Devil Of Dublin Quotes

May those who love us, love us, And those who don’t love us, may God turn their hearts, And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he turn their ankles, so we’ll know them by their limping.

I wasn’t letting anything take her from me again. Not even God himself.

I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to look at me the way you’re lookin’ at me now.

You came to Dublin, avenging angel, and what’s the first thing you did? Fucked the devil. Oops, shit, eh?

This Plantagenet king comes from the devil.

How can you stand it?” he asked, his voice like sandpaper. “How can you stand to be touched after what they did?” The breath I was holding burned in my lungs before I finally whispered, “Not all touches hurt.

But those reports and stuff aren’t just saying things are unhealthy—they’re saying they’re morally wrong. Like you’re somehow a better person, spiritually, if you have the right body-fat percentage and exercise for an hour a day—and there’s that awful condescending set of ads where smoking isn’t just a stupid thing to do, it’s literally the devil. People need a moral code, to help them make decisions. All this bio-yogurt virtue and financial self-righteousness are just filling the gap in the market. But the problem is that it’s all backwards. It’s not that you do the right thing and hope it pays off; the morally right thing is by definition the thing that gives the biggest payoff.

That gap-toothed grin destroyed me. Ran me through with medieval brutality. It wasn’t clean. Or quick. It was slow and jagged and splintered as it pierced my heart, twisting on the way in, dragging on the way out. It left a million brittle shards behind, ensuring that I would never ever forget who that organ belonged to. Darby Collins. The only person who ever smiled when they saw me.

Murder is nature. Hadn’t you noticed that? People maiming each other, raping each other, killing each other, doing all the stuff that animals do: that’s nature in action. Nature is the devil I’m fighting, chum. Nature is my worst enemy. If it isn’t yours, then you’re in the wrong fucking gig.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder

He looked at the faces, lingering on his own. There he was, sitting just left of centre on the front row of a squad of 27 young fellas, all grinning back at the lens, full of hope and devilment. He remembered being happy at the time, proud to belong. It bothered him that, looking at it now, his smile looked forced. Like, even then, he’d lived with a perpetual wince, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.

Si l’amour avait un parfum, ce serait celui de la crème à la vanille

Bullshit,” he cuts me off impatiently. “You don’t get to pretend you would have done anything but despise me. It was already there in your eyes. You were young, so bloody young. Untouched by tragedy until your sister’s death. You came to Dublin, avenging angel, and what’s the first thing you did? Fucked the devil. Oops, shit, eh? You felt more alive with me that night than you’ve ever felt in your life. You were fucking born in that run-down rented room with me. I watched it happen, saw the woman you really are tear her constrictive, circumscribing skin right down the middle and strip it off. And I’m not talking about fucking. I’m talking about a way of existence. That night. You. Me. No fear. No holds barred. No rules. Watching you change was an epiphany. How did it feel to come alive in the city that killed your sister? Like the biggest fucking betrayal in the world?

Paddy's Lament" "Well it's by the hush, me boys, and sure that's to hold your noise And listen to poor Paddy's sad narration I was by hunger stressed, and in poverty distressed So I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation Well I sold me ass and cow, my little pigs and sow My little plot of land I soon did part with And me sweetheart Bid McGee, I'm afraid I'll never see For I left her there that morning broken-hearted Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin Well myself and a hundred more, to America sailed o'er Our fortunes to be making we were thinkin' When we got to Yankee land, they put guns into our hands 'Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln' Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin General Meagher to us he said, if you get shot or lose your head Every murdered soul of youse will get a pension Well in the war lost me leg, they gave me a wooden peg And by soul it is the truth to you I mention Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin Well I think myself in luck, if I get fed on Indianbuck And old Ireland is the country I delight in To the devil, I would say, it's curse Americay For the truth I've had enough of your hard fightin Here's you boys, now take my advice To America I'll have ye's not be going There is nothing here but war, where the murderin' cannons roar And I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin I wish I was at home I wish I was at home I wish I was at home I wish I was at home in dear old Dublin

All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is for you to look at me the way you’re lookin’ at me now.

But there is no honor among thieves. We were all pieces of shite.

Shh … it’s okay. You don’t have to fight anymore, darlin’. Neither of us does.” He kissed my forehead, my eyelids, my nose, my lips. “ ’Cause “I’m comin’ with ya, angel. Ya understand? I’m not lettin’ you go. I’ll never fuckin’ let go.

Is fíor bhur ngrá,” he rasped, dropping his forehead to mine. Saoirse’s blessing. My eyes shot open as Kellen pulled the knife out of his boot and turned to face Alexi, and with defiance in his eyes and a scream on my lips, he plunged the blade straight into his own heart.

If the Devil wanted to drag me back to hell now, he was going to need a fucking body bag.

I’m in love with you, Darby,” I said, pressing my lips to her shoulder. “Always have been. And if I had a fucking birth certificate, I’d ask you to marry me right now.

Ya know what they say about the Devil. Once upon a time, he was God’s most beautiful angel.

Her eyes lifted to mine, round and sweet, and without a word, without a plan, without a clue as to why we would do such a thing, Darby and I pressed our bloody palms together. And kissed. The moment her lips touched mine, the same still blue presence that had beckoned me into the water returned. It wrapped around my mind like the tail of a cat, warm and soft and cautiously curious. Then, it spoke. “Is fíor bhur ngrá,” it purred. “Tugaim mobheannacht daoibh.

Is fíor bhur ngrá. Tugaim mobheannacht daoibh,

I’m in love with you too, Kellen Donovan,” she whispered, rolling her hips as I swelled inside of her. “Always will be.

I had the skills necessary to take a life with my bare hands or from thirty meters away, but nothing had ever made me feel more powerful than discovering that I had the ability to make Darby Collins make that fucking sound.

I was no longer human or demon or even fucking breathing. I was simply hers—mind, body, and cursed black soul.

I wanted to heal everything that hurt. Worship every place they’d wounded. It wasn’t sexual. It was … sacrificial—my heart in exchange for her happiness.

Damien, are these … freckles?” Lifting my head, I glanced at the three dots slashed across the base of my finger and shrugged. “Guess so. Why?” Clo’s face lit up in what had to be the most breathtaking smile I’d ever seen as she slapped her left hand on top of mine. There, on her ring finger, darker than all the other freckles on her hand, were three dots, just like mine. “I read about this in one of Darby Donovan’s books.” She beamed. “It means we’re soulmates, bonded for eternity.

This blackened heart”—he glanced down the length of his torso—“this bullet-shredded body, every drop of hate pumping through these veins—it all belongs to you.

I’d dragged an angel into hell because I couldn’t live without her, and now, God had come to take her back.

I don’t want to wait twenty more years for another half hour in heaven with you.

I’d found my way to the otherworld.

Dead or alive, I was finally coming home.

The moment our lips touched, a warm, giddy golden glow seeped into the marrow of my bones. It spread through my body, lighting everything in its path. It turned me on, made me hum. I felt like a neon sign that had been plugged in for the very first time. My fragile, forgotten, hollow soul now sang with life, radiating heat and vibrant color.

It’s sad though. The author died before the series was published. She and her husband were murdered, right there in Glenshire, and they never found out who did it. Can you believe that? She was only twenty-two.

Touching her might have felt like a war, but some wars were worth fighting.