Doomed Romance Quotes

I raised you so high that every other man on earth is now doomed to live in your shadow.

Fuck the rules, Allie,” he whispered. “They were doomed to fail the moment I saw you.

Want to start a fairy-tale romance with me? BTW it might be doomed, k?

Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism.

Doom awaits those that write vampire-romances with one-dimensional characters.

We didn't have to be a doomed romance. We weren't some cosmic mistake. We were us, and we couldn't be stopped by anything but ourselves.

Romance only comes into existence where love is fatal, frowned upon and doomed by life itself.

—¿Qué pedazo escogerías? —¿De tu corazón? —Puedes vivir solo con uno, porque entonces el otro muere definitivamente. ¿Qué pedazo escogerías? "A ti", habría respondido Rigel con los ojos cerrados. Siempre, en cualquier circunstancia, "te escogería a ti".

He extended a finger to her face, the simple gesture bringing into play the sleek muscles of his shoulders and arms. “You are so beautiful, so adorable. I know full well you’re my doom, and I don’t care.

I’m in love with you, and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have, and I am in love with you.

He offered his love ... she could not bother, She gives her love to the other! The other!

First rule of a pirate’s mate, keep yer eye on yer destination, not yer doom.

How does it feel?” he said, breathing heavily. “To know that I love you and that you have doomed me? That you and only you have the power to disarm and debilitate me. That you, a human, have dismantled every part of me and rebuilt it as a shrine in your honor.

Es posible que nuestro mayor temor consista en aceptar que alguien puede amarnos sinceramente por lo que somos.

Life is a paranormal romance with ones own inner daemon. To not know this is to be doomed to kicking cans for a lifetime.

I was doomed. Fated to follow her and this quest till the end. Even if it led me to the darkest pit of hell. I heaved a deep sigh. Maybe the darkest pit in hell was worth it.

Don't wait for the right time to do what your heart craves. The right time may never come. In the end, there is nothing more dreadful than the doom of a half-lived life.

From the minute I clattered—belatedly—into puberty, I was on a spree of hopeless, doomed romances.

His kiss is a broken promise on borrowed time. His touch is faulty fuse struck with the hottest match. We possess all the potential in the world without an ounce of fulfillment. We are a lost cause, doomed before our inception.

Winter Liar" by Liam Doyle the Incubus What come once here will never come again, no matter monument nor memory; all sunwarmed green succumbs to winter's wind. And you, my love, were also my best friend, and had your life to live. The tragedy was not just my youth's recklessness, although I trusted much to impulse, whim, freedom, a destiny excluding doom. Frankly, youth can be our insanity. But now I'm cured of that fever, although the price was high; and chilly April wind can only sigh at my regrets, yet sun will brighten wind so, one knows that soon green stirs, and wild bees hum. And summer once more will make winter liar, but I won't warm. You're all I'll ever desire.

Sad really.” Avenant mused. “Trevelyan was part of a majestic race. Doomed and enslaved by lesser beings, but majestic, none the less.” His gaze swept over the rest of the group with a sigh. “I know the feeling well.

Oh, Lord, why was she doomed to adore a man steeped in blindness and utter stupidity?

But losing weight for health reasons is a very dull prospect, doomed at the outset. Losing weight for romance, that’s altogether different.

My stubborn little witch,” he said softly. “Don’t believe for a clockwork minute that you are unlovable. If I were a mortal, a man not doomed to walk the earth as a haunted specter, I would be the first suitor in line. Please believe that.” She hiccupped. “You… you’d want to court me?” Jack laughed. “Court you? I’d follow you around like Finney and stare at you all moony-eyed. I’d spend my days fending off your other would-be suitors, my evenings charming Flossie, and my nights stealing kisses at your window.

If I've got a Dad, and his name is Wormwood Rot, and he's in some heavy metal rock band called Grave Dirt . . . then I'm definitely meeting him! She stares at me awkwardly, and I'm about to ask again—maybe even insist—when she says, "Honey, why do you think he's on the news? Wormwood, I mean . . . your father? Becca, he's . . . dead.

So much passion that it nearly drowns me, pulling me under. And he's the only light, the only one to save me regardless of whether he's the one dooming me.

Go ahead then. Might as well wipe your ass with a doomed office romance before you flush your career down the toilet. You know it'll happen.

She was lost. He broke their kiss and laid his forehead against hers. “Make me stop.” “I can’t,” she whispered. “Then… we’re doomed,” he said, his voice husky and low.

Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism. A lot of people fall in love here. We’ve even had a few proposals.

He did not yet known how many commenced lefe-romances are doomed never to get beyond the first, or at most the second chapter.

I've felt so sad for years about you. My love for you has always had a sad face.

It was, of course, a great failure in a woman's life - to never have achieved even a doomed and unsuccessful love. But she was not quite sure whether she had failed or not. When she was young there had been moments, of course. But those moments had never amounted to much more than a little fever of admiration - a little flutter and agitation in a ballroom - so slight a feeling that the cautious Dido had never considered it a secure foundation for a lifetime of living together. And then, sooner or later, she had always made and odd remark, or laughed at the wrong moment, and the young men became alarmed or angry - and the flutter and the agitation all turned to irritation. Dido could laugh and gossip about love as well as any woman but, deep down, she suspected that she had not the knack of falling into it.

I really felt amazing overall---other than a few minutes ago in the shower. Pushing the thought from my mind, I focused on the positives. My senses were heightened now, like I'd been bitten by Peter Parker's radioactive spider. Only the guy who bit me was a mutated green beret. And instead of making me into a superhero, he'd doomed me to die of a brain hemorrhage.

What sustains in the end are doomed romances, and nicotine, and crappy peanut butter, damn the additives and cholesterol because life is finite and not all nourishment can be measured.

I want to let you go and at the same time ask you not to forget me. I want both of us to move on but not forgetting each other completely. Is this the right thing to wish for when we can't be together? Our feelings are strong yet not enough for us to feel closer I'm not yours and you're not mine, then what are we? I hope we both could find the right answer to our fate's mystery.

I realized my sorrow, the regret of a restless, doomed spirit, rang in my voice. For the first time I wondered if my fate was to helplessly watch violence until I became as mad as the men who committed the murders.

He's reading a book called Great Warlocks of the 18th Century, and to get this ball rolling before Dean Devlin shows up and rains on our private parade, I snort and ask, "Good book?" I forget I'm pretending to be sitting behind my two-thousand-ninety-eight-page Highlights of Modern Chemistry book, so he snorts back. "Better than yours.

Some sample lyrics I think I catch: "My engine races up to seventh gear; wrap your legs around my engine, dear . . . . The tunnel's dark, but the ground is wet; I lubricate it with my dripping sweat!" Or, something vaguely disturbing and gross like that; it's hard to tell with the wailing guitars and the front man screaming through his ravaged vocal chords.

And yet it's probably this moment that I will have loved the most, the one when I accepted the fact that life is just as it appears to me now, quietly heart-breaking.

Relationships suck. Romance is a lie. The human race is doomed. Case closed.

A cross between two species. Doomed with the thirst of the undead for human blood, yet tormented by the gargoyle drive to protect them.

control her. Ohh you tried but in the end she obviously wasn’t planning to

I think I've found my soulmate, believe it or not, I really truly do, and I have to let him go.

God, fate was a sick, twisted bitch. Doomed. He was certainly and absolutely heading straight for the fiery pits of Hell, he realized, as he lusted for his sworn enemy, the vampire.

A Faery Song Sung by the people of Faery over Diarmuid and Grania, in their bridal sleep under a Cromlech. We who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told: Give to these children, new from the world, Silence and love; And the long dew-dropping hours of the night, And the stars above: Give to these children, new from the world, Rest far from men. Is anything better, anything better? Tell us it then: Us who are old, old and gay, O so old! Thousands of years, thousands of years, If all were told.

They both die.” “Wow, that’s bleak. You said it was a romance.” “I said it was doomed from the start.” “isn’t everything doomed from the start?” “I like to think people doom themselves.

Emma's mid-twenties had brought a second adolescence even more self-absorbed and doom-laden than the first one. 'Why don't you just come home, sweetheart?' her mum had said on the phone last night, using her quavering, concerned voice, as if her daughter had been abducted. 'Your room's still here. There's jobs at Debenhams' - and for the first time she had been tempted. Once, she thought she could conquer London. She had imagined a whirl of literary salons, political engagement, larky parties, bittersweet romances conducted on Thames embankments. She had intended to form a band, make short films, write novels, but two years on slim volume of verse was no fatter, and nothing really good had happened to her since she'd been baton-charged at Poll Tax Riots.

Am I Dead?" Had she fallen to her doom and this was all an elaborate fantasy? Was this the place between life and death? Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran towards the man that wasn't there, wanting to cling to him, to find something to save her from this torture.

You think of love as dizzy electricity. You think if you aren't in this heightened state, that the relationship is failing. This is a lie, an infection you contracted from popular music and fantasy reels, that doomed all your short romances in the academy, like with poor Sri. The bonded support you and Kodiak feel for each other isn't about skin skin skin, though it's related to that. It isn't the heat of his body against yours at the bottom of the water tank. Instead, it's the fact that you two are together at the bottom of the water tank.

I turn my head a little. The radio's caroling "Tonight," velvety smooth and young and filled with plaintive desire. Maria's song from West Side Story. I remember one beautiful night long ago at the Winter Garden, with a beautiful someone beside me. I tilt my nose and breathe in, and I can still smell her perfume, the ghost of her perfume from long ago. But where is she now, where did she go, and what did I do with her? Our paths ran along so close together they were almost like one, the one they were eventually going to be. Thin fear came along, fear entered into it somehow, and split them wide apart. Fear bred anxiety to justify. Anxiety to justify bred anger. The phone calls that wouldn't be answered, the door rings that wouldn't be opened. Anger bred sudden calamity. Now there aren't two paths anymore; there's only one, only mine. Running downhill into the ground, running downhill into its doom. ("New York Blues")

Y yo sentí paz y tormento... Alivio y extenuación. Fulgores incandescentes y tempestades en la oscuridad. Sentí el temporal que se cernía sobre nosotros, cargado de truenos. "Ya... —susurró una voz en mi interior, al tiempo que contaba los universos purpúreos y estrellados que me había dejado dentro—, pero mira qué colores tan bonitos".

She was here and the world, for so long ugly and deformed, was all at once itself again. She was taking a glass of sweet wine from one of the waiters. She was smiling. She was breathing. She was here. She was an island of such colossal importance within a sea of inconsequence that it seemed impossible the Ball was able to continue its empty existence.

Smokers exist in every kitchen. It kills a tastebud or two but we all die, and no one knows better than those who club the fish, clean the guts from the meat, and serve for your delectation a plate from which all blood has been wiped. We cook despite bad pay and sore backs and inadequate sleeps in apartments we can't afford and we wake up choosing again that most temporary of glories that is made, and then consumed: we know. We all die. Whether it comes after thirty years of hard labor or sixty at a desk, whether we calculate or plan, in the end we have only the choice of what touches the lips before we go: lobster if you like it or cold pizza if you don't, a sip of smoke, a drink, a job, a reckless passion, raw fish, the beguilement of mushrooms, cheese luscious beneath its crown of mold. What sustains in the end are doomed romances, and nicotine, and crappy peanut butter, damn the additives and cholesterol because life is finite and not all nourishment can be measured. When I learned to smoke behind a restaurant, my breath curling toward an inconsolable sky, I learned what it means to live by the tongue, dumb beast, obedient to neither time nor money, past nor future, loyal to a now worth living. I took my cigarette to the filter, and for the first time I appraised my employer back. He claimed to have evolved past fear. He lied. Behind the mask was a damp, scared boy. Fear of toxins, fear of carcinogens, tear of flood and smog and protest and entropy and all that could not be optimized, controlled, bought and held behind glass. Fear fueled a country so intent on perfection that they would give up the world.

He was going to destroy her. He nearly had before, but his vanity and his egocentrism had rendered him too myopic to truly see into the heart of her and do the damage that he'd craved. This time, she would not escape unscathed; he was going to make her suffer and do it so well that she might even grow to crave it—until it sent her plummeting. Until it left her broken and bleeding. Until he ripped her heart out.

If grief kills us not, we kill it. Not that I cease to grieve; for each hour, revealing to me how excelling and matchless the being was, who once was mine, but renews the pang with which I deplore my alien state upon earth. But such is God's will; I am doomed to a divided existence, and I submit. Meanwhile I am human; and human affections are the native, luxuriant growth of a heart, whose weakness it is, too eagerly, and too fondly, to seek objects on whom to expend its yearning.

Mad, you must see me mad; your opinion is awash to me as long as I am crazed by love. I welcome this folly that you give to me with great estate. Thief? Rascal? I did what others did and what others had me do and we are all doomed, but I do not regret for one instant the coming of events of this most splendid night. You should have seen how carefully I proceeded and how I found love in the most dreadful of streets, during my most mourning of states and on the most propitious of nights. Play samartian to the fool, champion to the underdog. So to speak, I am a hubris acolyte of love.

An ear-splitting screech pierced the silence, followed by another, striking his ears like metal against a hollow bell. The woosh woosh of wind being displaced brought Andrew’s attention skyward, and a glacial gust of paralyzing terror raced up his spine. The creature opened its mouth, and a blazing shaft of fire bellowed from above. Andrew barely had enough time to back beneath an awning for protection. Egnatious and Sebastian dove to the side while Firen sidestepped her impending doom, raising the katana in challenge. The screeching returned, except now the howls were coming from every direction. Firen’s chest heaved. “Did you see that?” she asked, her stormy eyes glinting with rapture and daring as she held her katana out, preparing for the next attack. “Did I see the dragon?” Sebastian asked, hysteria dangerously rising to the surface. He stood and brushed himself off. “Yes, I bloody well did see that enormous, scaly, fire-breathing dragon.

In the climactic scene of many Hollywood science-fiction movies, humans face an alien invasion fleet, an army of rebellious robots or an all-knowing super-computer that wants to obliterate them. Humanity seems doomed. But at the very last moment, against all the odds, humanity triumphs thanks to something that the aliens, the robots and the super-computers didn’t suspect and cannot fathom: love. The hero, who up till now has been easily manipulated by the super-computer and has been riddled with bullets by the evil robots, is inspired by his sweetheart to make a completely unexpected move that turns the tables on the thunderstruck Matrix. Dataism finds such scenarios utterly ridiculous. ‘Come on,’ it admonishes the Hollywood screenwriters, ‘is that all you could come up with? Love? And not even some platonic cosmic love, but the carnal attraction between two mammals? Do you really think that an all-knowing super-computer or aliens who managed to conquer the entire galaxy would be dumbfounded by a hormonal rush?

I didn’t answer right away; I was too busy savoring the moment. The delicious night air, the music of mama cows in a distant pasture, the trillions of stars overhead, the feeling of his fingers entwined in mine. The night couldn’t have gone any more perfectly. I’m not sure anything, even going home with him, could possibly make it any better. I started to open my mouth, but Marlboro Man beat me to it. Standing up and lifting me off the tailgate of his pickup, he carried me, Rhett Butler-style, toward the passenger door. Setting me down and opening my door, he said, “On second thought…I think I’d better take you home.” I smiled, convinced he must have read my mind. Whether he had or not, the fact was that instantly and noticeably the whole vibe between us had changed. Before I’d dumped my Chicago apartment and told him my plans to stay, the passion between us had sometimes felt urgent, rushed, almost as if some imaginary force was compelling us to get it all out right here, right now, because before too long we wouldn’t have the chance. There’d been a quiet desperation in our romance up until that point, feelings of excitement and lust mixed with an uncomfortable hint of doom and dread. But now that my move had all but been eliminated from the equation, the doom and dread had been replaced with a beautiful sense of comfort. In the blink of an eye, Marlboro Man and I, while madly and insanely in love, were no longer in any hurry. “Yeah,” I said, nodding my head. “I agree.” Man, did I ever have a way with words.

Upon graduation I had felt a heavy sense of doom, a sense that nothing would ever be simple again. But look, look what we had found! We were making it work, with our cash and our bad wrapping jobs, with our fried overdyed hair and our fried overprocessed foods. Everything took on a hazy romance: having a pimple, eating a doughnut, being cold. Nothing was a tragedy, and everything was a joke.

Once in a green time, a flower Oh, fell in love with the sun; Their passion lasted for an hour, And then she wilted from her loved one.

Spanish is the lovin’ tongue, Soft as music, light as spray. ’Twas a girl I learnt it from, Livin’ down Sonora way. I don’t look much like a lover, Yet I say her love words over, Often when I’m all alone— “Mi amor, mi corazon.” Nights when she knew where I’d ride, She would listen for my spurs, Throw the big door open wide, Raise them laughin’ eyes of hers. And my heart would nigh stop beatin' When I heard her tender greeting, Whispered soft for me alone— “Mi amor! mi corazon!” Moonlight in the patio, Old señora noddin’ near, Me and Juana talkin’ low So the Madre couldn’t hear— How those hours would go a-flyin’! And too soon I’d hear her sighin’ In her little sorry tone— “Adios, mi corazon!” But one time I had to fly For a foolish gamblin’ fight, And we said a swift goodbye In that black, unlucky night. When I’d loosed her arms from clingin’ With her words the hoofs kep’ ringin’ As I galloped north alone— “Adios, mi corazon!” Never seen her since that night. I kaint cross the Line, you know. She was Mex and I was white; Like as not, it’s better so. Yet I’ve always sort of missed her Since that last, wild night I kissed her, Left her heart and lost my own— “Adios, mi corazon!

I know that this might seem futile, but the dawn always follows the dark. And if you're right, and our ship is doomed to go down, then we'll sink together and I'll play us a lullaby on the ocean floor.

Here we go . . .’ Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism.

Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism. A lot of people fall in love here.

I think the girl should be a model, she's got a killer body and goddess looks. Even with those freckles on her nose and cheekbones, I couldn't find flaws in her face and those blue eyes are incredible, seriously.

For the memory of Alexander’s greatness had always served the Romans as a reproach. Even worse, it provided an inspiration to their foes. In the east the model of kingship established by Alexander had never lost its allure. For more than a century it had been neutered and systematically humiliated by Rome, yet it remained the only credible system of government that could be opposed to the republicanism of the new world conquerors. Hence its appeal to monarchs, such as Mithridates, who were not even Greek, and hence, most startling of all, its appeal to bandits and rebellious slaves. When the pirates had called themselves kings and affected the gilded sails and purple awnings of monarchy, this had not been mere vanity, but a deliberate act of propaganda, as public a statement as they could make of their opposition to the Republic. They knew that the message would be read correctly, for invariably, whenever the order of things had threatened to crack during the previous decades, rebellion had been signaled by a slave with a crown. Spartacus’s communism had been all the more unusual in that the leaders of previous slave revolts, virtually without exception, had aimed to raise thrones upon the corpses of their masters. Most, like the pirates, had merely adopted the trappings of monarchy, but there were some who had brought the fantastical worlds of romances to life and claimed to be the long-lost sons of kings. This, in a world ruled by a republic, was what revolution had come to mean. The royal pretensions of slaves fed naturally into the swirling undercurrents of the troubled age, the prophecies, which Mithridates’ propaganda had exploited so brilliantly, of the coming of a universal king, of a new world monarchy, and the doom of Rome. So when Pompey presented himself as the new Alexander, he was appropriating a dream shared by potentate and slave alike. If any Roman was qualified to appreciate this, it was Pompey himself. The conqueror of the pirates and the patron of Posidonius, he would have been perfectly aware of the menacing links between kingship and revolution, between the uppitiness of Oriental princelings and the resentments of the dispossessed

Just own it. You like the happiness factor.” I certainly did. Life was full enough of hardship and unexpected heartbreak. It wasn’t too much to ask my fictional escapes to not be all doom and gloom.

Small bookstores have the romance of doomed intimate spaces about to be erased by unfettered capitalism. A lot of people fall in love here. We’ve even had a

Hubiera querido consolarla. Decirle que todo volvería a ser como antes. Pero quizá lo cierto fuera que había cosas que estaban destinadas a cambiar, por mucho que nos esforzáramos. Cosas que mudarían inevitablemente, porque la vida sigue su curso.

know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we're all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we'll ever have...

The children near them swap secrets in whiny pre-teen voices, gossiping about friendships and romances and other petty school dramas. They seem not to see Abernathy or his new auditor. They have no idea what awaits them. Not the slightest hint that their friendships are fleeting, their wills to live soon to be devoured, a working world waiting to swallow them alive, their children, though they are just children themselves, already doomed to die. They have no idea that they will struggle to meet even their most basic needs as they hurtle through a marketplace inhospitable to human functions and that they will be fated to take this inhospitability personally, as we all are, as if it were their fault they could not simply work harder, faster, longer. The collapse of their personhood is only a few scant years away, yet these lanky adolescents remain oblivious. All of them, every single one, will have to sell their life to someone, for something. They appear now, before such a collapse, to be happy. Which, to Abernathy, is particularly a depressing contrast.

Ruth-Ann gives my shoulder a little squeeze. "Just because we're clones doesn't mean we don't have our own thoughts and feelings. Look at the crew. None of them are alike in personality." She's not wrong. Kazex is laid-back and easygoing. Dopekh is gullible and somewhat emotional, going from one doomed romance to another. Sakkar is a sour puss. Erzah is a risk-taker and loves to come up with ideas. Aithar is an innocent sweetheart. Zaemen would forget his own head if it wasn't tied down. Jerzec is a flirt and a little ambitious. I can pick them all out by the tone of their voices. I know each one's tells when we gamble.

Ella me estaba rompiendo algo por dentro, algo que, en lugar de crecer, permanecería pequeño para siempre. Frágil, infantil, estropeado. Algo desesperado e ingenuo que me induciría a ver lo bueno en todo, solo para no tener que ver el lado malo de las cosas. Porque no es cierto que los niños dejan de ser niños cuando sufren desilusiones. Algunos se ven a sí mismos rompiéndolo todo. Y son niños para siempre

This soft body, every part of which held secret nerves of its own, was now bought and sold. Yes, yes, it was handed over, bound and fettered, to a long inescapable doom that had been prepared, millions of years ago—not for the Nell she knew—but for Females in General; a doom that must needs lead her on, deeper and deeper, into the raw, heavy, monstrous, impersonal mire of brutal creation!

Dare not trust Love to lead you. Love will stay the course, even to the edge of doom.

I think you should be punished for tormenting me for so long.” --- “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Art is full of agony and beauty. The pen itself a sword of pleasure and pain, isn’t it, my poet?” --- “I’ve been waiting for you.” His voice sizzled with hunger. How could I respond? I’ve been thinking about you non-stop like a sex-crazed harlot since I left? “I’m here.” --- “Remind me who you are,” he said in a gentler tone, almost a please. “How we know each other.” “Okay,” she began. “I’m Savannah Evans, a grad student and teaching assistant who teaches English at a college in Cambridge. I applied to the colony to work on my poetry and arrived six weeks ago. “We’ve spoken many times. You’ve praised my work, which I find a great honor as I’m a fan of your art.” --- “A cross between two species. Doomed with the thirst of the undead for human blood, yet tormented by the gargoyle drive to protect them.” --- She ceased to breathe. When he leaned forward and his lips fluttered against hers, her footing became unsteady and she stumbled. He placed a hand on her lower back to steady her and pulled her close. Her breasts met his hard torso and she became aware at how frantically her heart beat. She wrapped her arms around his neck and lost herself in the kiss as their lips met. They explored each other with a sort of fascination, mouth and tongues claiming each other in their hunger. Delicately at first, as if not sure this was real or just a fantasy, and then strong and unyielding. Demanding this moment to never end. --- “I bought new lingerie today I wanted to show you, but I didn’t get a chance with all that happened.” “You’ll have to return tomorrow night then…. Maybe we’ll order an entire catalog.” His smile and the glint of mischievousness in his eyes reflected lascivious thoughts. “You can model all the outfits you’d like for me.” ---

The woman above him had tumbled out of his dreams, and now stood like a half-waking ghost, a photograph double exposed, showing him in one moment the fallacy of his past as it bled into his future. The image of Maria Sophia had grown too large for him to bear. He had made it so. In his industry and creativity he had transformed her into something so wonderful that the very fact she might now be anything less terrified him almost as much as the prospect she might exceed it.

She was fixated on replaying the image of a tall, broad, Highland warrior marching into battle against the evil waterfalls of doom to rescue a stuffed dinosaur. He'd saved Cindy. For Noah. CJ Blue was making it very difficult for Natalie to continue to dislike him.

I’m not a man who’s free. My birthright and my past decisions have made sure of that. Willow, Nora, Glenna, my mom, and the people at Bradford Shipping are depending on me and so I try hard not to let selfish desires worm their way into my life. But I have come to want one selfish thing, despite all my best efforts. I want Kathleen. It’s been two months since she bribed me with chocolate cake. I think about her all the time. At work. At home. My track record with women is terrible. Loving her would probably doom either her or me. But still, I want her. Note

Gentle Sir Conan, I'll venture that few have been Half as prodigiously lucky as you have been. Fortune, the flirt! has been wondrously kind to you. Ever beneficent, sweet and refined to you. Doomed to the practise of physic and surgery, Yet, growing weary of pills and physicianing, Off to the Arctic you packed, expeditioning. Roving and dreaming, Ambition, that heady sin, Gave you a spirit too restless for medicine: That, I presume, as Romance is the quest of us, Made you an Author-the same as the rest of us. Ah, but the rest of us clamor distressfully, "How do you manage the game so successfully? Tell us, disclose to us how under Heaven you Squeeze from the inkpot so splendid a revenue!" Then, when you'd published your volume that vindicates England's South African raid (or the Syndicate's), Pleading that Britain's extreme bellicosity Wasn't (as most of us think) an atrocity Straightaway they gave you a cross with a chain to it (Oh, what an honor! I could not attain to it, Not if I lived to the age of Methusalem!) Made you a knight of St. John of Jerusalem! Faith! as a teller of tales you've the trick with you! Still there's a bone I've been wanting to pick with you: Holmes is your hero of drama and serial: All of us know where you dug the material! Whence he was moulded-'tis almost a platitude; Yet your detective, in shameless ingratitude Sherlock your sleuthhound with motives ulterior Sneers at Poe's "Dupin" as "very inferior!" Labels Gaboriau's clever "Lecoq," indeed, Merely "a bungler," a creature to mock, indeed! This, when your plots and your methods in story owe More than a trifle to Poe and Gaboriau, Sets all the Muses of Helicon sorrowing. Borrow, Sir Knight, but in decent borrowing! Still let us own that your bent is a cheery one, Little you've written to bore or to weary one, Plenty that's slovenly, nothing with harm in it, Give me detective with brains analytical Rather than weaklings with morals mephitical Stories of battles and man's intrepidity Rather than wails of neurotic morbidity! Give me adventures and fierce dinotheriums Rather than Hewlett's ecstatic deliriums! Frankly, Sir Conan, some hours I've eased with you And, on the whole, I am pretty well pleased with you

Even monsters deserve love, they become monsters for a reason, not for the fun of it. Deep inside, you are broken, you are standing in front of me screaming for my help in the inside, just like how I am, inside and out.

For some reason, it felt like this may as well be the last time that I would kiss him. The last time I would feel the softness of his lips against mine. An impending sense of doom hits me. I pushed the depressing thoughts away and instead dragged my hand through Ryan’s hair pulling him hard against me in a desperate need until all I could think about was him and his touch.

He swallowed hard, part of him hoping this was an anomaly and the prickly, irritating woman would soon return. If he lost his ability to dislike her, would this new admiration, curiosity, and yes, attraction take over? That would doom him to a heartache he'd rather avoid.

© Carlyle Labuschagne 2014 " As I watched her run down the path and melt with the shadows, I wasn't sure how to feel about her, or the fact that I may just have aided in her escape and doomed us all. I wanted to believe that anyone given a second chance would use it wisely. But wisdom I guess is hard to obtain when destiny stands in its way.

I believe she is Selene, goddess of the moon." "She looks so content." "You sound surprised." "Well," Callie said tentatively, "Selene is not the happiest of stories. After all, she is doomed to love a mortal in eternal sleep." St. John turned at her words, obviously impressed. "Her own fault. She should have known better than to ask favors of Zeus. That particular course of action never ends well." "A truth of which Selene was likely acutely aware upon receiving her favor. I assume that this statue depicts a happy Selene before Zeus meddled." "You forget," St. John said, a teasing gleam in his eye, "she and Endymion did have twenty children despite his somnolence, so she couldn't have been so very unhappy with her situation." "With due respect, my lord," Callie said, "bearing and raising twenty children alone does not sound like the happiest of circumstances. I hardly think she would appear so very rested were this a statue depicting her maternal bliss.

If not for her truly sparkling personality, she would have been doomed.

Immobilized in marriage, since long ago, she was taken as rightful property under wedlock. As a side note, I am urged to comment, the curious nature of these terms property and wed-lock; as if doomed to be firmly kept under latch and key, a padlocked yard? Pastures lain fallow occasionally?

I don’t want this. I’ve never wanted this. What is the point in dredging up a past that no longer serves any purpose? A past that’s no longer connected to the present or the future. A past that is bittersweet because the love we shared was doomed from the outset—a stolen love that was never meant to be. Why would I want to relive that?

Lois Lane was part of the Superman dynamic from the very start. The intrepid star newspaper reporter had made her first appearance in 1938’s Action Comics #1, the same issue where Superman made his debut. She was infatuated with the powerful, godlike Superman, while repulsed by his meek pantywaist alter ego, her rival reporter Clark Kent. Lois’ 1940s persona of tough crusading reporter was in the mold of Hollywood dames like Rosalind Russell. Lois’ tireless effort to get her next headline, along with her impulsive personality, often put her in danger, from which Superman would have to rescue her. But the 40s Lois was no pushover. She was a modern career woman, and her dream was to get her greatest scoop: Superman’s secret identity. The Superman/Lois Lane relationship had many complicated factors that would prevent a romance from ever reaching fruition, while still providing the right tension to sustain the relationship for decades. First off, they were literally from different worlds. Superman was the last survivor of the doomed planet Krypton, and was raised by simple midwestern farm folk. Lois Lane was very much a woman of 20th century America: emancipated, headstrong, and unwilling to take “no” for an answer. Superman’s timid farm boy Clark Kent persona crumbled before Lois’ ferocious, emasculating temperament, while his heroic Man of Steel found himself constantly confounded by her impetuous nature. Meanwhile, the very issue of Superman’s secret identity always threw a wrench into his romance with Lois. Besides the basic duplicity, Superman becomes his own rival, squelching any chance for a healthy relationship. Superman loves Lois Lane, but tries to win her heart as meek Clark Kent, with the rationale that he wants to be sure Lois really loves him for himself, not for his glamorous superhuman persona. But since he’s created a wallflower persona that Lois will never find attractive, he sabotages any chance for love. Lois, for her part, is enamored with Superman, yet has a burning desire to discover his secret identity. Lois never considers that she risks losing Superman’s love if she learns his secret identity, or that the world may lose its champion and protector. (...) If the Lois Lane of the ’40s owed much to the tough talking heroines of that decade’s screwball comedies, the Lois of the ’50s was defined by the medium of the new era—television.

... when you can’t read - or hear - the signs that tell you about a Person’s educational level or background, your attraction becomes above all physical. The result? It can be only too easy to get sexually involved with - and possibly married to - someone who when it fines to long-term relationships turns out to be totally unsuitable.

Today DARK TIMES received a nice review from Literary Titan: “In Dark Times Michael Gerhartz explores the delicate yet sadly relevant organ trade problem. In this fascinating novel readers get a glance into the complicated and cruel organ trade business. The narrative is constantly changing its perspective, from the lucky recipient to the doomed donor while following the incredible adventures of the engrossing main character, Natascha. Michael Gerhartz creates a globe-trotting and energetic crime drama that is full of unexpected twists and deadly turns...I can confidently say that I had a great time reading Dark Times by Michael Gerhartz. The story is perfect for readers who like to follow clues to solve intriguing mysteries. Dark Times reminds me of Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan where agents embark on clandestine and deadly missions to overcome a terror menacing the world. Perfect for readers who embrace a bit of romance in their action adventure stories.” Reviewed by Literary Titan

Good financial management, by itself, cannot lead to success, but bad financial management can single-handedly spell doom for any business.

My name's all about the bible. Malichai was either just a book or a prophet or both, although my mother couldn't even get the spelling right. That was so like her." [...] But he felt more often, he was the prophet, letting his enemy know he was doomed.

There is no wall that cannot be broken through, but the heroes of the modern romance, so far as I know them, are too timid, spiritless, lazy, and oversensitive, and are too ready to resign themselves to the thought that they are doomed to failure, that personal life has disappointed them; instead of struggling they merely criticize, calling the world vulgar and forgetting that their criticism passes little by little into vulgarity.