Jaguar Car Quotes

Money may not buy happiness, but I'd rather cry in a Jaguar than on a bus.

Take care of your car in the garage, and the car will take care of you on the road.

I am emotional about engines, if you hurt my car, you hurt my heart.

Asking someone else to drive your sports car is like asking someone else to kiss your girlfriend.

Among all the machines, motorcar is my favorite machine.

You look like a model for a Jaguar ad." "Take that back." His brows drew down until he looked exactly like the feline on his shoulder. "The car, not the cat.

I am so obsessed with the cars that sometimes I feel like my heart is not a muscle, it's an engine.

It was becoming more and more evident that Salem was a town that celebrated individuality, a real live-and-let-live kind of place. Melody felt a gut punch of regret. Her old nose would have fit in here. "Look!" She pointed at the multicolored car whizzing by. Its black door were from a Mercedes coupe, the white hood from a BMW; the silver trunk was Jaguar, the red convertible top was Lexus, the whitewall tires were Bentley, the sound system was Bose, and the music was classical. A hood ornament from each model dangled from the rear view mirror. Its license plate appropriately read MUTT. "That car looks like a moving Benton ad." "Or a pileup on Rodeo drive." Candace snapped a picture with her iPhone and e-mailed to her friends back home. They responded instantly with a shot of what they were doing. It must have involved the mall because Candace picked up her pace and began asking anyone under the age of fifty where the cool people hung out.

The automobile, like the all-important domestic façade, is another mechanism for outdoor class display. Or class lack of display we'd have to say, if we focus on the usages of the upper class, who, on the principle of archaism, affect to regard the automobile as very nouveau and underplay it consistently. Class understatement describes the technique: if your money and freedom and carelessness of censure allow you to buy any kind of car, you provide yourself with the meanest and most common to indicate that you're not taking seriously so easily purchasable and thus vulgar a class totem. You have a Chevy, Ford, Plymouth, or Dodge, and in the least interesting style and color. It may be clean, although slightly dirty is best. But it should be boring. The next best thing is to have a "good" car, like a Jaguar or BMW, but to be sure it's old and beat-up. You may not have a Rolls, a Cadillac, or a Mercedes. Especially a Mercedes, a car, Joseph Epstein reports in The American Scholar (Winter 1981-82), which the intelligent young in West Germany regard, quite correctly, as "a sign of vulgarity, a car of the kind owned by Beverly Hills dentists or African cabinet ministers.

Soon after three o'clock on the afternoon of April 22nd 1973, a 35-year-old architect named Robert Maitland was driving down the high-speed exit lane of the Westway interchange in central London. Six hundred yards from the junction with the newly built spur of the M4 motorway, when the Jaguar had already passed the 70 m.p.h. speed limit, a blow-out collapsed the front nearside tyre. The exploding air reflected from the concrete parapet seemed to detonate inside Robert Maitland's skull. During the few seconds before his crash he clutched at the whiplashing spokes of the steering wheel, dazed by the impact of the chromium window pillar against his head. The car veered from side to side across the empty traffic lanes, jerking his hands like a puppet's. The shredding tyre laid a black diagonal stroke across the white marker lines that followed the long curve of the motorway embankment. Out of control, the car burst through the palisade of pinewood trestles that formed a temporary barrier along the edge of the road. Leaving the hard shoulder, the car plunged down the grass slope of the embankment. Thirty yards ahead, it came to a halt against the rusting chassis of an overturned taxi. Barely injured by this violent tangent that had grazed his life, Robert Maitland lay across his steering wheel, his jacket and trousers studded with windshield fragments like a suit of lights.

Jaguar saloon, a car for the man of the people only in colour.

A few minutes later, Kukarov himself came out, locked the door, and got into a Jaguar parked half a block away. The car started right up, which contradicted all I had ever heard about Jaguars, and Kukarov drove away, off into the dawn to Morticia and a peaceful day of rest in his crypt. I

They reminded him of the old two-seater sports cars and seemed to be favoured by the dwarves, wearing helmets and goggles. Ben recognised several makes by their badges, including several Jaguars and a few Caterhams.

Control slowed and turned the Jaguar into the underground car park beneath a small building huddled on the north bank of the Thames. It was a sixties build, constructed from brick and concrete without style or grace. Five floors, anonymous. The car idled as the garage door rolled up with a tired metallic creak. The sign painted onto the door read GLOBAL LOGISTICS.

Win normally drove a Jaguar, but he had smashed a 1983 Chevy Nova into the van. Totaled. Not that it mattered. Win had several such vehicles he kept out in New Jersey to use for surveillance or activities just east of legal. The car was untraceable. The plates and paperwork were all phony. It would never lead back to anyone. Myron

By age thirty, I was living a life that most people only dream of living. But it’s a strange phenomenon. When you’re caught in the whirlwind, it begins to feel commonplace. Suddenly, you begin to forget all the years of walking through the kitchen to play the wedding. You forget the people throwing quarters at you on some makeshift stage. It all becomes a distant memory. You feel elevated. People treat you differently. Now that you can afford things, you seem to get a lot of things for free. The guitar strings that I used to buy—free. The guitar itself—free. Clothes, sneakers, tennis rackets—you name it, we were being offered it. Now that we had a best-selling album and were a household name, everyone wanted us to use their brand of whatever. It was crazy. The money wasn’t bad either after all those years of eating every other day and sleeping four to a room. I remember when we got our first big royalty check. The business manager that we had used for years called John and I and said, “Come see me, I have a check for you both.” When John and I went to see him, he handed us both an envelope. I opened mine first and looked inside. When I saw the amount, I said, “Oh, this can’t be for us.” I asked, John, “How much is yours?” He said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. How much is yours?” I said, “Two hundred and fifty thousand.” All we could do was laugh. This was crazy money to us. When we started out I remember thinking, if I could make $50,000 at this I’ll be happy. Now, it looked like we were going to make a little bit more. I didn’t spend elaborately when we started making money. But I did have my little splurges. For instance, I bought a Jaguar. I remember the Jaguar salesman warning me, “Now are you sure you want to buy this car? I don’t want you spending all your money.” Eventually,

I love the wheels, I mean steering wheel.

to slow her beautiful car and began the tedious task of leaving the glorious open countryside behind and instead navigating the increasingly frustrating, suffocating banality that was the twenty-first century urban environment. Finally, she pulled into one of her favourite waiting spots, not far from where he lived, and turned off the purring engine. Her heart was now beating so fast that she could hear it pounding in her ears. How soon before he came by and she could watch him approach? As she waited with the patience of a spider in the car, with the people passing by still casting admiring and envious glances at the Jaguar as they did so, she thought how funny life could be sometimes. When she’d been younger and far more foolish than today, she’d been so in love with Michael that she thought it might kill her. But in the end, he’d let her down, leaving her broken-hearted and bewildered. Why had he abandoned her? Why hadn’t her love been enough? How many weeks after he’d broken up with her did she torment herself with such questions? How long had she watched him, trailing after him in her less-conspicuous car, wanting and willing him to relent and take her back? Looking back on herself at that point in time, she could feel only pity and perhaps a little scorn for her old self. But she could forgive herself too. She’d been desperately, crazily, whole-heartedly in love with him, and love made fools of everyone, didn’t it? Odd to think, now, that if she hadn’t met Michael, she’d never have met the man who was destined to be her real love, her one true soulmate. Even more astonishing to realize that, when she’d first met him, she hadn’t been able to stand him! Mia shook her head now in remembrance of her own folly. To think, in the beginning, she’d been

For those agents had perfunctorily sniffed around for women and car accidents and nervous breakdowns, almost out of politeness, but they had taken one look at this house—the largest on a block of extremely robbable homes, the deck that reached over the Long Island Sound like the Sound was their own personal swimming pool, their own personal swimming pool, the crescent driveway, the modern appliances, the marble bathrooms, the velvet couches, a Jaguar XJ6 (Ruth’s) in the driveway.

And let’s face it, his car is ridiculously hot, too. I practically had an orgasm when we entered his garage and I feasted my eyes on a fleet of luxury cars — Land Rover, Porsche, Mercedes, Tesla, Bentley, Jaguar.

About ten years later, in March 2018, Waymo purchased that fleet, buying twenty thousand sporty, self-driving Jaguars for its forthcoming ride-hailing service. With this many cars, Waymo intends to deliver a million trips per day in 2020 (this might be ambitious but Uber currently delivers 15 million rides a day).

Do you have a driver's license?" "Of course," she said, not knowing if it was true or not. She was already sitting behind the steering wheel. He tossed her the keys and she turned the ignition as he climbed into the car. She pressed hard on the gas pedal and the car shrieked away from the curb. The back end fishtailed. She needed to get to school quickly and find some answers. She had a feeling that Catty wasn't going to last long in that place. The light turned yellow ahead of her. "Slow down!" Derek shouted as the car in front of them stopped for the light. She didn't let up. "You're going to rear-end it!" Derek cried, and his foot pressed the floor as if he were trying to work an invisible brake. She jerked the steering wheel, swerved smoothly around the car, and blasted through the intersection, ignoring the flurry of horns and screeching tires. Derek snapped his seat belt in place. "Why are you in such a hurry to get to school?" "Geometry test," she answered, and buzzed around two more cars. At the next junction she needed to make a left-hand turn, but the line of traffic waiting for the green arrow would delay her too long. She continued in her lane, and when she reached the intersection, she turned in front of the car with the right-of-way. Angry honks followed her as she blasted onto the next street. "We've got time, Tianna!" Derek yelled. "School doesn't start for another fifteen minutes." Would fifteen minutes give her enough time to get the answers she needed? She didn't think so. She pressed her foot harder on the accelerator. The school was at least a mile away, but if she ignored the next light and the next, then maybe she could get there with enough time to question Corrine. She didn't think her powers were strong enough to change the lights and she didn't want to chance endangering other drivers, but she was sure she could at least slow down the cross traffic. She concentrated on the cars zooming east and west on Beverly Boulevard in front of her without slowing her speed. "Tianna!" Derek yelled. "You've got a red light!" She squinted and stalled a Jaguar in the crosswalk. Cars honked impatiently behind the car, and when a Toyota tried to speed around it, she stopped it, too. She could feel the pressure building inside her as she made a Range Rover and a pick-up slide to a halt. She shot through the busy intersection against the light. Derek turned back. "You've got to be the luckiest person in the world.

Jaguar model names sound like rockets: XJ–S, XJ8, E–Type. Hondas sound like cars designed by pacifists and humanitarian diplomats. The Accord, Civic, Insight.

Once at this point a student commented, ‘This is too primitive.’ I responded, ‘Haven’t you noticed branding?’ Nowadays marketing is full of animals. They’re found on alcoholic beverages, cars and all sorts of other things. Besides, a great number of the most important registered brands in the world associate their products with jaguars, horses, crocodiles, eagles, snakes, etc. Animals can also be seen on coats of arms, of the major cities of the world, on flags, etc. These ancient archetypes have more impact on our unconscious than any new design, regardless of how aesthetically pleasing it is. Now, if these archetypes determine who we are in the waking state, imagine how great their power is in the dream state, where the mind doesn’t filter information. Here, we have access to what is called the power of dreams.

In transforming natural environments into artificial form, the United States is the most advanced country in the world. This is not an accident. It is inherent in our economic system. To the capitalist, profit-oriented mind, there is no outrage so great as the existence of some unmediated nook or cranny of creation which has not been converted into a new form that can then be sold for money. This is because in the act of converting the natural into the artificial, something with no inherent economic value becomes “productive” in the capitalist sense. An uninhabited desert is “nonproductive” unless it can be mined for uranium or irrigated for farms or covered with tracts of homes. A forest of uncut trees is nonproductive. A piece of land which has not been built upon is nonproductive. Coal or oil that remains in the ground is nonproductive. Animals living wildly are nonproductive. Virtually any land, any space, any material, any time that remains in an original, unprocessed, unconverted form is an outrage to the sensibilities of the capitalist mind. Iron, tungsten, trees, oil, sulphur, jaguars and open space are searched out and transformed because transformation creates economic benefits for the transformers. In economics this transformation has a name: “value added.” Value added derives from all the processes that alter a raw material from something which has no intrinsic economic value to something which does. Each change in form, say, from iron ore in the ground to iron or steel to car to car which is heavily advertised adds value to the material. The only raw materials which have intrinsic economic value before processing are gold and silver. This is only because people have agreed on these values in order to define a value for paper money, which certainly has no intrinsic value. It is, then, the nature of profit seeking to convert as much as possible of what has not been processed and exists in its own right into something which has the potential for economic gain.

off—it was a hot night. We got back after midnight.” “In your car?” “No, Helen Weltz had let us take hers. She has a Jaguar.” My brows went up, and I spoke. “A Jaguar,” I told Wolfe,