Iris West Quotes

Where’s your house?’ ‘Kempsford Gardens, by West Brompton tube station.

Weary of fire, weary of bombardment, and weary of siege, scattered groups of Chinese actually rushed out to welcome the Japanese invaders as they thundered into the city with their tanks, artillery, and trucks. Some people hung Japanese flags from their windows while others even cheered the Japanese columns as they marched through the south and west gates of the city.

The eyes were menacing but breath-taking. An abyss of colours swirled where the iris should be and I felt transfixed, my breathing stopped, sharply as he stared at the table I was under.

Fish at breakfast is sometimes himono (semi-dried fish, intensely flavored and chewy, the Japanese equivalent of a breakfast of kippered herring or smoked salmon) and sometimes a small fillet of rich, well-salted broiled fish. Japanese cooks are expert at cutting and preparing fish with nothing but salt and high heat to produce deep flavor and a variety of textures: a little crispy over here, melting and juicy there. Some of this is technique and some is the result of a turbo-charged supply chain that scoops small, flavorful fish out of the ocean and deposits them on breakfast tables with only the briefest pause at Tsukiji fish market and a salt cure in the kitchen. By now, I've finished my fish and am drinking miso soup. Where you find a bowl of rice, miso shiru is likely lurking somewhere nearby. It is most often just like the soup you've had at the beginning of a sushi meal in the West, with wakame seaweed and bits of tofu, but Iris and I were always excited when our soup bowls were filled with the shells of tiny shijimi clams. Clams and miso are one of those predestined culinary combos- what clams and chorizo are to Spain, clams and miso are to Japan. Shijimi clams are fingernail-sized, and they are eaten for the briny essence they release into the broth, not for what Mario Batali has called "the little bit of snot" in the shell. Miso-clam broth is among the most complex soup bases you'll ever taste, but it comes together in minutes, not the hours of simmering and skimming involved in making European stocks. As Tadashi Ono and Harris Salat explain in their book Japanese Hot Pots, this is because so many fermented Japanese ingredients are, in a sense, already "cooked" through beneficial bacterial and fungal actions. Japanese food has a reputation for crossing the line from subtlety into blandness, but a good miso-clam soup is an umami bomb that begins with dashi made from kombu (kelp) and katsuobushi (bonito flakes) or niboshi (a school of tiny dried sardines), adds rich miso pressed through a strainer for smoothness, and is then enriched with the salty clam essence.

Elizabeth?” Ian said in a clipped voice. She whirled around, her heart slamming against her ribs, her hand flying to her throat, her knees turning to jelly. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You-you startled me,” she said as he strolled up to her, his expression oddly impassive. “I didn’t expect you to come here,” she added nervously. “Really?” he mocked. “Whom did you expect after that note-the Prince of Wales?” The note! Crazily, her first thought after realizing ti was from him, not Valerie, was that for an articulate man his handwriting verged on the illiterate. Her second thought was that he seemed angry about something. He didn’t keep her long in doubt as to the reason. “Suppose you tell me how, during the entire afternoon we spent together, you neglected to mention that you are Lady Elizabeth?” Elizabeth wondered a little frantically how he’d feel if he knew she was the Countess of Havenhurst, not merely the eldest daughter of some minor noble or knight. “Start talking, love. I’m listening.” Elizabeth backed away a step. “Since you don’t want to talk,” he bit out, reaching for her arms, “is this all you wanted from me?” “No!” she said hastily, backing out of his reach. “I’d rather talk.” He stepped forward, and Elizabeth took another step backward, exclaiming, “I mean, there are so many interesting topics for conversation, are there not?” “Are there?” he asked, moving forward again. “Yes,” she exclaimed, taking two steps back this time. Snatching at the first topic she could think of, she pointed to the table of hyacinths beside her and exclaimed, “A-Aren’t these hyacinths lovely?” “Lovely,” he agreed without looking at them, and he reached for her shoulders, obviously intending to draw her forward. Elizabeth jumped back so swiftly that his fingers merely grazed the gauze fabric of her gown. “Hyacinths,” she babbled with frantic determination as he began stalking her step for step, pas the table of potted pansies, past the table of potted lilies, “are part of genus Hyacinthus, although the cultivated variety, which we have here, is commonly called the Dutch hyacinth, which is part of H. orientalis-“ “Elizabeth,” he interrupted silkily, “I’m not interested in flowers.” He reached for her again, and Elizabeth, in a frantic attempt to evade his grasp, snatched up a pot of hyacinths and dumped it into his outstretched hands. “There is a mythological background to hyacinths that you may find more interesting than the flower itself,” she continued fiercely, and an indescribable expression of disbelief, amusement, and fascination suddenly seemed to flicker across his face. “You see, the hyacinth is actually named for a handsome Spartan youth-Hyacinthus-who was loved by Apollo and by Zephyrus, god of the west wind. One day Zephyrus was teaching Hyacinthus to throw the discus, and he accidentally killed him. It is said that Hyacinthus’s blood caused a flower to spring up, and each petal was inscribed with the Greek exclamation of sorrow.” Her voice trembled a little as he purposefully set the pot of hyacinths on the table. “A-Actually, the flower that sprang up would have been the iris or larkspur, not the modern hyacinth, but that is how it earned its name.” “Fascinating.” His unfathomable eyes locked onto hers. Elizabeth knew he was referring to her and not the history of the hyacinth, and though she commanded herself to move out of his reach, her legs refused to budge.

I realized I didn't have to be cast wherever the cosmic tides haphazardly sent me. If I concentrated, I could control my journey. In the speed force, time and place were one. I could go where and even when I wanted. My universe was dying and I knew exactly where I wanted to be. With Iris. At her side.

But there’s no denying that it’s Iris Keller who walks out. Emerald eyes, obsidian hair, legs for days. Beautiful. The definition of the word. The only definition.

Here is one certainty, Iris, the only one that matters: I’m your husband,” I tell her. “For better and for worse, ‘til death do us part. And there isn’t a man, woman, or beast on this planet that can take you away from me.

Iris and I turn to the shooter at the same moment. “Oh my God,” she breathes as she sees the small, defiant figure standing there in the threshold with his arm raised and his gun still aimed at the dead woman. “Max?

She could still feel Roman’s breath in her hair as he held her, as if nothing would ever come between them. Two weeks felt like a gasp of time—it could have been yesterday for how raw Iris’s inner wounds were—and yet here in Oath, surrounded by people who were living life as normal, as if war didn’t rage kilometers to the west … it made those days at Avalon Bluff feel like a fever dream. Or like they had happened years ago, and Iris’s memory had retraced those moments so many times they had turned sepia with age and wear.

Cap Blanc is situated in a small valley, where the slow-running Beune stream meanders from east to west and spreads into iris-filled swamps before joining the Vézère River. From an English botany professor I learned that the valley is unique in Europe because of the exceptional coexistence of Mediterranean, Atlantic, and swamp-type vegetation.

At first, you became a refuge from my crazy world.

I loved your soul before I fell in love with you, wife.

If you keep getting no for an answer, stop asking questions.

All was iris-blue, earth and sky together, with a cluster of clouds in the west. The young sun made his way, knee-deep in the grass. The wind scattered the dew like a lively colt. It sent up flights of birds which swam for a while among the waves of the sky, as if drunk and dizzy from screaming, and then suddenly dropped, like handfuls of stones.

Earth (north): Alfalfa sprouts, beets, corn, fern, honeysuckle, magnolia, moss, peas, potatoes, turnips, vervain Air (east): Anise, clover, dandelions, goldenrod, lavender, lily of the valley, marjoram, mint, parsley, pine Fire (south): Basil, bay, cactus, chrysanthemum, daylilies, dill, garlic, holly, juniper, marigolds, onions, rosemary, sunflowers Water (west): Aster, blackberries, catnip, cucumbers, daffodils, gardenias, geranium, iris, lettuce, lotus, roses, water lily, willow