Ellis Grey Quotes

Grey’s OK on a man,’ says Mary-Anne. ‘Silver fox and all that.’ Ruth notices that Frank doesn’t seem to mind this description. She also muses that there isn’t a female equivalent to ‘silver fox’. ‘Grey-haired old bat’ doesn’t cover it somehow.

I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces, And not in paths of high morality, And not among the half-distinguished faces, The clouded forms of long-past history. I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading: It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

Wearing makeup doesn't make you a girl. Were you wearing makeup when you first met him? No.. Then there's no need to wear it now, unless you want to. Do things for you, Ellie, never for others. He obviously liked you just the way you were.

You are a bright light, Elli.’ His own breath hitches, a sound that I cannot quite grasp. His eyes are darkening, his lips tightening. His hands grasp me tighter and he moves closer, his mouth inches from mine, I can almost taste the sweetness and saltiness of his scent, the rich coffee beans and sugar, the vague spearmint. I say nothing, I’m not even sure I’m breathing. ‘You shouldn’t have to see such pain, such blackness. You are too pure.’ His lips do not collide with mine, his skin does not brush against me, only his voice sends a shiver down every notch in my spine, trailing goose bumps over my skin. He tilts his head to the side, his lips gently brushing against my ear. And that is all. I’m not good enough for him. I’m not. That’s why… that’s why… ‘Too pure…

I need you to understand that if I kiss you, I won’t stop. Everything will shift, and nothing will be the same. If I kiss you, Ellie, we’re going to be something new.” “Yes, I know,” I said, sighing against him as I opened my eyes and stared into those gray eyes. “But do it anyway.

Think, Carter. Use the “little grey cells”, as Agatha Christie’s Poirot says in the stories. All the great detectives spent time reflecting on the case. Remember Sherlock Holmes playing his violin far into the night.’ ‘And injecting himself with cocaine?’ interjected Steph. ‘You won’t be doing that, will you, sir?’ she asked cheekily. ‘No,’ replied Oldroyd. ‘The similarities between myself and Conan Doyle’s creation are few, apart from our brilliantly perceptive minds.

There’s a workaround for encroaching phone stupidity. The first thing I did when I got to my place in Austin – an apartment rented for three days over the internet – was connect the thing to wifi. Just like that, my secondary brain got all its little grey cells back. The next few days were all about scurrying from wifi field to field, trying to keep the thing on life support. It’s a workaround. We live in a workaround culture. You have to jiggle the key in the ignition just right to start the car. You have to hold the TV remote at a certain angle. You know how it goes.

She's barely gained consciousness and when she sees me standing over her naked, I can imagine my virtual absence of humanity fills her with mind-bending horror. I've situated the body in front of the new Toshiba Television set and in the VCR is an old tape and appearing on the screen is the last girl I filmed. I'm wearing: a Joseph Abboud suit, tie by Paul Stuart, shoes by J. Crew, a vest by someone Italian and I'm kneeing on the floor beside a corpse eating the girl's brain gobbling it down spreading Grey Poupon over hunks of the pink fleshy meat. "Can you see?" I asked the girl not on the Television set. "Can you see this, are you watching?" I whisper. I try using the power drill on her, forcing it into her mouth but she's conscious enough, has strength to close her teeth clamping them down and even though the drill goes through the teeth quickly it fails to interest me. So I hold her head up, blood dribbling from her mouth and make her watch the rest of the tape. While she's looking at the girl on the screen bleed from almost every possible orifice I'm hoping she realizes that this would've happened to her no matter what. That she would've ended up here lying on the floor in my apartment hands nailed to posts, cheese and broken glass pushed up into her cunt. Her head cracked and bleeding purple no matter what other choice she might have made.

My sisters and I giggled at “Dance: Ten; Looks: Three” (“Tits and ass / bought myself a fancy pair / tightened up the derriere”) while our parents sat in the front of the car—my father at the wheel, my mom in the passenger seat—both distracted and nonplussed. We flipped through the Jacqueline Susann and Harold Robbins hardbacks in my grandmother’s bookshelf and watched The Exorcist on the Z Channel (the country’s first pay-cable network that premiered in LA in the mid-’70s) after our parents sternly told us not to watch it, but of course we did anyway and got properly freaked out. We saw skits about people doing cocaine on Saturday Night Live, and we were drawn to the allure of disco culture and unironic horror movies. We consumed all of this and none of it ever triggered us—we were never wounded because the darkness and the bad mood of the era was everywhere, and when pessimism was the national language, a badge of hipness and cool. Everything was a scam and everybody was corrupt and we were all being raised on a diet of grit. One could argue that this fucked us all up, or maybe, from another angle, it made us stronger. Looking back almost forty years later, it probably made each of us less of a wuss. Yes, we were sixth and seventh graders dealing with a society where no parental filters existed. Tube8.com was not within our reach, fisting videos were not available on our phones, nor were Fifty Shades of Grey or gangster rap or violent video games, and terrorism hadn’t yet reached our shores, but we were children wandering through a world made almost solely for adults. No one cared what we watched or didn’t, how we felt or what we wanted, and we hadn’t yet become enthralled by the cult of victimization. It was, by comparison to what’s now acceptable when children are coddled into helplessness, an age of innocence.

You’re different, Elli. You’re unlike anyone else, it’s because of that…’ ‘How can a Prince, how can someone like you be seen with me? I get it, Evan, its fine.’ ‘It’s because of that, I want you.

Avalon is full of desperate people.’ She bites at her lower lip this time, fumbling her hands, knitting her fingers into the bundle of plastic coin bags in her grasp. ‘Are you implying that I’m desperate?’ I say, one eyebrow tilting. ‘You don’t need to be desperate… you can have anyone... I…’ she trails off. Looking up and trying to search the line of shops for the bank. I repulse her, I make her want to run. Why is this so hard? I need to get inside of her, I need to know what she is thinking, what she is wanting. It surely isn’t me she wants. Not to the extent that I… want her. ‘You?’ I entice her to finish her sentence but she doesn’t, she stares off into the bustling crowds, memory flashing her eyes with a darkness. ‘Madi wouldn’t fumble like this.’ Oh, she would fumble, but not in the way you are, Elli. ‘You’re not her, Elli.’ I entice her again, trying to force the dark memory, the sadness from her. ‘No, if I was, you wouldn’t have wanted anyone else.’ A breath hitches in her throat, she puts a hand over her mouth and says something else, her cheeks dance a shade of red that brightens and brightens until she apologises and quickens her pace. I chuckle, pulling at her arm and encircling one around her waist, pulling her back to me. Beneath my touch, her body trembles. When I raise my hand, my palm touching her cheek, I am sure she isn’t breathing. ‘I don’t want anyone, Elli.’ My eyes burn, consuming her with my gaze. She is like a frightful deer, struggling beneath me with a gaze that cannot quite meet mine. When she does, it is only for a brief second before falling down and all I see is the gentle flutter of her raven flashes. ‘I told you. I want someone I cannot have.’ ‘That is a really harsh way of telling someone you’re not interested.

A figure moved, painfully flexing stiff, aching shoulder blades, and looked back towards the control tower. There was a different atmosphere about the place and the men and women who waited there. On the breeze could be heard voices, the bark of nervous laughter. Something serious had occurred in those grey, disused buildings. It would soon be time to move.

Judy remembers Selina Spencer talking about ‘the oldies club’ but Bryan doesn’t look as if he’s near retirement age. He’s a small man, thin and tanned with hair that’s still more brown than grey. He tells Judy that he’s fifty-five.

All I have done since I ran away from Xander is exist. My world is grey and cold, and I want his sun back in my life. He called me his Sunshine, but in truth, he’s mine. It is his light that made me bloom and grow and not fear what the future might hold.

He reached out and trailed a finger along her chin and neck, but stopped when she shrank away him. “What? I can’t touch you anymore?” “I told you I was married!” “I don’t give a fuck what you are! You still mine, girl.

He is tall and dark, with greying hair cut very short and there is something hard about him, something contained and slightly dangerous that makes her think that he can’t be a student and certainly not a lecturer.

THE HE’S ARE SHE’S In 1847, three novels excite England’s readers. Wuthering Heights by Ellis Bell tells a devastating tale of passion and shame. Agnes Grey by Acton Bell strips bare the hypocrisy of the family. Jane Eyre by Currer Bell exalts the courage of an independent woman. No one knows that the authors are female. The brothers Bell are actually the sisters Brontë. These fragile girls, virgins all, Emily, Anne, Charlotte, avenge their solitude by writing poems and novels in a village lost on the Yorkshire moors. Intruders into the male world of literature, they don men’s masks so the critics will forgive them for having dared. But the critics pan their works anyway, as “rude,” “crude,” “nasty,” “savage,” “brutal,” “libertine” . . .

It spoke about how the dragonfly is born a larva, but when it’s ready, it sheds its casing and becomes the beauty we see flying around us. In many stories, this is seen as the process of both life and death. The dragonfly emerging from its casing is just like when the soul leaves the body. There are two stages to the dragonfly. The first stage is when it is an insect that lives underwater. This is their life on earth. The next is when they emerge and find their flight. They become airborne and find a new freedom. That’s when their soul is freed from the restraints of their body. Isn’t that beautiful, Ellie? Isn’t that an amazing thought? That even after death our spirits live on?