Eva Green Quotes

Those who think of the Amazon as a Green Hell,” she read in an old book with a tattered spine, “bring only their own fears and prejudices to this amazing land. For whether a place is a hell or a heaven rests in yourself, and those who go with courage and an open mind may find themselves in Paradise.

It was a heavenly summer, the summer in which France fell and the British Expeditionary Force was evacuated from Dunkirk. Leaves were never such an intense and iridescent green; sunlight glinted on flower-studded meadows as the Germans encircled the Maginot Line and overran not only France but Belgium and Holland. Birdsong filled the air in the lull between bursts of gunfire and accompanied the fleeing refugees who blocked the roads. It was as though the weather was preparing a glorious requiem for the death of Europe.

He drops his head toward mine as he finishes speaking, and my pulse skyrockets. “What are you doing?” I whisper breathlessly. His blue-green eyes bounce between mine as he captures my chin between his thumb and fingers. “I’ve been staring at your lips all night. I have to know if they taste as sweet as they look.

If this is the ‘Green Hell’ of the Amazon, then hell is where I belong,” said Maia.

If people were rain, I was a drizzle, and she was a hurricane.

Outside the seasons passed: sun, snow, spring green, October storms . . . was this a vision of my future? When would the shunning hero come, to set the clock if my life in motion again? Would he come some morning, or in the night? In April or December? This year? Next year? I shuddered. No, I wouldn't just sit and wait. I wanted to go out.  Maybe there were new men out there, better men, men who'd just been waiting for me. Somewhere someone is always waiting for someone.

some nights . . .” “They say the moon is made of green cheese,” Butch said. “And I’m going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight if we don’t get out of here.” He took my hand and led the way across the room. Louise Jane called out to me one last time. “It shouldn’t be a problem leading the haunted lighthouse tour into the Lady’s room, Lucy. You’ll be gone by Halloween, isn’t that right?” Chapter 15 “I hope you had a nice evening, despite how it ended,” Butch said as we walked to his car.

{Letter from Debbs to Eva Ingersoll, husband of Robert Ingersoll, just after the news of Robert's death} We were inexpressibly shocked to hear of the sudden death of your dear husband and our best loved friend. Most tenderly do we sympathize with you, and all of yours in your great bereavement... Gifted with the rarest genius, in beautiful alliance with his heroism, his kindness and boundless love, he made the name of Ingersoll immortal. To me, he was an older brother and as I loved him living, so will I cherish his sweet memory forever.

God had given him a gift when he opened his eyes to see her smile and the lovely glimmer of fathomless green pools. Her gaze reminded him of the rolling hills of his beloved Scotland. With Eva, he was home. With her in his arms, he could achieve anything - fear nothing. If only...

Eva sipped her coffee. Today, her hair was bound back in a singular knot, the sides rolled in smooth twists, the knot itself in the shape of the figure eight, which Delphine knew was the ancient sign for eternity. Eva rose and turned away, walked across the green squares of linoleum to punch some risen dough and cover it with towels. As Delphine watched, into her head there popped a strange notion: the idea that perhaps strongly experienced moments, as when Eva turned and the sun met her hair and for that one instant the symbol blazed out, those particular moments were eternal. Those moments actually went somewhere. Into a file of moments that existed out of time's range..

{Stockton, a playwright who performed plays about Robert Ingersoll, gives the four moments in Ingersoll's life that shaped him, first being the death of his father, who was a reverend} Despite their opposing religious views, the old revivalist on his deathbed asked Bob to read to him from the black book clutched to his chest. Bob relented, took the book, and was surprised to discover that it wasn't the Bible. It was Plato describing the noble death of the pagan Socrates: a moving gesture of reconciliation between father and son in parting. The second event was Bob’s painful realization that his outspoken agnosticism not only invalidated his own political career but ended his brother Ebon’s career in Congress, as well. Third was the exquisite anguish of seeing his supportive wife Eva and his young daughters made to suffer for his right to speak his own mind. And fourth was the dramatic tension of having to walk out alone on public stages, in a glaring spotlight, time after time with death threats jammed in his tuxedo pocket informing him that some armed bigot in that night’s audience would see to it that he didn't leave the stage alive.

T.S. Eliot expresses it _so_ -- the poem is a raid on the inarticulate. I, Eva von Outryve de Crommelynck, agree with him. Poems who are not written yet, or not written ever, exists here. The realm of the inarticulate. Art" -- she put another cigarette in her mouth, and this time I was ready with the dragon lighter -- "fabricated of the inarticulate _is_ beauty. Even if its themes is ugly. Silver moons, thundering seas, clichés of cheese, poison beauty. The amateur thinks _his_ words, _his_ paints, _his_ notes, make the beauty. But master knows his words is just the _vehicle_ in who beauty sits. The master knows he does _not_ know what beauty is.

But the word ‘make’ is unsufficient for a true poem. ‘Create’ is unsufficient. All words are insufficient. Because of this. The poem exists before it is written.” That, I didn’t get. “Where?” “T. S. Eliot expresses it so—the poem is a raid on the inarticulate. I, Eva van Outryve de Crommelynck, agree with him. Poems who are not written yet, or not written ever, exists here. The realm of the inarticulate. Art”—she put another cigarette in her mouth, and this time I was ready with her dragon lighter—“fabricated of the inarticulate is beauty. Even if its themes is ugly. Silver moons, thundering seas, clichés of cheese, poison beauty. The amateur thinks his words, his paints, his notes, makes the beauty. But the master knows his words is just the vehicle in who beauty sits.

That settles it,” said Mr. Trapwood. “We’re going back to the pension. We’re going to pack. We’re going to be on the Bishop first thing tomorrow. Sir Aubrey will have to send someone else out. Nothing is worth another day in this hellhole.” Mr. Low did not answer. He had caught a fever and was lying in the bottom of a large canoe owned by the Brothers of the São Gabriel Mission, who had arranged for the crows to be taken back to Manaus. His eyes were closed and he was wandering a little in his mind, mumbling about a boy with hair the color of the belly of the golden toad which squatted on the lily leaves of the Mamari River. There had, of course, been no golden-haired boys; there hadn’t been any boys at all. What there had been was a leper colony, run by the Brothers of Saint Patrick, a group of Irish missionaries to whom the crows had been sent. “They’re good men, the Brothers,” a man on the docks had told them as they set off on their last search for Taverner’s son. “They take in all sorts of strays--orphans, boys with no homes. If anyone knows where Taverner’s lad might be, it’ll be them.” Then he had spat cheerfully into the river because he was a crony of the chief of police and liked the idea of Mr. Low and Mr. Trapwood spending time with the Brothers, who were very holy men indeed and slept on the hard ground, and ate porridge made from manioc roots, and got up four times in the night to pray. The Brothers’ mission was on a swampy part of the river and very unhealthy, but the Brothers thought only about God and helping their fellowmen. They welcomed Mr. Trapwood and Mr. Low and said they could look over the leper colony to see if they could find anyone who might turn out to be the boy they were looking for. “They’re a jolly lot, the lepers,” said Father Liam. “People who’ve suffered don’t have time to grumble.” But the crows, turning green, thought there wouldn’t be much point. Even if there was a boy there the right age, Sir Aubrey probably wouldn’t think that a boy who was a leper could manage Westwood. Later a group of pilgrims arrived who had been walking on foot from the Andes and were on their way to a shrine on the Madeira River, and the Brothers knelt and washed their feet. “We know you’ll be proud to share the sleeping hut with our friends here,” they said to Mr. Low and Mr. Trapwood, and the crows spent the night on the floor with twelve snoring, grunting men--and woke to find two large and hungry-looking vultures squatting in the doorway. By the time they returned to Manaus the crows were beaten men. They didn’t care any longer about Taverner’s son or Sir Aubrey, or even the hundred-pound bonus they had lost. All they cared about was getting onto the Bishop and steaming away as fast as it could be done.

I have never been a very brave man," Uncle Moses said. "Nor I," Zalmann added. Eva smiled at them. "You are brave enough.

Closing his eyes he kissed her forehead. "Eva?" "Mm." "I want ye." A pair of sleepy green eyes turned up to him - not dull green, but vivid, like spring leaves. William parted his lips as her mouth covered his. Lord save him, Eva's entire body turned wicked, writhing, groping. Her mouth sucking, dictating a frenzied pace as she lifted her hips and let him tug off those damnable panties.

The children turned and saw the spinach-green boat coming toward them. “Oh no! Not the Carters!” said Maia. She looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. “If I ran off into the jungle…” But it wasn’t the Carters. In a way it was worse, because from the woman who now rose from her seat in the stern, she would not have tried to hide or run away. “You’re mad!” shouted Miss Minton across the narrowing gap between the boats. “You’re completely mad, Maia. What do you mean by this?” Then she disappeared into the cabin, where--for the first time since Maia had been lost in the fire--she burst into tears. But the relief of seeing Maia safe soon took a different turn. On board the Arabella she complained about Maia’s tangled hair, her bare feet, her strange clothes. She had brought a toothbrush--even a hairbrush--but as she said, it would take days to get Maia to look civilized again. She berated Finn for taking Maia off, she inquired nastily about his Latin, and wanted to know how often they took their quinine pills. By the time she had finished nagging and finding fault, Maia was almost ready to wish that Minty had deserted her.

Eva—Evangeline—had finally broken down the wall he had always felt with her, had opened her heart and told him the truth. She had looked so vulnerable, so desperate and determined . . . and so beautiful. Her lips were plump and red and her eyes sparkling and bright green from the tears swimming in them. Holding her made him feel completely alive. He’d never wanted anything so much in his life as to kiss her. He could not be thinking this way. His mind was churning even faster than his heart was beating.

This is it—an enormous spike of thermal and scintillation activity. At the lowest possible calibration, it’s still almost off the charts. It’s at 9.4 GeV. It’s the neutralino, Arthur. It’s dark matter.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “And here, these green dots in the corner of the plot,” she pointed. “These are neutrinos at 2.2 eV—a lot of them. It all fits.

She was very careful after that, keeping a proper lookout, but nothing could quite quell her delight in the beauty she saw about her. It was as though she was taking the journey she had imagined on top of the library ladder the day she heard about her new life. Then the stream became wider, the current stronger, and she caught a glimpse of low, color-washed houses and heard a dog bark. “Manaus,” he said. He drew up to the bank and helped her out. She took out her purse, but he wouldn’t take her money, nor would he listen to her thanks. “Teatra Amazonas,” he said, pointing straight ahead. He would go no farther toward civilization. The boy watched her as she ran off. She looked back once and waved, but he had already turned the boat. He poled swiftly back through the maze of waterways. When he reached the place where he had found Maia, he smiled and half shook his head. Then he set the canoe hard at the curtain of green and vanished into his secret world.

You used to say your color for me was green. But I like to think it’s actually my color for you because no one sees you like I do Fel—through my eyes. And even on days where you think you’re a mess, or a product of what they made us, you need to know that’s not who you are to me. In my eyes, you’re the rarest, most beautiful green diamond. Shaped by their pressure. And instead of it destroying you, you grew more beautiful through the pain.

Because I forget myself with him as well. His green opal eyes with their drop of blue that feels like the piece of me he took for himself and has kept safe ever since.

Someone tall, with wild green eyes that make my insides plummet. The eyes are the key to the soul. A warning he taught me to listen to from there on out.

His green eyes the shade of a forest in the darkness. Trees I’m already lost in.

His green eyes trap me like honey I can’t escape.

When Jude’s green eyes once more meet mine, I think he might take a knife to the fabric later. Not that I’d mind.

Pulling back, he looks me over, and even though there’s lust in his gaze, that’s not what I focus on. It’s the pain melting away with every second. I want him to look at me like this forever, so I can get lost in those eyes. In his green gaze seeing all the things I couldn’t.

I wanted to listen to her talk all night. About her favorite color being green and her favorite food being strawberries. I was so lost in the pictures she was painting that I didn’t even tell her I’m allergic. I’d let her eat one and kiss me, just to jumpstart my heart again.

The green of my eyes is watching the slow dance of the flames in front of me. Permit them to bleach the color of my iris. Allow them to sooth my cold, pale skin. The strength of the wood is weakened and destroyed by something so delicate, yet lethal.

The day of the festival. On this day, the maidens in the village wear beautiful white dresses and wander the fields of green, searching for flowers.

Back on Earth, a green dick would probably mean something is wrong, but here, it means everything is right.

A beast in a man’s skin, a monster she didn’t recognize under the syrup thick stains of blood and gore sheeting from his skin. Tobias’ wild green eyes swung up to meet Quinn’s. Lip curled up, showing the vicious edge of his teeth, he took in Quinn’s horrified face. Whatever else he saw snapped something inside of him. Something she felt torn asunder deep inside her heart. Pain, yes, but so much more. Possessive, protective. Swimming through it all the sharp edged sword of his love.

I love you too,” he rumbles, his green eyes intense. “You’ve broken down walls I didn’t even know I had. You’re the perfect counterpart to me, Lana. The softness to my hardness, the light to my darkness. I didn’t even know my life was missing anything before, but now I know that it was you all along.