Elegance Funny Quotes

I picked up the nearest weapon I could lay my hands on: a stapler. I lifted it, going for “menacing.” I admit it lacked a certain elegance, but hey. It was worth a shot. David placed his hand on my arm and pushed it back down. “What?” “Just . . . that’s embarrassing for all of us,” he replied.

It was funny how the old practices always came around again. It was the rhythm of human enterprise to invent and worship some new approach, to fully reject it a generation later, to realize the need for it again a generation or two after that and then hastily reinvent it as new, usually without its original elegance. Scientists hated to look backward for anything.

Since Love is a greased pig wasn't a particularly dignified motto, she decided the Latin translation was more elegant: Amor est uncta porcus.

Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool old-world elegance. I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me. “ ‘One eye is taken for an eye . . .’ ” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped. I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded. I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped. His shoulders shook. “Oh, come on! Stop it!” He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one. I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs. “You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.

Percy and Books Percy does not like it when I read a book. He puts his face over the top of it, and moans. He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes. The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down. The tide is out, and the neighbor's dogs are playing. But Percy, I say, Ideas! The elegance of language! The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage. Books? says Percy. I ate one once, and it was enough. Let's go.

The look in his eyes turned a little wild. "That's the only reason I'm letting you go. If I had any choice--" "You do," she said "Wed can all sit here and let him die. Or you can let Eve go on her wild-ass rescue mission and get herself killed. Or you can let sweet, calm, reasonable Claire go do some talking." He shook his head. His long, elegant hands, which looked so at home wrapped around a guitar, closed into fists. "Guess that means there's no choice." "Not really," Claire agreed. "I was kind of lying about that choice thing.

Count yourself fortunate." He made an elegant sweep of his hand toward the sun. "Daylight does not make them turn to ash, but they become bloody damn infants, whinging on about irritated eyes and sluggish limbs and so forth.

It’ll be hard not to tease your folk sometimes.” Brishen couldn’t imagine how she might go about such a thing.  He had no idea if the Kai and the Gauri even knew the same jokes or found the same things funny.  “What do you mean?” He almost leapt out of his skin when Ildiko stared at him as both of her eyes drifted slowly down and over until they seemed to meet together, separated only by the elegant bridge of her nose. “Lover of thorns and holy gods!” he yelped and clapped one hand across her eyes to shut out the sight.  “Stop that,” he ordered. Ildiko laughed and pushed his hand away.  She laughed even harder when she caught sight of his expression.  “Wait,” she gasped on a giggle.  “I can do better.  Want to see me make one eye cross and have the other stay still?” Brishen reared back.  “No!”  He grimaced.  “Nightmarish.  I’ll thank you to keep that particular talent to yourself, wife.

It is a funny paradox of design: utility breeds beauty. There is elegance in efficiency, a visual pleasure in things that just barely work.

You know, until this trip, I thought I liked the cold. One can dress extravagantly when there's no risk of sweating- brocades, gold trims, hats. But I am reevaluating.' ... I roll my eyes. 'You have an understated elegance, so no need to worry about weather.

Just like an angel, the lovely one and the cute All the beauty together in your funny sulky looks Innocent, like the kids, like the pigeons in my garden Magnetic attraction, awesome, amazing and the super astute Immortal charming, like the moon and the stars Elegant, stylish, you must be very tasty, fruit

Why do you smoke so damn fast?" I asked. She looked at me and smiled widely, and such a wide smile on her narrow face might have looked goofy were it not for the unimpeachably elegant green in her eyes. She smiled with all the delight of a kid on Christmas morning and said, "Y'all smoke to enjoy it. I smoke to die.

At the word “elegant,” I got a funny feeling in my… no, of course not my heart. It was just those damned cheesy fries giving me acid reflux.

Hope you got your things together.’” I sang, stabbing a pillow with my spear. Feathers exploded into the air. “‘Hope you are quite prepared to die!’” I spun in a dazzling whirl of lights, landed a killer back-kick on a phantom Shade, and simultaneously punched the magazine rack. “‘Looks like we’re in for nasty weather!’” I took a swan dive at a short, imaginary Shade, lunged up at a taller one— —and froze. Barrons stood inside the front door, dripping cool-world elegance. I hadn’t heard him come in over the music. He was leaning, shoulder against the wall, arms folded, watching me. “‘One eye is taken for an eye . . .’” I trailed off, deflating. I didn’t need a mirror to know how stupid I looked. I regarded him sourly for a moment, then moved for the sound dock to turn it off. When I heard a choked sound behind me I spun, and shot him a hostile glare. He wore his usual expression of arrogance and boredom. I resumed my path for the sound dock, and heard it again. This time when I turned back, the corners of his mouth were twitching. I stared at him until they stopped. I’d reached the sound dock, and just turned it off, when he exploded. I whirled. “I didn’t look that funny,” I snapped. His shoulders shook. “Oh, come on! Stop it!” He cleared his throat and stopped laughing. Then his gaze took a quick dart upward, fixed on my blazing MacHalo, and he lost it again. I don’t know, maybe it was the brackets sticking out from the sides. Or maybe I should have gotten a black bike helmet, not a hot pink one. I unfastened it and yanked it off my head. I stomped over to the door, flipped the interior lights back on, slammed him in the chest with my brilliant invention, and stomped upstairs. “You’d better have stopped laughing by the time I come back down,” I shouted over my shoulder. I wasn’t sure he even heard me, he was laughing so hard.

Even in the warm faelight of the foyer, the gown glittered and gleamed like a fresh-cut jewel. We had taken my gown from Starfall and refashioned it, adding sheer silk panels to the back shoulders, the glittering material like woven starlight as it flowed behind me in lieu of a veil or cape. If Rhysand was Night Triumphant, I was the star that only glowed thanks to his darkness, the light only visible because of him. I scowled up the stairs. That is, if he bothered to show up on time. My hair, Nuala had swept into an ornate, elegant arc across my head, and in front of it... I caught Cassian glancing at me for the third time in less than a minute and demanded, 'What?' His lips twitched at the corners. 'You just look so...' 'Here we go,' Mor muttered from where she picked at her red-tinted nails against the stair banister. Rings glinted at every knuckle, on every finger; stacks of bracelets tinkled against each other on either wrist. 'Official,' Cassian said with an incredulous look in her direction. He waved a Siphon-topped hand to me. 'Fancy.' 'Over five hundred years old,' Mor said, shaking her head sadly, 'a skilled warrior and general, famous throughout territories, and complementing ladies is still something he finds next to impossible. Remind me why we bring you on diplomatic meetings?' Azriel, wreathed in shadows by the front door, chuckled quietly. Cassian shot him a glare. 'I don't see you spouting poetry, brother.' Azriel crossed his arms, still smiling faintly. 'I don't need to resort to it.

I adjust my app settings so that I can be matched with women fifteen years younger and older than I am. Immediately, a woman with long dark hair appears in my app. She’s elegant. Forty-four years old. A novelist named Abigail. Who lives near by. I swiped right on her. Ding! We’ve matched. She sends me a message. ‘I’ve never done this before, do you want to get coffee? If it’s bad, it’ll make a funny story, at least.’ Good opener, Abigail. I message her back, ‘Yes! Let’s do it!

It was astonishing how loudly one laughed at tales of gruesome things, of war’s brutality-I with the rest of them. I think at the bottom of it was a sense of the ironical contrast between the normal ways of civilian life and this hark-back to the caveman code. It made all our old philosophy of life monstrously ridiculous. It played the “hat trick” with the gentility of modern manners. Men who had been brought up to Christian virtues, who had prattled their little prayers at mothers’ knees, who had grown up to a love of poetry, painting, music, the gentle arts, over-sensitized to the subtleties of half-tones, delicate scales of emotion, fastidious in their choice of words, in their sense of beauty, found themselves compelled to live and act like ape-men; and it was abominably funny. They laughed at the most frightful episodes, which revealed this contrast between civilized ethics and the old beast law. The more revolting it was the more, sometimes, they shouted with laughter, especially in reminiscence, when the tale was told in the gilded salon of a French chateau, or at a mess-table. It was, I think, the laughter of mortals at the trick which had been played on them by an ironical fate. They had been taught to believe that the whole object of life was to reach out to beauty and love, and that mankind, in its progress to perfection, had killed the beast instinct, cruelty, blood-lust, the primitive, savage law of survival by tooth and claw and club and ax. All poetry, all art, all religion had preached this gospel and this promise. Now that ideal had broken like a china vase dashed to hard ground. The contrast between That and This was devastating. It was, in an enormous world-shaking way, like a highly dignified man in a silk hat, morning coat, creased trousers, spats, and patent boots suddenly slipping on a piece of orange-peel and sitting, all of a heap, with silk hat flying, in a filthy gutter. The war-time humor of the soul roared with mirth at the sight of all that dignity and elegance despoiled. So we laughed merrily, I remember, when a military chaplain (Eton, Christ Church, and Christian service) described how an English sergeant stood round the traverse of a German trench, in a night raid, and as the Germans came his way, thinking to escape, he cleft one skull after another with a steel-studded bludgeon a weapon which he had made with loving craftsmanship on the model of Blunderbore’s club in the pictures of a fairy-tale. So we laughed at the adventures of a young barrister (a brilliant fellow in the Oxford “Union”) whose pleasure it was to creep out o’ nights into No Man’s Land and lie doggo in a shell-hole close to the enemy’s barbed wire, until presently, after an hour’s waiting or two, a German soldier would crawl out to fetch in a corpse. The English barrister lay with his rifle ready. Where there had been one corpse there were two. Each night he made a notch on his rifle three notches one night to check the number of his victims. Then he came back to breakfast in his dugout with a hearty appetite.

Barbara and I had arrived early, so I got to admire everyone’s entrance. We were seated at tables around a dance floor that had been set up on the lawn behind the house. Barbara and I shared a table with Deborah Kerr and her husband. Deborah, a lovely English redhead, had been brought to Hollywood to play opposite Clark Gable in The Hucksters. Louis B. Mayer needed a cool, refined beauty to replace the enormously popular redhead, Greer Garson, who had married a wealthy oil magnate and retired from the screen in the mid-fifties. Deborah, like her predecessor, had an ultra-ladylike air about her that was misleading. In fact, she was quick, sharp, and very funny. She and Barbara got along like old school chums. Jimmy Stewart was also there with his wife. It was the first time I’d seen him since we’d worked for Hitchcock. It was a treat talking to him, and I felt closer to him than I ever did on the set of Rope. He was so genuinely happy for my success in Strangers on a Train that I was quite moved. Clark Gable arrived late, and it was a star entrance to remember. He stopped for a moment at the top of the steps that led down to the garden. He was alone, tanned, and wearing a white suit. He radiated charisma. He really was the King. The party was elegant. Hot Polynesian hors d’oeuvres were passed around during drinks. Dinner was very French, with consommé madrilène as a first course followed by cold poached salmon and asparagus hollandaise. During dessert, a lemon soufflé, and coffee, the cocktail pianist by the pool, who had been playing through dinner, was discreetly augmented by a rhythm section, and they became a small combo for dancing. The dance floor was set up on the lawn near an open bar, and the whole garden glowed with colored paper lanterns. Later in the evening, I managed a subdued jitterbug with Deborah Kerr, who was much livelier than her cool on-screen image. She had not yet done From Here to Eternity, in which she and Burt Lancaster steamed up the screen with their love scene in the surf. I was, of course, extremely impressed to be there with Hollywood royalty that evening, but as far as parties go, I realized that I had a lot more fun at Gene Kelly’s open houses.

I stare at the writing on the wall. Hypnotised. Can’t look away. The author has a strong hand. Each letter energetic; bold strokes. Such funny shapes. Such jagged, edged lines. A patchwork woven in the deepest black ink. I reach out to touch its upright, elegant beauty. I gasp as it starts to grow. Big and threatening. Its lines stretch into long, long legs. Its shapes swell into mouths with sharp teeth that transform into gigantic knives. It jumps off the wall, out at me. I scream. Try to run away. Too late. A blade slashes me in the back. I fall. Agonising pain rips through me. I beg for mercy. The knife is a huge needle now heading for my face…

The proper attitude toward human activity and climate is expressed in the 1957 novel Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. Consider the following passage, where industrialist-philosopher Francisco d’Anconia remarks to steel magnate Hank Rearden how dangerous the climate is, absent massive industrial development. The conversation takes place indoors at an elegant party during a severe storm (in the era before all severe storms were blamed on fossil fuels). There was only a faint tinge of red left on the edge of the earth, just enough to outline the scraps of clouds ripped by the tortured battle of the storm in the sky. Dim shapes kept sweeping through space and vanishing, shapes which were branches, but looked as if they were the fury of the wind made visible. “It’s a terrible night for any animal caught unprotected on that plain,” said Francisco d’Anconia. “This is when one should appreciate the meaning of being a man.” Rearden did not answer for a moment; then he said, as if in answer to himself, a tone of wonder in his voice, “Funny . . .” “What?” “You told me what I was thinking just a while ago . . .” “You were?” “. . . only I didn’t have the words for it.” “Shall I tell you the rest of the words?” “Go ahead.” “You stood here and watched the storm with the greatest pride one can ever feel—because you are able to have summer flowers and half-naked women in your house on a night like this, in demonstration of your victory over that storm. And if it weren’t for you, most of those who are here would be left helpless at the mercy of that wind in the middle of some such plain.

She looked down instead. Long enough to notice that the duke wore a signet ring, and that his hand was long and elegant and scrupulously groomed but sported emphatic veins, as though he'd used his hands to do difficult masculine things his entire life. Dark, crisp hair curled on his wrist, and that hair seemed almost embarrassingly intimate, because if she wanted to right now she could touch it. His finger looked very brown against her own white hand, which she normally took such care to keep from the sun. His hand could cover hers completely if he wanted, shelter it, vanquish it, comfort her or render her terrifyingly defenseless. Funny how the spot where the duke's finger touched her was suddenly the locus of the universe for three people. "Your hand is unconscionably soft, Miss Eversea," he murmured. 'Oh.' And then he took his fingers away. Her eyes widened. She couldn't lift her head just yet. The shock of the stealthy compliment spread slowly through her, the way sherry did when bolted quickly.

The princess found herself being gently prodded and pushed and combed and magicked, and her hair felt weird. When she was spun around to face the mirror again, she was in a yellow dress, waves of sunshine spilling down from her bodice to her toes. Her shoulders were bare, which was a little strange, but they were pale and perfect and delicate. 'Swanlike,' she could hear the minstrel saying. Her hair was loosely braided over one shoulder, a yellow ribbon tying it off. The fairies gasped. "You are 'sooooo' beautiful!" Even 'more' beautiful!" "Can it be possible?" "Look at 'this'," a fairy commanded. With a serious look and a wave of her wand, she transformed the princess again. This time her hair was piled high on her head in an elegant chignon, a simple ribbon holding it back. A light blue dress puffed out around her softly, like a cloud. The finest gloves she had ever worn covered her bare arms up to her shoulders. Funny little tinkling shoes felt chilly on her feet. She put her hands on the skirt and twisted this way and that; what a dress to dance in! She would look like a fairy herself. Or a bride.

I know my alphabet,' I said sharply as he laid a piece of paper in front of me. 'I'm not that stupid.' I twisted my fingers in my lap, then pinned my restless hands under my thighs. 'I didn't say you were stupid,' he said. 'I'm just trying to determine where we should begin.' I leaned back in the cushioned seat. 'Since you've refused to tell me a thing about how much you know.' My face warmed. 'Can't you hire a tutor?' He lifted a brow. 'Is it that hard for you to even try in front of me?' 'You're a High Lord- don't you have better things to do?' 'Of course. But none as enjoyable as seeing you squirm.' 'You're a real bastard, you know that?' Rhys huffed a laugh. 'I've been called worse. In fact, I think you've called me worse.' He tapped the paper in front of him. 'Read that.' A blur of letters. My throat tightened. 'I can't.' 'Try.' The sentence had been written in elegant, concise print. His writing, no doubt. I tried to open my mouth, but my spine locked. 'What exactly, is your stake in all this? You said you'd tell me if I worked with you.' 'I didn't specify when I'd tell you.' I peeled back from him as my lip curled. He shrugged. 'Maybe I resent the idea of you letting those sycophants and war-mongering fools in the Spring Court make you feel inadequate. Maybe I indeed enjoy seeing you squirm. Or maybe-' 'I get it.' He snorted. 'Try to read it, Feyre.' Prick. I snatched the paper to me, nearly ripping it in half in the process. I looked at the first word, sounding it out in my head. 'Y-you...' The next I figured out with a combination of my silent pronunciation and logic. 'Look...' 'Good,' he murmured. 'I didn't ask for your approval.' Rhys chuckled. 'Ab... absolutely.' It took me longer than I wanted to admit to figure that out. The next word was even worse. 'De... Del...' I deigned to glance at him, brows raised. 'Delicious,' he purred. My brows knotted. I read the next two words, then whipped my face toward him. 'You look absolutely delicious today, Feyre?! That's what you wrote?' He leaned back in his seat. As our eyes met, sharp claws caressed my mind and his voice whispered inside my head. It's true, isn't it? I jolted back, my chair groaning. 'Stop that!' But those claws now dug in- and my entire body, my heart, my lungs, my blood yielded to his grip, utterly at his command as he said, The fashion of the Night Court suits you.

I told a friend of mine that my ambition was now to design my lifestyle around food. He made funny remarks about it and laughed it off. But it is what I'm sincerely aiming for.

There you are!” Kendra says as they pull to a halt in front of me. They both look flustered and cross. “We were totally freaking out,” she says angrily. “Where were you?” And then Luca rises up from the window seat, and their expressions change so fast it would be comical if I didn’t know that I’ll pay for this later. “Ohh,” Kelly says, clattering to a halt a few feet away, a world of understanding in her voice, and Luca, looking amused at my obvious embarrassment, flourishes her a little bow and holds out his hand. “I am Luca di Vesperi,” he says, taking hers with a debonair smile. I expect Kelly to crumble under this charm onslaught, but I underestimated her; she’s made of tougher stuff. “Of course you are,” she says dryly, looking up at him. “I heard about you. What were doing, showing Violet the family paintings? From your lap?” “Kelly!” I plead desperately as Kendra muffles a giggle. “I do not understand everything you say,” Luca says to Kelly, his blue eyes gleaming, “but I think you are funny.” “Oh.” This does disarm her. She coughs gruffly. “Well, thank you. We should be getting back. Your mum and Catia are doing their nut.” “Their nut?” Luca looks over at Kendra, who shrugs, an elegant rise and fall of her smooth shoulders. “Don’t ask me,” she says. “It’s like my dad said, the UK and the States are two countries separated by the same language.

You’re covered in blood,” Felix noted. Jericho snorted. “Yeah, kind of a hazard of the job.” Felix scoffed. “Yeah, but you’re also wearing that weird smug, smirky look you only get whenever you get laid, and since you were in an abandoned cabin with Trevor the perv, we’re…alarmed.” He flicked his hand dramatically. “Alarmed,” Jericho echoed. Arsen leaned in, his tone conspiratorial. “Did you fuck Trevor the perv, Coe?" Felix pulled a face. “I’m just hoping he fucked him before he killed him, not after. Once you cross that line, you don’t come back.” Jericho tried to follow their dizzying thought process, but before he could formulate a response, Nico and Levi arrived. Fuck. Levi looked like a wanted poster had fucked a tattoo model. His inky dark hair fell in his face, and he sucked on a Dum-Dum lollipop. Nico’s springy blond curls hung in his face. He looked surprisingly angelic for somebody who was such a little monster. “What’s up? Why’s everybody looking so constipated?” Levi asked. “Coe fucked Trevor the perv,” Arsen said, as if this was fact and not their wild speculation. Levi wrinkled his nose. “That dude was gay? Or was he, like”—he mimed a blowjob—“trying to bribe his way out of it?” Jericho’s face contorted at the idea of a blowjob from greasy ass Trevor, but they paid him no mind. Nico also looked disgusted. “What the fuck, man? Like, I get it. Who hasn’t wanted to fuck somebody they killed or kill somebody they fucked? But it’s a slippery slope, man.” “This is what I told him,” Arsen said, shaking his head. “Once you cross that line…” “Jesus Christ. I didn’t fuck Trevor the perv. I killed Trevor the perv,” Jericho said, walking around the four of them to head to his office, attempting to close the door behind him. His brother caught it and swung it back open. “If you didn’t fuck Trevor, then who was it? And don’t lie and say it didn’t happen. Your after orgasm glow never lies,” Arsen said, flopping down into a chair hard enough to rock it back dangerously far before it righted itself. “I—” Jericho shook his head. “I ran into a guy.” “With your dick?” Levi asked. Nico’s brows knitted together. “In the middle of the woods?” “Like, a homeless man in the woods? A… What’s the word? A hobo?” Arsen asked. Levi elbowed him. “We don’t call them that anymore. Show some respect.” Arsen shrugged. “Sorry. What do you call a man roaming the woods looking for sex?” “A lie,” Felix said, his mouth set in a hard line. “No way my brother banged some hot, sweaty lumberjack in the woods. That’s not his type.” His long, elegant fingers trailed over his collarbones, a slow smile spreading along his face as his brother seemed to get lost in his own lumberjack fantasy. “I—” “There’s nothing in the woods but animals and Sasquatch,” Nico said. “Sasquatch?” Levi parroted. Nico nodded. “Yeah, you know. Bigfoot.” “Did you fuck Bigfoot?” Levi asked, pulling the lollipop from his mouth with a pop.

Here was a woman who was more Elliot's speed. I could see them together at some elegant, candlelit restaurant, or at the theater, or at a dinner party on the Vineyard. She probably had panties to match all of her bras.

- …Marin sits indoors and has ideas, but does not understand the nuances involved in actual trade. I've been doing this for twenty years! For too long - he sighs. - One must tread carefully, and yet she crashes like an elephant. - I see – Nella says, though she has no idea what an elephant is. It sounds like an elegant flower, but Johannes didn’t seem to be paying his sister a compliment.

Morning, Vex. Forget something?” She almost asked him what until she saw the way his gaze smoldered and caressed her almost naked body. Oops. Had she jumped out of bed in only her panties? Nudity wasn’t something that Meena usually noted or cared about. Mother, on the other hand, was always yelling at her to put clothes on. She and Leo had a lot in common. “You should get dressed.” “Why? I’m perfectly comfortable.” So comfortable she brought her shoulders back and made sure to give her boobs a little jiggle. He noticed. He stared. Oh my. Was it getting hot in here? Funny how the heat in her body, though, didn’t stop her nipples from hardening as if struck by a cold breeze. Except, in this case, it was more of an ardent perusal. Did Leo imagine his mouth latched onto a sensitive peak just like she was? “While I am sure you are comfortable, if we’re to go out, then in order to avoid a possible arrest for indecent exposure, you might want to cover your assets.” “We’re going out? Together?” He nodded. “Where?” “It’s a surprise.” She clapped her hands and squealed, “Yay,” only to frown a second later. Leo was acting awfully strange. “Wait a second, this isn’t one of those things where you blindfold me and tell me you’ve got a great surprise, only to dump me on a twelve-hour train to Kansas, is it? Or a plane to Newfoundland, Canada?” His lips twitched. “No. I promise we have a destination, and I am going with you.” “And will I be back here tonight?” “Perhaps. Unless you choose to sleep elsewhere.” Those enigmatic words weren’t his last. “Be downstairs and ready in twenty minutes, Vex. I really want you to come.” Did he purr that last word? Was that even possible? Could he tease her any harder? Please. “How should I dress? Fancy, casual, slutty, or prim and proper?” She eyed him in his khaki shorts and collared short-sleeved shirt. Casual with a hint of elegance. He looked ready for a day at a gentleman’s golf club. And she wanted to be his corrupting caddy, who ruined his shot and dragged him in the woods to show him her version of a tee off. “Your clothes won’t matter. You won’t wear them for long.” Good thing she was close to a wall. Her knees weakened to the point that she almost buckled to the floor. Leaning against it, she wondered if he purposely teased her. Did her serious Pookie even realize how his words could be taken? He approached her until he stood right in front of her. Close enough she could have reached out and hugged him. She didn’t, but only because he drew her close. His essence surrounded her. His hands splayed over the flesh of her lower back, branding her. She leaned into him, totally relying on him to hold her up on wobbly legs. “What about breakfast?” she asked. “I’ve got pastries and coffee in my truck. Lots of yummy treats with lickable icing.” Staring at his mouth, she knew of only one treat she wanted to lick. Alas, she didn’t get a chance. With a slap on her ass, he walked off toward the condo door. Leo. Slapped. My. Ass. She gaped at his retreating broad back. “Don’t make me wait. I’d hate to start without you.” With a wink— yes, a real freaking wink— Leo shut the door behind him. He was waiting for her. Why the hell was she standing there? She sprinted for the shower.

I am Gregori, Jacques.” Gregori’s voice was power itself, yet soft and soothing. “A healer for our people.” Shea was lying across Jacques, her head on his shoulder, her eyes closed. She groaned— a low, husky sound that added fuel to Jacques’ rage. His fingers brushed the dark smudges along her swollen throat, and he turned a murderous gaze on Mikhail. “Leave us alone.” Her voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and raw. She did not open her eyes or try to move. “I can help him,” Gregori persisted, using his same compelling tone. The woman was so obviously the key to reaching Jacques. It was in the way he held her, the protective posture of his body, the way his eyes moved possessively, even tenderly, over her face. His hands were continually caressing her, stroking her hair, her skin. At the underlying command in Gregori’s beautiful voice, her long eyelashes lifted, and she studied his face. He was savagely beautiful, a blend of elegance and untamed beast. He looked more dangerous than the other two strangers did. Shea made an effort to swallow, but it hurt. “You look like an ax murderer to me.” This one has brains. Mikhail’s soft laughter echoed in Gregori’s head. She sees beyond that handsome face of yours. You are so funny, ancient one. Gregori deliberately reminded him of the quarter of a century difference in their ages.

See, I have this theory that humans are just living, breathing, talking forms of art, each crafted with a different technique and carved out of different materials. Each beautiful in their own way. And sure, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and totally subjective, and changes depending on your circumstance, yada-yada-yada… but most of the time, it’s pretty easy to classify people. Like, okay, you know those women who are gorgeous and never know it? Or the men who pass quietly through life, handsome and unnoticed, never begging for attention or crying out for recognition? Those are your watercolors. And the loud, vivacious, gorgeous-and-they-know-it creatures, with bright lipstick and closets full of bold colors and outfits they never wear twice? Acrylics. The graceful, elegant, aging beauties you pick out in the crowd, or across the cafe, the lines on their faces telling a story you just know you’d want to hear, with so many layers and smudges, twists and turns, you’re not even sure where they begin? Charcoals. Then, you’ve got the big-picture-beautiful people, with the collection of interesting features that together make a beautiful face. They’re your oil paintings — best from ten feet away and, at the end of the day, kind of funny looking if you lean closer and analyze all their elements separately. But I’m quickly learning that Chase Croft doesn’t fit any of my categories. He isn’t a brushstroke on canvas, or bumpy layers of paint on a palette, or imperfect lines scratched inside a sketchbook. His features aren’t just gorgeous as a collective — he’s one of those annoyingly attractive people whose every feature is equally stunning. He’s a sculpture.

Hello, umbrella girl.” I chuckled remembering our first meeting. She was walking down the stairs from her house, it was raining, she elegantly spread her umbrella, her friends were on the sides, who followed her moves. All of them slowly walked past me and my male friends, rolling their eyes and smirking, we were getting wet in the rain while they were protected from the icy drops from the sky. “Wanna be friends?” She repeated her proposal again and pierced me with her dark brown eyes. “Yes.” I simply answered and a new connection had been formed between her and me.

And you shouldn't be---" I say, looking up and taking in his appearance. So damn hot. My throat catches. Words do not form. He's sexier than the ceviche I'm planning on making---slick and smooth, cool and hot. Confession: I may have a problem binge-watching rom-coms and steamy romances, hoping for my own meet-cute. If they happen in the movies, why not in real life? When I'm not in the kitchen, I watch them all, inhaling the happy endings---from Sleepless in Seattle to Pretty Woman to Sixteen Candles, the latter so politically incorrect and cringe-worthy today but made up for with the drool-worthy hotness that is Jake Ryan. Something about this guy reminds me of Keanu Reeves, with his razor-sharp cheekbones, mildly unkempt black hair that nearly touches his shoulders, two-day scruff, penetrating hazel eyes, and, from what I can tell---dressed in a casual but elegant fitted black suit---a buff body. I may have developed a slight Keanu obsession after I saw him in Always Be My Maybe, the story of him being the temporary love interest of an ambitious chef. Even though he played a douchebag version of himself, he was funny and hot as hell. Normally, I only salivate over recipes, but this feast for the eyes is clearly an exception.

Funny things those, our minds. They are flawed and yet phenomenal. A mixture of beauty and ugliness, complexity and simplicity, good and evil, elegance and mess.

Benno recalled how Lucy had sighed when Tom had said—well, Benno couldn’t actually remember what he had said, that’s how incredibly not funny his comment was, but he remembered clearly how she gazed admiringly at the person Benno now realized was a snake in the grass, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a— “Hey, Benno!” He looked up to see Tom, the person he now hated more than anyone in the world, waving cheerfully at him from the sidelines. Benno picked up the ball and trotted over, trying to look casual and elegant, like the best players on the Italian national team. This effect was ruined when he stepped on a small rut in the field, tripped, and dropped the ball. “Ciao, Tom,” he called out. “Come stai?” As usual, Tom was flummoxed by this most basic Italian greeting. Benno imagined that he could actually hear the wheels in Tom’s brain turning as he tried to remember the correct response.

Berlin wrote songs for a number of Astaire films of the period: Top Hat, Follow the Fleet, On the Avenue, Carefree. The two men became close personal friends for the rest of their lives. But the choice of Astaire as a Hollywood leading man is, at first glance, puzzling. Certainly, he was an extraordinary dancer, and songwriters appreciated his accuracy and clarity when singing their songs, even if his voice was reedy and thin. But a leading man? Essentially, Astaire epitomized what Berlin and other Jews strove to achieve. He was debonair, polished, sophisticated. His screen persona was that of a raffish, outspoken fellow, not obviously attractive, whose audacity and romanticism and wit in the end won out. It didn’t hurt that he could dance. But even his dance—so smooth and elegant—was done mostly to jazz. Unlike a Gene Kelly, who was athletic, handsome, and sexy, Astaire got by on style. Kelly was American whereas Astaire was continental. In short, Astaire was someone the immigrant might himself become. It was almost like Astaire was himself Jewish beneath the relaxed urbanity. In a film like Top Hat he is audacious, rude, clever, funny, and articulate, relying mostly on good intentions and charm to win over the girl—and the audience. He is the antithesis of a Clark Gable or a Gary Cooper; Astaire is all clever and chatty, balding, small, and thin. No rugged individualist he. And yet his romantic nature and persistence win all. Astaire only got on his knees to execute a dazzling dance move, never as an act of submission. His characters were largely wealthy, self-assured, and worldly. He danced with sophistication and class. In his famous pairings with Ginger Rogers, the primary dance numbers had the couple dressed to the nines, swirling on equally polished floors to the strains of deeply moving romantic ballads.

Berlin wrote songs for a number of Astaire films of the period: Top Hat, Follow the Fleet, On the Avenue, Carefree. The two men became close personal friends for the rest of their lives. But the choice of Astaire as a Hollywood leading man is, at first glance, puzzling. Certainly, he was an extraordinary dancer, and songwriters appreciated his accuracy and clarity when singing their songs, even if his voice was reedy and thin. But a leading man? Essentially, Astaire epitomized what Berlin and other Jews strove to achieve. He was debonair, polished, sophisticated. His screen persona was that of a raffish, outspoken fellow, not obviously attractive, whose audacity and romanticism and wit in the end won out. It didn’t hurt that he could dance. But even his dance—so smooth and elegant—was done mostly to jazz. Unlike a Gene Kelly, who was athletic, handsome, and sexy, Astaire got by on style. Kelly was American whereas Astaire was continental. In short, Astaire was someone the immigrant might himself become. It was almost like Astaire was himself Jewish beneath the relaxed urbanity. In a film like Top Hat he is audacious, rude, clever, funny, and articulate, relying mostly on good intentions and charm to win over the girl—and the audience. He is the antithesis of a Clark Gable or a Gary Cooper; Astaire is all clever and chatty, balding, small, and thin. No rugged individualist he. And yet his romantic nature and persistence win all.

Are you Russian?” “To the core.” “Well then, let me say at the outset that I am positively enamored with your country. I love your funny alphabet and those little pastries stuffed with meat. But your nation’s notion of a cocktail is rather unnerving. . . .” “How so?” The captain pointed discreetly down the bar to where a bushy-eyebrowed apparatchik was chatting with a young brunette. Both of them were holding drinks in a striking shade of magenta. “I gather from Audrius that that concoction contains ten different ingredients. In addition to vodka, rum, brandy, and grenadine, it boasts an extraction of rose, a dash of bitters, and a melted lollipop. But a cocktail is not meant to be a mélange. It is not a potpourri or an Easter parade. At its best, a cocktail should be crisp, elegant, sincere—and limited to two ingredients.” “Just two?” “Yes. But they must be two ingredients that complement each other; that laugh at each other’s jokes and make allowances for each other’s faults; and that never shout over each other in conversation. Like gin and tonic,” he said, pointing to his drink. “Or bourbon and water . . . Or whiskey and soda . . .” Shaking his head, he raised his glass and drank from it. “Excuse me for expounding.” “That’s quite all right.” The

Brock毕业证咨询办理《Q微2026614433》购买Brock毕业证修改Brock成绩单加拿大购买布鲁克大学毕业证办理高仿学位布鲁克大学毕业证成绩单认证出国留学无法毕业买毕业证留学被劝退买毕业证（无法毕业教育部认证咨询） Brock University nmmnSMNSSVBSVSBNSVBN "The mind-frying hilarity of Anthony Veasna So's first book of fiction settles him as the genius of social satire our age needs now more than ever. Few writers can handle firm plot action and wrenching pathos in such elegant prose. This unforgettable new voice is at once poetic and laugh-out-loud funny. These characters kept talking to me long after I closed the book I'm destined to read again and cannot wait to teach. Anthony Veasna So is a shiny new star in literature's firmament and Afterparties his first classic."--Mary Karr, author of Lit: A Memoir Afterparties weaves through a Cambodian-American community in the shadow of genocide, following the children of refugees as they grapple with the complexities of masculinity, class, and family. Anthony Veasna So explores the lives of these unforgettable characters with bracing humor and startling tenderness. A stunning collection from an exciting new voice.--Brit Bennett, author of The Vanishing Half