Dolls And Daggers Quotes

The princess stood in the center of the cabin, her brilliant red robes and the rubies at her throat and her bloodred eyes all the color of hatred. With her stark hair twisted up off her neck, and her pale skin, and the live albino scorpions she wore as earring, she was an exquisite horror, a Kabuki doll constructed by an evil hand. And she was evil, her darkness coming to him in waves, emanating from the center of her chest even as nothing about her moved and her moonlike face remained unmarred by a frown.

A pair of young mothers now became the centre of interest. They had risen from their lying-in much sooner than the doctors would otherwise have allowed. (French doctors are always very good about recognizing the importance of social events, and certainly in this case had the patients been forbidden the ball the might easily have fretted themselves to death.) One came as the Duchesse de Berri with l’Enfant du Miracle, and the other as Madame de Montespan and the Duc du Maine. The two husbands, the ghost of the Duc de Berri, a dagger sticking out of his evening dress, and Louis XIV, were rather embarrassed really by the horrible screams of their so very young heirs, and hurried to the bar together. The noise was indeed terrific, and Albertine said crossly that had she been consulted she would, in this case, have permitted and even encouraged the substitution of dolls. The infants were then dumped down to cry themselves to sleep among the coats on her bed, whence they were presently collected by their mothers’ monthly nannies. Nobody thereafter could feel quite sure that the noble families of Bregendir and Belestat were not hopelessly and for ever interchanged. As their initials and coronets were, unfortunately, the same, and their baby linen came from the same shop, it was impossible to identify the children for certain. The mothers were sent for, but the pleasures of society rediscovered having greatly befogged their maternal instincts, they were obliged to admit they had no idea which was which. With a tremendous amount of guilty giggling they spun a coin for the prettier of the two babies and left it at that.

A BRAVE AND STARTLING TRUTH We, this people, on a small and lonely planet Traveling through casual space Past aloof stars, across the way of indifferent suns To a destination where all signs tell us It is possible and imperative that we learn A brave and startling truth And when we come to it To the day of peacemaking When we release our fingers From fists of hostility And allow the pure air to cool our palms When we come to it When the curtain falls on the minstrel show of hate And faces sooted with scorn are scrubbed clean When battlefields and coliseum No longer rake our unique and particular sons and daughters Up with the bruised and bloody grass To lie in identical plots in foreign soil When the rapacious storming of the churches The screaming racket in the temples have ceased When the pennants are waving gaily When the banners of the world tremble Stoutly in the good, clean breeze When we come to it When we let the rifles fall from our shoulders And children dress their dolls in flags of truce When land mines of death have been removed And the aged can walk into evenings of peace When religious ritual is not perfumed By the incense of burning flesh And childhood dreams are not kicked awake By nightmares of abuse When we come to it Then we will confess that not the Pyramids With their stones set in mysterious perfection Nor the Gardens of Babylon Hanging as eternal beauty In our collective memory Not the Grand Canyon Kindled into delicious color By Western sunsets Nor the Danube, flowing its blue soul into Europe Not the sacred peak of Mount Fuji Stretching to the Rising Sun Neither Father Amazon nor Mother Mississippi who, without favor, Nurture all creatures in the depths and on the shores These are not the only wonders of the world When we come to it We, this people, on this minuscule and kithless globe Who reach daily for the bomb, the blade and the dagger Yet who petition in the dark for tokens of peace We, this people on this mote of matter In whose mouths abide cankerous words Which challenge our very existence Yet out of those same mouths Come songs of such exquisite sweetness That the heart falters in its labor And the body is quieted into awe We, this people, on this small and drifting planet Whose hands can strike with such abandon That in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living Yet those same hands can touch with such healing, irresistible tenderness That the haughty neck is happy to bow And the proud back is glad to bend Out of such chaos, of such contradiction We learn that we are neither devils nor divines When we come to it We, this people, on this wayward, floating body Created on this earth, of this earth Have the power to fashion for this earth A climate where every man and every woman Can live freely without sanctimonious piety Without crippling fear When we come to it We must confess that we are the possible We are the miraculous, the true wonder of this world That is when, and only when We come to it.

Now, whenever she smelled the gums, the balsams, and the special aromatics that arrived with merchants from afar, her head reeled with images of temples, shrines, palaces, fortresses, mysterious walls, tapestries, paintings, jewels, liquors, icons, drugs, dyes, meats, sweets, sweetmeats, silks, bolts and bolts of cotton cloth, ores, shiny metals, foodstuffs, spices, musical instruments, ivory daggers and ivory dolls, masks, bells, carvings, statues (ten times as tall as she!), lumber, leopards on leashes, peacocks, monkeys, white elephants with tattooed ears, horses, camels, princes, maharajah, conquerors, travelers (Turks with threatening mustaches and Greeks with skin as pale as the stranger who had befriended her at the funeral grounds), singers, fakirs, magicians, acrobats, prophets, scholars, monks, madmen, sages, saints, mystics, dreamers, prostitutes, dancers, fanatics, avatars, poets, thieves, warriors, snake charmers, pageants, parades, rituals, executions, weddings, seductions, concerts, new religions, strange philosophies, fevers, diseases, splendors and magnificences and things too fearsome to be recounted, all writhing, cascading, jumbling, mixing, splashing, and spinning; vast, complex, inexhaustible, forever.

There were honeys from across the city - Westport, Hollander Ridge, Gwynn Oak, Northwood. They were everything from redbone to yo-yo darkskin. The dimes among them carried Benetton bags, were dolled up like Lily Powers - finger waves, a head of dyed blond, and eyes like enchanted daggers. I saw we were outnumbered, as brothers who try the civilized way always are.

Gretchen VanTreese looked like a little girl's favorite doll -- the kind that stayed in its box and never got played with. Even so, Ethan was terrified.

I’m not a burglar—just a serial killer

Hey! You only turn thirty once, and last time I checked, today is my birthday. I’ll cut off dicks if I want to.

Sometimes monsters are just broken people, hiding their scars from a world that has hurt them,

I’m Dove Chaos Carroway, Senior Investigative Journalist—S.I.J., for short—at Metro Media. I’m five feet even, obsessed with the color pink, and spend my weekends luring men into hotel rooms under the guise of being an underage girl so I can brutally mutilate them and turn their privates into jerky for Fang. Also known as the Baby Doll Killer. Shh. Don’t tell anyone.

Do you know what it means to be mine, Wren? Do you understand that once you’re mine, I’ll never let you go?

God will smite her if she puts a P in her V before marriage.

Your soul is made of iron, your spirit of steel and your body is a diamond, uncut, as sharp as a dagger. You're unbreakable, baby doll. But I'll always want to protect you, because you're also mine.

Is it your gorgeous cock wrapped in a pretty pink bow?

Does watching me incite violence turn you on, Songbird?

I do not forgive my mother. I have no desire or reason to speak to the woman who sided with the boogeyman.

For years, I suffered. Unable to walk away. Unwilling to face the proverbial monster under the bed.

I wanted our first time to be monumental—memorable. I suppose having a rapidly cooling body stuffed like a sausage in a prickly, coarse casing next to us fits the bill.

It’s okay. I’ve eaten dick before. Hell, I went to town on yours earlier. It’s not that bad.” “Sucking it and eating it is not the same! It’s not for actual consumption!

Only you could make me jealous of my serial killer self, Songbird,

Please don’t touch me. The little boy inside me sobs.

What the fuck is it with psychopaths and dolls?

Oh, the things we do for pure, unadulterated loathing.

My songbird doesn’t want to kill me. He wants to kill for me.

Our friendship is the literal sense of ‘we listen, and we don’t judge.’ We just ask where to show up with our shovels and often wait for each other after a kill to be a shoulder to lean on.

Don’t worry, residents of Wren’s apartment building. I’m not a burglar—just a serial killer here to scare the shit out of my annoyingly gorgeous work rival.

There was my set of wooden stake-tipped daggers, gifted to me in Philadelphia during the American Revolution by a handsome vampire whose name I'd never known. I loved those daggers beyond reason, not only because they were exactly as long as my middle finger--- which was awesomely meta--- but because they were so versatile! The wooden stakes could be taken off and put back on as easily as a Barbie doll's head, which meant you could use them to fight frisky vampires as well as any other non-vampiric asshole who might get in your way.

Men aren’t the only ones who abuse children.

Bunny wants to be loved. She just doesn’t know how because everyone she’s ever loved has hurt her. Don’t hurt her, Hunter. Or I’ll have to kill you.

Where Dove is bright, effervescent sunshine, Bunny is mystery and calculation wrapped in sensuality—like a wolf draped in a rabbit’s hide.

I’ve never seen anything as fucking hot as Dove ready to make my cock her bitch.

I will her to look at me, sending every desperate wave of choose me energy across the bar.

My articles are written in a way that endears my alter ego to the public, painting her as a vigilante, exposing the filth of her victims. Wrenley, though—he writes like he wants the world to fall in love with her.

And sometimes you just need to bond with your girlfriend by murdering someone together.

Okay, Miss ‘I used a rump roast to kill my husband.’” “I didn’t eat it afterward! Or him!

Sometimes monsters are just broken people