Flair For The Dramatic Quotes

Your uncle," Poseidon sighed, "has always had a flair for dramatic exits. I think he would've done well as the god of theater.

Oh, I'll trust you," the boy told him carelessly. "It hardly matters. We are all betrayed sooner or later—all betrayed, or traitors." "I see that a flair for the dramatic runs in the blood," Magnus said under his breath.

Death, it seems," Garp wrote, "does not like to wait until we are prepared for it. Death is indulgent and enjoys, when it can, a flair for the dramatic.

I must say, the queen does have a flair for the dramatic.” Torin cast a sly grin toward Kai. “So, it seems, does her niece.” He smothered a twitch of pride. Cinder did have a knack for making an entrance.

Steve always had a flair for the dramatic. He should have raised one ghostly fist in the air as he said it; though,for the full effect.

What no one appreciates is that it takes courage—and considerable dramatic flair—to show up and insist you belong, to invoke genetic claims and demand food and love and housing.

She pointed to the wreckage of one of the frigates in the distance. Half the ship had landed atop one of the towers on the edge of the city, the other half on the flatland beyond. “You didn’t…do that, did you?” He shrugged with proper dramatic flair. “I did say I came to rescue you. They were in my way.

When the zebra-striped lizards return, bulbous eyes twisting in every direction, they carry a platter garnished with dried fruit and something that resembles a duck. It’s plucked and roasted but still has its head intact. A warm, herbal scent tickles my nose. At least it’s cooked. "May I introduce you all to the main course?” Morpheus spreads out an arm with dramatic flair. “Dinner, meet your worthy adversaries, the hungry guests.” My tongue dries to sandpaper as the bird’s eyes pop open, and it hobbles to stand on webbed feet, flesh brown and glistening with glaze and oil. There’s a bell hung around its neck, and it jingles as the duck bows to greet everyone. This cannot be happening. Morpheus drags the heavy mallet from beside his chair and pounds it on the table like a judge’s gavel. “Now that we’re all acquainted, let the walloping begin.” Gossamer launches from Morpheus’s shoulder and leaves the room with the other sprites as mass confusion erupts. All the guests leap to their feet, mallets in hand, to chase the jingling duck.

For the survivors and their testimonies I want to single out from the huge and forbidding archive a volume that deserves permanent currency: Anton Gill’s The Journey Back from Hell. It is an extraordinarily inspiring treasury of voices, and one grounded and marshalled by the author with both flair and decorum. Indeed, these reminiscences, these dramatic monologues, reshape our tentative answer to the unavoidable question: What did you have to have to survive? What you had to have is usually tabulated as follows: luck; the ability to adapt, immediately and radically; a talent for inconspicuousness; solidarity with another individual or with a group; the preservation of decency (“the people who had no tenets to live by—of whatever nature—generally succumbed” no matter how ruthlessly they struggled); the constantly nurtured conviction of innocence (an essential repeatedly emphasised by Solzhenitsyn in The Gulag Archipelago); immunity to despair; and, again, luck.

First, it is crucial to recognize that Washington’s extraordinary reputation rested less on his prudent exercise of power than on his dramatic flair at surrendering it. He was, in fact, a veritable virtuoso of exits.

I have quite a story to tell you,” Parke said with a dramatic flair. “Sit back with that ‘coke’ and listen to the tale I’m about to spin. It’s a grand one, full of action, suspense, intrigue, violence, and even some juicy stuff. Just what a good story should have, don’t ya’ think?

Drae sighed. “I appreciate your flair for the dramatic, and I’m glad to learn it’s survived your hypnol poisoning. But there’s no need for you to go through the hassle of regenesis this time. We can drop the bomb from half a kilometer above the meeting and have time to escape the blast.” Eren forced a confident smile, pulling the correct muscles into a barely remembered pattern and holding them there. “This is where you’re wrong—there is absolutely a need for me to go through the hassle of regenesis.” He reached up and rubbed a palm over the stubble covering his scalp. “If I am going to continue living in this world, I have got to get my hair back.” Drae stared at him incredulously, then burst out laughing. “You know, that may be the first true thing you’ve said to me since this ordeal began.

they don’t see each other nearly as often now that she’s married and no longer a regularly employed actress. But that’s not the only reason she wanted to have lunch. She was pretty sure, though, that if she said she had something to tell him, he’d get the wrong idea. Aware that she’s been auditioning again lately, he might assume she’s landed a plum role in some film—or at least back in the soaps, where she spent her early career. That couldn’t be farther from what she had to tell him—and when she broke the real news, his reaction was even more dramatic than she’d anticipated. “Noooooo!” he wailed. “How could you do this to me?” She didn’t bother to point out that it wasn’t really about him. Jesus has a notorious flair for making everything about him. She used to find it an endearing quirk, but it wore thin pretty quickly today. “Can’t you just be happy for me?” she interrupted his ongoing lament. “How can I be happy

My mom’s an actress,” I say, distracting myself now. “Or, she was an actress, when she was young. She has a flair for the dramatic.” Understatement. If my mother were here, she’d have called an ambulance—big voiced, urgent. She’d have been doing a very beautiful brow-wrinkle while waiting for it to arrive. She would have enfolded Alex in a perfectly posed hug, one that ensured the skin of her arms didn’t smoosh in an unflattering way.

I can’t tell if she has a flair for the dramatic, or whether we’re all about to die.

I can’t tell if she has a flair for the dramatic, or whether we’re all about to die.

Do you plan on indulging your flair for the dramatic throughout our time here?” “I expect so,” he said complacently.

It blows my mind that this woman always called Nana dramatic yet can’t see her own flair for the dramatics.

(I also have a flair for the dramatic.) Spoiler alert: everything turned out fine.

This is the part where we should have exchanged glances (from what I had gathered from my limited literature recollection, it added dramatic flair), but I was too intrigued by the staircase, and where it led, to look anywhere else.

The Irish had a flair for the dramatic, but at the same time they lived by a rigid don’t-ask-don’t-tell code.

Robby expected Calder to turn and lead the way inside, but he crowded Robby up against the side of the truck, cupping his face. "Tell me what's bugging you. Really." "I can't." "That's not like you, angel. You always tell the truth, even if it scares you." Robby stared at a stain in the brick over Calder's shoulder, his heart pounding like he had just run a marathon. "I'm not afraid it will scare me. I'm afraid it will scare you," he muttered. "Oh, I don't know. I'm pretty unflappable." Robby met Calder's gaze, blinking tears from his eyes. He took a deep breath, feeling like there was only one way this conversation would end. "I think I'm in love with you." Calder laughed, and to Robby's utter humiliation, he began to cry harder. Why was he like this? Then Calder's arms were around him. "I hate when you cry, sweetness. You're breaking my heart. Why are you so upset?" "Because this is all temporary. I'm either going to prison, or we'll figure out what really happened to that guy in my apartment and I won't need your protection anymore, and then you'll just be gone and I'll be alone again," Robby wailed into Calder's t-shirt. "Angel, I love you too, but I have to tell you, you have a flair for the dramatic." It took too long for Calder's words to penetrate, but when they did, Robby was in the middle of a big hiccuping sob. He wiped his face on Calder's shirt before looking up at him with wet eyes. "You do?" Calder tilted his head, looking at Robby like he was crazy. "I quit a six-figure job for you. I mean, don't get me wrong, that ass is fantastic, but I wouldn't quit just to have sex with you. I could have lied to Linc, but I knew the minute he saw us together he'd see what everybody probably sees when I'm with you, and that's that you own me, sweetness. I'd do anything for you.

That man has a flair for the dramatic that should have earned him a place on some of Rifthold’s finest stages.” “Fine praise indeed, coming from you.

I add two middle fingers for a bit of dramatic flair

Every morning when we gathered for Morning Class during the siege, Mr. Jeffs waved the headlines in front of the whole student body, describing what was happening to the Davidians, blow by blow. One morning I remember him being particularly theatrical. “See how the government seeks to destroy these people because of their beliefs?” he ranted, still pacing. Then he stopped and, with great dramatic flair, looked slowly over the students, holding up the paper. “Beware! Because we are next!

It's an established fact that the very few naturally gifted "born teachers" are enormously more effective than the great mass of those in the teaching profession who teach with care and attention and even with good new ideas, but without the charisma and the flair that distinguish the best teachers as well as the best actors. In my ideal school of the future, children would assemble each afternoon for sports, music, and club activities that require group interaction. The mornings would be reserved for individual study, probably at home. The child would be in a private room in one-on-one interaction with a "tutor," the realistic, holographic presentation of an actual human being, one of the rare, inspiring, one-in-a-thousand superbly gifted teachers. Brief lectures, personally directed to the student, with lots of eye contact, would be aided by all possible tricks of costuming and special effects, but those lectures would have been staged as carefully as a dramatic movie

They were extras in the movie of my life- a cameo here, a walk-on there- people who'd populated the scenes of my childhood but who'd lacked the dramatic flair to be remembered.

Mackayla had a flair for the dramatic, but I had never heard her talk about a boy this much. Apparently, their bedroom windows looked across to each other, like in that Taylor Swift music video. And apparently, before she knew this, Mackayla had accidentally looked into his bedroom and seen him taking off his shirt. Her description? Neighbor Boy had more abs than he did brain cells.

By the time I’m able to pull the sack from my head, the corridor is silent. I look down at it--it’s a dark-blue pillowcase with the words “Faction before blood” painted on it. Whoever they are, they certainly have a flair for the dramatic. The place where you made your confession. There’s only one place that could be: Candor headquarters, where I succumbed to the truth serum.

indulging in his flair for the dramatic & trying not to think about who he's going to have to apologize to tomorrow