cold and the salt which would never heal, not until he settled ashore. And that was not likely to be anytime soon, for when a man's got salt water in his blood and a sea wind in his lungs, neither wife nor land can keep him from the waves.

Lillian tells everyone about her flaws," Daisy said, her brown eyes twinkling. "She's proud of them." "I do have a terrible temper," Lillian acknowledged smugly. "And I can curse like a sailor." "Who taught you to do that?" Annabelle asked. "My grandmother. She was a washerwoman. And my grandfather was the soap maker from whom she bought her supplies. Since she worked near the docks, most of her customers were sailors and dockers, who taught her words so vulgar that it would curl your hair ribbons to hear them.

Just like your father, Ryan—blunt, abrasive and cursing like a sailor.” He moved closer until he was just inches from him and added with a wink, “Everything I liked about him.

Some of the old-timers reached out to pat Tom’s shoulder as he made his way down the deck while the newer shipmates just peered curiously at the tattooed sailor that was built like an ox. However, when Tom started bellowing, everyone jumped quickly to obey. “All right ye lot o’ bleedin’ twats, move yer asses. Shore up that fuckin’ clutter and tighten those lines, ye bilge rat. Aye! I’ll drown ye meself if ye don’t heed, boy…” Jon grinned, listening to the first mate yell out orders in his nonstop, rolling mainland accent that was thickly peppered with cursing and laughter. He looked out over the calm water and took a deep breath. Jon knew there would be trying times in the coming months, both from inside the ship and from without, but at this precise moment in time, he felt he could face anything. Jon picked up the bag that Tom had dumped unceremoniously beside him and trotted to the captain’s quarters to throw it inside. With a glance up at the tall, dark man above him on the quarterdeck, Jon smiled. There was nowhere he would rather be.

shall never forget that night of September in which the veil that concealed from me my own incredulity was torn. I hear again my steps in the narrow, naked chamber where, long after the hour of sleep had come, I had the habit of walking up and down Anxiously I followed my thoughts as they descended from layer to layer towards the foundation of my consciousness, scattering one by one all the illusions that until then had screened its windings from my view, making them at every moment more clearly visible. Vainly I clung to these last beliefs as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the fragments of his vessel, vainly, frightened at the unknown void into which I was about to float. I turned with them towards my childhood, my family, my country, all that was dear and sacred to me; the inflexible current of my thought was too strong—parents, family, memory, beliefs—it forced me to let go of everything. The investigation went on more obstinate and more severe as it drew near its term, and it did not stop until the end was reached. I knew then that in the depth of my mind, nothing was left that stood erect. This moment was a frightful one, and when towards morning, I threw myself exhausted on my bed, I seemed to feel my earlier life, so smiling and so full, go out like a fire, and before me another life opened, sombre and unpeopled, where in future I must live alone, alone with my fatal thought that had exiled me there, and which I was tempted to curse. The days that followed this were the saddest days of my life.