Elemental Crying Game Quotes

Gabriel glanced over. "So I made coffee." He'd set up the game, too, for whatever reason. Then he'd sobbed into his mug for forty five minutes, until his coffee went cold and Michael found him sitting there. Gabriel had been worried his brother would bitch about the coffee or the crying or something--he rarely needed a reason in those days. But Michael had just poured himself a cup of coffee and pushed the dice across the table. "You go first.

Chase!” she cried. At last, he surfaced. Not in the center of the lake, but close to the bank, taking her unawares. He emerged from the water with a spray of fanfare, his translucent shirt pasted to his torso and his hair slicked back. Like Poseidon rising from the sea—hoisting a waterlogged doll in place of a trident. Chase Reynaud, god of the Serpentine. And oh, he looked ready to enjoy a bit of worship. He grinned at her, the horrid man. As if he hadn’t just given her the fright of her life, and the past ten minutes were an expected element of any outing in Hyde Park. He presented the doll to Daisy. “She took in some water, but I think she’ll pull through.” Instead of hugging the doll, Daisy attached herself to Chase’s leg, clinging to him with all four limbs. Alex rather wished she could do the same. Chase shook his leg, and Daisy held tight. He looked to Alex. “You’re the sailor. How does one remove a barnacle?

Newly arrived and quite ignorant of the languages of the Levant, Marco Polo could express himself only by drawing objects from his baggage -- drums, salt fish, necklaces of wart hog's teeth -- and pointing to them with gestures, leaps, cries of wonder or of horror, imitating the bay of the jackal, the hoot of the owl. The connections between one element of the story and another were not always obvious to the emperor; the objects could have various meanings: a quiver filled with arrows could indicate the approach of war, or an abundance of game, or else an armorer's shop; an hourglass could mean time passing, or time past, or sand, or a place where hourglasses are made. But what enhanced for Kublai every event or piece of news reported by his inarticulate informer was the space that remained around it, a void not filled with words. The descriptions of cities Marco Polo visited had this virtue: you could wonder through them in thought, become lost, stop and enjoy the cool air, or run off. As time went by, words began to replace objects and gestures in Marco's tales: first exclamations, isolated nouns, dry verbs, then phrases, ramified and leafy discourses, metaphors and tropes. The foreigner had learned to speak the emperor's language or the emperor to understand the language of the foreigner. But you would have said that communication between them was less happy than in the past: to be sure, words were more useful than objects and gestures in the listing of the most important things of every province and city -- monuments, markets, costumes, fauna and flora -- and yet when Polo began to talk about how life must be in those places, day after day, evening after evening, words failed him, and little by little, he went back to relying on gestures, grimaces, glances.