Irene Quotes

Waiting is erotic

There is this difference between the growth of some human beings and that of others: in the one case it is a continuous dying, in the other a continuous resurrection.

Irene-" "Don't call me that." "You were the princess Irene the first time we met." "It means 'peace'," Attolia said. "What name could be more inappropriate?" "That I be named Helen?" Eddis suggested. The hard lines in Attolia's face eased, and she smiled. Eddis was a far cry from the woman whose beauty had started a war.

For those who pass it without entering, the city is one thing; it is another for those who are trapped by it and never leave. There is the city where you arrive for the first time; and there is another city which you leave never to return. Each deserves a different name; perhaps I have already spoken of Irene under other names; perhaps I have spoken only of Irene.

How sad the world is, so beautiful yet so absurd...

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex. It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler. All emotions, and that one particularly, were abhorrent to his cold, precise but admirably balanced mind. He was, I take it, the most perfect reasoning and observing machine that the world has seen.... And yet there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

A coincidence is a small miracle in which God chooses to remain anonymous.

Adieu," he said, "this is goodbye. I'll never forget you, never." She stood silent. He looked at her and saw her eyes full of tears. He turned away. At this moment she wasn't ashamed of loving him, because her physical desire had gone and all she felt towards him now was pity and a profound, almost maternal tenderness. She forced herself to smile. "Like the Chinese mother who sent her son off to war telling him to be careful 'because war has its dangers,' I'm asking you, if you have any feelings for me, to be as careful as possible with your life." Because it is precious to you?" he asked nervously. Yes. Because it is precious to me.

I don't know how to thank you.' Then I will tell you. There is only one way I care for. Do better, and grow better, and be better.

...for music alone can abolish differences of language or culture between two people and invoke something indestructible within them.

Your best friend is the person who not only knows all the important stories and events in your life, but has lived through them with you. Your best friend isn't the person you call when you are in jail; mostly likely, she is sitting in the cell beside you.

Before Van realized it, he was walking her back toward her stairs. He didn't stop kissing her, he wouldn't. The last thing he wanted was for her to change her mind. He managed to get her to the upstairs hallway before she pulled her mouth away. "What are you doing?" she panted out. "Taking you to your bed." "Forget it." And Van, if he were a crying man, would be sobbing. Until uptight Irene Conridge added, "The wall. Use the Wall.

All the light of the day, fleeing the earth, seemed for one brief moment to take refuge in the sky; pink clouds spiralled round the full moon that was as green as pistachio sorbet and as clear as glass; it was reflected in the lake.

On the bed, Eugenides stirred restlessly. "Upset at the sight of blood?" he said. "Not my wife, Ornon." "Your blood," the ambassador pointed out. Eugenides glanced at the hook on his arm and conceded the point. "Yes," he said. He seemed lost in memory. The room was quiet.

Important events — whether serious, happy or unfortunate — do not change a man's soul, they merely bring it into relief, just as a strong gust of wind reveals the true shape of a tree when it blows off all its leaves. Such events highlight what is hidden in the shadows, they nudge the spirit towards a place where it can flourish.

If you look at old pictures, Irene Casey is so pretty. Not just young, but pretty the way you look when your face goes smooth, the skin around your eyes and lips relaxed, the pretty you only look when you love the person taking the picture.

Deep within everyone's heart there always remains a sense of longing for that hour, that summer, that one brief moment of blossoming. For several weeks or months, rarely longer, a beautiful young woman lives outside ordinary life. She is intoxicated. She feels as if she exists beyond time, beyond its laws; she experiences not the monotonous succession of days passing by, but moments of intense, almost desperate happiness.

I have spent most of my life preferring books to people,’ Irene said sharply. ‘Just because I like a few specific people doesn’t change anything.

The queen!" someone shouted in alarm, and the King erupted like a wild animal caught in a snare.

Irene made a private mental resolution that if she ever became a queen, her throne would incorporate a cushion. Also a convenient bookcase.

But what is certain is that in five, ten or twenty years, this problem unique to our time, according to him, will no longer exist, it will be replaced by others...Yet this music, the sound of this rain on the windows, the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside, this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war, this will never change, not this, this is forever.

Are you afraid?" Volker questioned while sitting at the table and getting comfortable. "No. But I have incredible luck with dice and I am ruthless. You will lose, gentlemen. I will destroy your lands, take your women, ravish your men, and make your children my slave labor. I will own every castle, house, and farm that is within my reach. I won't be satisfied until I own all of it and you. I will destroy you all, gentlemen, and, to be quite blunt, I don't think you can handle it." Van covered his mouth to keep from laughing out loud and he didn't dare look at his sister. Verner stepped back, motioning to the table. "Now I must insist." "As you wish." Irene sighed and stood. She glanced at Van and gave him a quick wink before turning back to his uncle. "I do hope you're a 'sobber,' Mr. Van Holtz. Nothing I love more than the lamenting of the men I annihilate." "I can't believe you made him cry." "I did not. He just teared up a little." "Yeah. I think it was when you told him, 'I now control your ports and own your manhood.'" "His wife laughed.

We have to report this." Kai sighed deeply in relief. "I was afraid you were going to say that we had to investigate it ourselves." "Don't be ridiculous," Irene said briskly. "We may collect fiction, but we are not required to imitate the stupider parts of it.

Enemies are people who's story you haven't heard, or who's face you haven't seen.

I love threats. They make great quotes. Is that recorder working, Irene?

When you're twenty, love is like a fever, it makes you almost delirious. When it's over you can hardly remember how it happened...Fire in the blood, how quickly it burns itself out.

Paris had its sweetest smell, the smell of chestnut trees in bloom and of petrol with a few grains of dust that crack under your teeth like pepper. In the darknes the danger seemed to grow. You could smell the suffering in the air, in the silence. Everyone looked at their house and thought, "Tomorrow it will be in ruins, tomorrow I'l have nothing left.

There are things you do sometimes, actions that you take by obeying sudden impulses, without stopping for even a fraction of a second to think, and then you spend the rest of your life either lamenting it or thanking yourself for it. They are rare, unique, and perfect moments.

That's all nonsense," said Curdie. "I don't know what you mean." "Then if you don't know what I mean, what right have you to call it nonsense?

How?' Irene enquired. She'd decided a while back that Socratic reasoning was a good idea, because (a) it got students thinking for them selves, (b) sometimes they came up with ideas she hadn't thought of, and (c) it gave her more time to think while they were trying to find answers.

I absolutely could create a lightsaber." "You could not create a lightsaber." "I could too. It's all a science." "I thought being a Jedi was mystical?" Irene snorted. "Mystical, my butt. It's all about science.

Beautiful hours move so quickly.

Remember, then, that whoever does not mean good is always in danger of harm. But I try to give everybody fair play, and those that are in the wrong are in far more need of it always than those who are in the right: they can afford to do without it.

Doubts can lead to deeper faith by forcing us to look more closely at what we believe. And why.

And Irene hadn’t broken the letter of any ordinances – she hoped. She’d just jumped up and down on the spirit of them, then taken them down a dark alley and made some pointed suggestions at knife-point.

It happens the world over - we love ourselves more than we do the one we say we love. We all want to be Number One, we've got to be Number One or nothing! We can't see that we could make ourselves loved and needed in the Number Two, or Three, or Four spot. No sir, we've got to be Number One, and if we can't make it, we'll rip and tear at the loved one till we've ruined every smidgin of love that was ever there.

I had sparkle that morning, sparkle that originated somewhere deep inside me and spread outward to my cheeks and eyes, even it seemed, to the gleam of my hair.

"Then what do you see?" asked Irene, who perceived at once that for her not to believe him was at least as bad as for him not to believe her.

Hi,” she says, her voice level and cool. “This bitch’s name is Irene.

After all, the three of us were young. It wasn’t just about the pleasure of the flesh. No, it wasn’t that simple. The flesh is easy to satisfy. It’s the heart that is insatiable, the heart that needs to love, to despair, to burn with any kind of fire…That was what we wanted. To burn, to be consumed, to devour our days just as fire devours the forest.

If we were stopped and questioned, I always smiled at the officers, and they always smiled back. In my heart, I was seeing them dead. But on my face, I was an open invitation. If you are only a girl, this is how you destroy your enemies.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex…there was but one woman to him, and that woman was the late Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory.

The boy should enclose and keep, as his life, the old child at the heart of him, and never let it go. He must still, to be a right man, be his mother's darling, and more, his father's pride, and more. The child is not meant to die, but to be forever fresh born.

To Sherlock Holmes she is always the woman. I have seldom heard him mention her under any other name. In his eyes she eclipses and predominates the whole of her sex.

Le hasard, c'est peut-être le pseudonyme de Dieu quand il ne veut pas signer.

La pasión del coleccionista de libros se parece a la del viajero. Toda biblioteca es un viaje; todo libro es un pasaporte sin caducidad

You do things just to irritate me, don’t you?” Smiling, enjoying himself immensely, and determined to give her a wonderful and relaxing weekend, Van pushed Irene’s wet hair from her face. “Don’t be silly, doc.” He kissed her lips, nuzzled her chin. “Of course I do things just to irritate you.

Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed.

The sun was shining with the kind of brilliant, silvery light you sometimes find in the middle of a truly beautiful day; an almost imperceptible iridescent mist hovered in the air and all the fresh colours of June were intensified, looked richer and softer, as if reflected through a prism.

Women in London must have learned not to breathe,

Nothing is work when it's done with love.

Irene closed her book and stared at the older Van Holtz. “I don’t dislike him. But that was recent. I used to not like him but he’s been very kind since I’ve been here. So now I like him. I’d almost say we are friendly…but perhaps that’s too big a leap at this stage.” He gave a soft laugh. “I see. Are you always this…uh…” “Brutally honest?” “I was going to say direct, but brutally honest works as well.” “Yes. I am. And I know—it’s a character flaw.” “Not at all. I love honest people.” “Everyone says that…until I say something they don’t like. Then I’m a bitch.

Jack linked her arm with Irene’s. “Good. You deserve to be happy, sweetie. Now what about his Pack?” “They look frightened and I have absolutely no idea why. I’m nothing but appropriately pleasant.” “Price you pay as the new Alpha Female.” “I understand all that, but running from the room every time I walk in seems a tad harsh, wouldn’t you say?” “You do have a point.

These two sections [of Irene Nemirovsky's Suite Francaise], plus some of the author's notes, are all we have -- this in itself is a tragedy and waste of war. Had this novel been finished we would be hailing it as one of the supreme works of literature. As it stands, it is like a great cathedral gutted by a bomb. The ruined shell still soars to heaven, a reminder of the human spirit triumphing despite human destructiveness.

The abnormally large female cut the sandwich into four pieces and gave one to each before taking one for herself. They all took a bite and she grinned at their appreciative groans. “See?” she said around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Isn’t that good?” “And so decadent,” Berg sighed. “I feel like I’m eating evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.” “But good evil,” Finn added. “The finest evil ever.” “Come!” Carl, the unabashed history fan and future historical “re-creator” of the lot—an activity Irene had always thought was an incredible waste of time for any human being with a brain—cried out,“Let us tell the others of this glory and what we have learned here today from the enemy She-wolf!” “Huzzah!” they all cheered and ran out the kitchen back door.

Apparently Lord Wyndham did regularly donate books to various museums around London. They were usually ones which he had collected earlier, but which were no longer of interest to him or his associates. Irene twitched at the very notion. Give books away? How very frivolous, she finally said.

We mustn’t give trouble a shape before it throws its shadow.

Alcoholism or addiction is a disease because it fits the definition of disease. It is progressive and chronic, and left untreated, it will kill.

But in the meantime, you must be content, I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary." "What is that, grandmother?" "To understand other people.

In my fantasies, I was always caught up in heroic struggles, and I saw myself saving lives, sacrificing myself for others. I had far loftier ambitions than mere romance.

but that is the way fear serves us: it always sides with the thing we are afraid of.

Of course, to be a mother and a housewife is a vocation of a very high kind. But I simply felt that it was not the whole of my vocation. I knew that I also wanted a career. A phrase that Irene Ward, MP for Tynemouth, and I often used was that ‘while the home must always be the centre of one’s life, it should not be the boundary of one’s ambitions’.

And when she’s alone again, as truly alone in the world as she’s always felt herself to be, she looks at herself in a bamboo-framed mirror. Beautiful face, aglow with the taste of carnal pleasure, disdainful and avid … and above all an indefinable look in which can be sensed unspecified danger, sensuality triumphant and a sort of intoxicating vulgarity. She likes what she sees … around her drifts a great brunette fragrance, scent of happy brunette, in which the idea of others dissolves.

This thing of Beauty is a Guilt forever.

Clearly, animals know more than we think, and think a great deal more than we know.

I think they have to show their worst selves sometimes in order to be sure that even at their worst they are loved. Irene knows how frightened he is." The King didn't sound frightened. "Any minute," said Eddis, "he will realise--" As if her words were magic, silence fell in the tent and Eddis finished in a whisper. "How frightened she is.

Buster was Rant was Buddy. Chester was Chet was Dad. Irene was Mom was Reen. How folks lay claim to their loved ones is they give you a name of their own. They figure to label you as their property.

Memories of the past would return to us more often if only we sought them out, sought their intense sweetness. But we let them slumber within us, and worse, we let them die, rot, so much so that the generous impulses that sweep through our souls when we are twenty we later call naive, foolish…Our purest, most passionate loves take on the depraved appearance of sordid pleasure.

Most friendships are bound to a specific time, place or season. Some women characterize these relationships as having expiration dates or shelf lives, because friendships tend to run their natural course.

I found lines that mirrored an ache and longing I had so often felt when the beauty around my woods cathedral was too intense, when the need to grasp and keep loveliness left me with a sense of desolate frustration.

Is ignoring me supposed to endear you to me somehow?” “No. That’s the job of my thighs and my get-lost-in-them-forever dreamy eyes.” He leaned in even closer and blinked his eyes several times. “Mesmerizing, aren’t they?” Irene couldn’t hold it back anymore. It flooded out of her and she couldn’t stop it. Even when everyone turned and stared at her, including Jackie and Paul, she couldn’t stop. And she tried. Because laughing this much really would only exacerbate his ego even more.

Creo que los libros describen a las personas que los tienen entre las manos.

Every day now, I found a chance to slip outside and leave food under the fence. I knew it was a drop in the ocean, but I could not do nothing.

But it was little to Curdie that men who did not know what he was about should not approve of his proceedings.

...I wondered why so much had been written about love's pain and so little about the glorious relief of being delivered from love's pain.

Seeing is not believing—it is only seeing.

Irene sighed and rolled her eyes. “Just give her the flowers so we can be gone.” She glanced at Van. “I grow tired of the company.” Paul walked away and Van leaned against the wall, staring down Irene’s cleavage. “You know, Irene,” he said low, so only she could hear, “when you’re mean to me like that…” “Yes?” “It makes me so horny.

Then the great old, young, beautiful princess turned to Curdie. 'Now, Curdie, are you ready?' she said. 'Yes ma'am,' answered Curdie. 'You do not know what for.' 'You do, ma'am. That is enough.

I was especially perceptive to all things beautiful that morning—raspberries in blue china bowls were enough to make the heart sing.

...she cried because prejudice outlives passion and because she was sentimentally patriotic.

And that was how a great scandal threatened to affect the kingdom of Bohemia, and how the best plans of Mr. Sherlock Holmes were beaten by a woman’s wit. He used to make merry over the cleverness of women, but I have not heard him do it of late. And when he speaks of Irene Adler, or when he refers to her photograph, it is always under the honourable title of the woman.

Waiting is erotic.

Si alguien lee para ti, desea tu placer; es un acto de amor y un armisticio en medio de los combates de la vida. Mientras escuchas con soñadora atención, el narrador y el libro se funden en una única presencia, en una sola voz. Y, de la misma forma que tu lector modula para ti las inflexiones, las sonrisas tenues, los silencias y las miradas, también la historia es tuya por derecho inalienable. Nunca olvidarás a quien te contó un buen cuento en la penumbra de una noche.

One never stops climbing, Julie, unless he wants to stop and vegetate. There’s always something just ahead.

Mothers got a hard road to travel, believe me.

A mountain is a strange and awful thing. In old times, without knowing so much of their strangeness and awfulness as we do, people were yet more afraid of mountains. But then somehow they had not come to see how beautiful they are as well as awful, and they hated them--and what people hate they must fear. Now that we have learned to look at them with admiration, perhaps we do not feel quite awe enough of them. To me they are beautiful terrors.

People must believe what they can, and those who believe more must not be hard upon those who believe less. I doubt if you would have believed it all yourself if you hadn't seen some of it.

I’ll wait until we’re both older,” the kid went on, “and then I’ll nail her.”Van hit the brakes. “What?”“Like you and Aunt Irene.”Panic beginning to set in, Van asked again, “What?”“That’s what you told her last night when I was scrubbing the pots from dinner. You were going to nail her. Then you laughed.”Oh, shit. “Uh, Ric . . .”“And so I’ll just wait until my future mate and I are older and then I’ll nail her. Or we’ll nail each other. That sounds like more fun. Nailing each other.”“Listen, Ulrich—”“What is that, anyway? Nailing? The way Aunt Irene smiled when you said it; I’m guessing its fun, right?

You’re looking for sexual tidbits as a female child, and the only ones that present themselves depict child rape or other violations (all my favorite books in my preteen years: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, Clan of the Cave Bear, The World According to Garp, as well as the few R-rated movies I was allowed to see—Fame, most notably, with its indelible scene of Irene Cara being asked to take her shirt off and suck her thumb by a skeezy photographer who promises to make her a star), then your sexuality will form around that fact. There is no control group. I don’t even want to talk about “female sexuality” until there is a control group. And there never will be.

Could you not give me some sign, or tell me something about you that never changes, or some other way to know you, or thing to know you by?" — "No, Curdie: that would be to keep you from knowing me. You must know me in quite another way from that. It would not be the least use to you or me either if I were to make you know me in that way. It would be but to know the sign of me — not to know me myself.

Una vita senza VIZIO è come un libro senza inizio

Irene didn’t dignify his question with an answer. Besides, he’d learn better. A Librarian’s mission to seek out books for the Library developed, after a few years, into an urge to find out everything that was going on around one. It wasn’t even a personal curiosity. It was a simple, impersonal, uncontrollable need to know. One came to terms with it. She lifted off the Canopic jar’s stylized jackal-head lid. ‘There’s something in here,’ she reported.

That was inappropriate," said Attolia. "Inappropriate?" shouted the king. "You in your state on your way to war is inappropriate!" "I did not become inappropriate all by myself!" she shouted back. "Do you imagine I don't know that?

Tommy cocooned me in his arms. The same arms that struck out to protect me, the arms that saved me. “In my life, I have never known, nor will I ever know, someone as strong and courageous as you, Elizabeth Irene Bradshaw,” Tommy whispers against my temple. I have no words, so I nod my head against his chest, hoping he understands my acceptance of his praise. “You honour me with your trust, baby girl. I am so very proud of you.

I was doing the wrong of never wanting or trying to better. And now I see that I have been letting things go as the would for a long time. Whatever came into my head I did and whatever didn’t come into my head I didn’t do.

She watched as it grew before her eyes. Then it hit her, he hadn't been erect in the first place. Well exactly how big did that thing get anyway? Was that normal, even by shifter standards? And why did she suddenly care? "Uh...doc?" Horrified but not willing to show it, Irene looked into Van Holtz's face. And yes, the smirk was decidedly worse now. "Looking for anything in particular there?" "No," she answered honestly, "just fascinated by the size. It seems inordinately large.

There is this difference between the growth of some human beings and that of others:in the one case it is a continuous dying, in the other a continuous resurrection. One of the latter sort comes at length to know at once whether a thing is true the moment it comes before him; one of the former class grows more and more afraid of being taken in, so afraid that he takes himself in altogether, and comes at length to believe in nothing but his dinner: to be sure of a thing is to have it between his teeth.

«Ja me n'adono, de les trampres que em fa la memòria. Dels paranys que em para el cap, que em pensa només les coses bones, que tria les pomes boniques de la safata, i llença, com peladures, com castanyes bordes, les coses dolentes, com si no haguessin sigut. I no sé jo què fa patir més: si pensar només els records bons i deixar fer a l'enyor, tan punxegut, i a la frisança aquesta que mai s'assedega, i que emborratxa l'anima. O si banyar-me als rierols de pensament que em porten cap als records tristos, dolents i tèrbols, i m'ennuegen el cor i em deixen encara més òrfena de pensar que el meu home no era pas l'àngel que jo corono»

What the hell was that?” one of them asked. “Jackal,” Irene stated quietly while watching city streets turn to suburb. They weren’t taking her to a main airport but a small airstrip. One built exclusively for private planes. “Did she just call us jackals?” one of them joked. Irene grinned which wiped the smile off the man’s face. “No. I said the howl you heard was jackal.” She looked at Jenny. “They’ll be coming for you.” Jenny glanced at the men and back at her. She looked terribly concerned she had a lunatic in the car with her. “The jackals will be coming for me?” “No. The wolves.” Jenny sighed. “Why oh why do I always get the nutcases?” “Oh!” Irene pointed excitedly. “See that spot up there?” “What about it?” “That’s where it all started. Where I crossed the Rubicon.” Exasperated, Jenny snarled, “What the fuck are you talking about?” “It’s feeding time,” Irene whispered. “That’s it.” Jenny threw up her hands. “We’re so medicating her.

I should like to remark, for the sake of princes and princesses in general, that it is a low and contemptible thing to refuse to confess a fault, or even an error. If a true princess has done wrong, she is always uneasy until she has had an opportunity of throwing the wrongness away from her by saying: 'I did it; and I wish I had not; and I am sorry for having done it.' So you see there is some ground for supposing that Curdie was not a miner only, but a prince as well. Many such instances have been known in the world's history.