D'smoke Quotes

These days, maybe you’d smoke some pot. Maybe, every once in a while, if you were feeling very ironic, you might do a line of coke. But that was it. This was an age of discipline, of deprivation, not inspiration, and at any rate inspiration no longer meant drugs.

Off in the distance big white cruise ships had pulled into port, glistening beneath the Mexican sun. Vacationers for whom murder was not on the itinerary. Throngs of young college kids on break, males and females looking to party and get laid without strings or consequence. They'd be wearing T-shirts with captions uttered by some inconsequential reality television personality, or worse, an Obama logo. They'd smoke as much cannabis as they could procure and maybe experiment with some stronger stuff. What happened in Mexico would stay in Mexico; literally for some, who would not be able to remember much of what they had done or let others do while in a stupor borne of tequila body-shots and Ecstasy. Old enough to vote, too stupid to realize the consequences.

So I learned about life,” said Oryx. “Learned what?” said Jimmy. He shouldn’t have had the pizza, and the weed they’d smoked on top of that. He was feeling a little sick. “That everything has a price.” “Not everything. That can’t be true. You can’t buy time. You can’t buy . . .” He wanted to say love, but hesitated. It was too soppy. “You can’t buy it, but it has a price,” said Oryx. “Everything has a price.” “Not me,” said Jimmy, trying to joke. “I don’t have a price.” Wrong, as usual.

They’d smoked enough that there was a good chance Bryce had still been high yesterday morning when she’d stumbled into work.

We would record for a few hours and then a chef would arrive with a bunch of prerolled joints, which we’d smoke in preparation for dinner.

Charles Schwab was paid a salary of a million dollars a year in the steel business, and he told me that he was paid this huge salary largely because of his ability to handle people. Imagine that! A million dollars a year because he was able to handle people! One day at noontime, Schwab was walking through one of his steel mills when he came across a group of men smoking directly under a sign that said No Smoking. Do you suppose that Charles Schwab pointed at the sign and said, “Can’t you read?” Absolutely not, not that master of human relations. Mr. Schwab chatted with the men in a friendly way and never said a word about the fact that they were smoking under a No Smoking sign. Finally he handed them some cigars and said with a twinkle in his eye, “I’d appreciate it, boys, if you’d smoke these outside.” That is all he said. Those men knew that he knew that they had broken a rule, and they admired him because he hadn’t called them down. He had been such a good sport with them that they in turn wanted to be good sports with him. —DALE CARNEGIE

Other than that night he’d smoked mugweed with Cassius.

Crackheads were different. They’d smoke in hallways, on playgrounds, on subway station suitcases. They got no respect. They were former neighbors, ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’, but once they started smoking, they were simply crackheads, the lowest on the food chain in the jungle, worse than prostitutes and almost as bad as snitches.

I'd smoked from quite a young age and the first thing I noticed when I went into the studio was a stack of Marlborough Lights on the table.

...because I really haven't even done drugs, and she kept looking at me like maybe I was lying just to get her out of there. So finally I said that yes, okay. I'd smoked pot a few times, and that seemed to make her happy. Like it's not possible that there's a kid om this planet who hasn't smoked pot. Moron. "How abour glue?" she askes me. I nodded, and she lit up like a Chtistmas tree. At least until I said, "I used to eat paste. In kindergarten. Bad habit. I totally gave it up, though, I swear. It didn't mix with the apple juice so well.

Do you mind cigar smoke,” he mumbled. “Not at all,” she murmured. He turned away from her but made no move to find a cigar. “Go ahead,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I wish you’d smoke two cigars at the same time.” “You must really like cigar smoke.” “Not especially, but I think two cigars going at the same time would look awfully amusing.

Dad had gone ballistic when Ruby got suspended from school for smoking, but not Nora. Her mother had picked Ruby up from the principal’s office and driven her to the state park at the tip of the island. She’d dragged Ruby down to the secluded patch of beach that overlooked Haro Strait and the distant glitter of downtown Victoria. It had been exactly three in the afternoon, and the gray whales had been migrating past them in a spouting, splashing row. Nora had been wearing her good dress, the one she saved for parent–teacher conferences, but she had plopped down cross-legged on the sand. Ruby had stood there, waiting to be bawled out, her chin stuck out, her arms crossed. Instead, Nora had reached into her pocket and pulled out the joint that had been found in Ruby’s locker. Amazingly, she had put it in her mouth and lit up, taking a deep toke, then she had held it out to Ruby. Stunned, Ruby had sat down by her mother and taken the joint. They’d smoked the whole damn thing together, and all the while, neither of them had spoken. Gradually, night had fallen; across the water, the sparkling white city lights had come on. Her mother had chosen that minute to say what she’d come to say. “Do you notice anything different about Victoria?” Ruby had found it difficult to focus. “It looks farther away,” she had said, giggling. “It is farther away. That’s the thing about drugs. When you use them, everything you want in life is farther away.” Nora had turned to her. “How cool is it to do something that anyone with a match can do? Cool is becoming an astronaut…or a comedian…or a scientist who cures cancer. Lopez Island is exactly what you think it is—a tiny blip on a map. But the world is out there, Ruby, even if you haven’t seen it. Don’t throw your chances away. We don’t get as many of them as we need. Right now you can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything. You can become so damned famous that they’ll have a parade for you when you come home for your high-school reunion…or you can keep screwing up and failing your classes and you can snip away the ends of your choices until finally you end up with that crowd who hangs out at Zeke’s Diner, smoking cigarettes and talking about high-school football games that ended twenty years ago.” She had stood up and brushed off her dress, then looked down at Ruby. “It’s your choice. Your life. I’m your mother, not your warden.” Ruby remembered that she’d been shaking as she’d stood up. That’s how deeply her mother’s words had reached. Very softly, she’d said, “I love you, Mom.

His old man, who'd smoked like he did, had spent the last five years of his life in a little cart sucking on a tank, until he'd done the big face-plant just a month before his sixtieth birthday.

I told her one of the few stories that she'd told me of myself as a child. We'd gone to a park by a lake. I was no older than two. Me, my father, and my mother. There was an enormous tree with branches so long and droopy that my father moved the picnic table from underneath it. He was always afraid of me getting crushed. My mother believed that kids had stronger bones than grownups. "There's more calcium in her forearm than in an entire dairy farm," she liked to say. That day, my mother had made roasted tomato and goat cheese sandwiches with salmon she'd smoked herself, and I ate, she said, double my weight of it. She was complimenting me when she said that. I always wondered if eating so much was my best way of complimenting her. The story went that all through lunch I kept pointing at a gaping hole in the tree, reaching for it, waving at it. My parents thought it was just that: a hole, one that had been filled with fall leaves, stiff and brown, by some kind of ferrety animal. But I wasn't satisfied with that explanation. I wouldn't give up. "What?" my father kept asking me. "What do you see?" I ate my sandwiches, drank my sparkling hibiscus drink, and refused to take my eyes off the hole. "It was as if you were flirting with it," my mother said, "the way you smiled and all." Finally, I squealed, "Butter fire!" Some honey upside-down cake went flying from my mouth. "Butter fire?" they asked me. "Butter fire?" "Butter fire!" I yelled, pointing, reaching, waving. They couldn't understand. There was nothing interesting about the leaves in the tree. They wondered if I'd seen a squirrel. "Chipmunk?" they asked. "Owl?" I shook my head fiercely. No. No. No. "Butter fire!" I screamed so loudly that I sent hundreds of the tightly packed monarchs that my parents had mistaken for leaves exploding in the air in an eruption of lava-colored flames. They went soaring wildly, first in a vibrating clump and then as tiny careening postage stamps, floating through the sky. They were proud of me that day, my parents. My father for my recognition of an animal so delicate and precious, and my mother because I'd used a food word, regardless of what I'd actually meant.

Is it a two- or three-pipe problem?” “What’s that about?” “Sherlock Holmes smoked a pipe while he sat in his study solving mysteries,” she said. “The harder the case, the more he’d smoke.” “I don’t smoke a pipe,” he said. “I also don’t have a study. Maybe that’s what’s holding me back.

breath and said, “Gran died while you were gone.” “Oh, Tully.” And there it was, what Tully had been waiting for all week. Someone who loved her and was truly sorry for her. Tears stung her eyes; before she knew it, she was crying. Big, gulping sobs that wracked her body and made it impossible to breathe, and all the while, Kate held her, letting her cry, saying nothing. When there were no tears left inside, Tully smiled shakily. “Thanks for not saying you felt sorry for me.” “I am, though.” “I know.” Tully lay back against the log and stared up at the night sky. She wanted to admit that she was scared and that as alone as she’d sometimes felt in life, she knew now what real loneliness was, but she couldn’t say the words, not even to Kate. Thoughts—even fears—were airy things, formless until you made them solid with your voice, and once given that weight, they could crush you. Kate waited a moment, then said, “So what will happen?” Tully wiped her eyes and reached into her pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one up, she took a drag and coughed. It had been years since she’d smoked. “I have to go into foster care. It’s only for a while, though. When I’m eighteen I can live alone.” “You’re not going to live with strangers,” Kate said fiercely. “I’ll find Cloud and make her do the right thing.” Tully didn’t bother answering. She loved her friend for saying it, but they lived in two different worlds, she and Kate. In Tully’s world, moms weren’t there to help you out. What mattered was making your own way. What mattered was not caring. And the best way not to care was to surround yourself with noise and people. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. She didn’t have long here in Snohomish. In no time at all,

Each step brought him closer—made him bigger and taller—and her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Perhaps the opium had gone bad—perhaps she’d smoked too much this time. Amid the pounding in her ears and her head, the whisper of wings filled the air. In the space between blinks, she could have sworn she saw things swooping past him in swift, vicious circles, hovering above him, waiting, waiting, waiting …

I laid in bed, wide awake. I couldn’t sleep. I’d smoked two blunts back to back, sittin’ in the loft looking out the window replayin’ the way her moan sounded. How she said ‘please.’ But she belonged to another nigga? No. Fuck that.