Loren Eyes Quotes

Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

Sophia Loren said, "Beauty is how you feel inside, and it reflects in your eyes. It is not something physical.

Cheekbones that cut like ice and eyes like liquid scotch. Loren Hale is an alcoholic beverage and he doesn't even know it.

If you haven't cried, your eyes cannot be beautiful

He stares down into me and says, “I’ll keep her safe.” My eyes well with tears while my lips pull high. “Against the world, Loren Hale?” “Yeah,” he nods. “Against the world, Lily Calloway. I’m familiar with that battle.

One does not meet oneself until one catches the reflection from an eye other than human.

...did you have parents or did the devil just create you from some spare parts?

I was hoping you'd finally open your eyes and realize that I was there. I was right in front of you.

People say exactly what they mean when they are angry. That's when they are the most free to do so. They may not mean to hurt you, but they always mean what they say.

Did you bet on me?' I ask dumbfounded. 'Yeah,' Lo says, unabashed. His eyes fall to mine. 'And I'll always bet on your side.

No, but I do read a lot. I love to read. I could read for days and never stop. I use to be such a bookworm. I would barely look up to notice much of anything.

Just yesterday I was twenty and meeting some of these people⏤people that I'd spend my life with, that'd become my home. Just yesterday I was twenty⏤still deeply and desperately in love with my best friend. I grew older. We all grow older. In a blink of an eye, our children will grow old too. And I'll think: just yesterday they were twenty. Headed for college. Falling in love. Memories will flood behind us, the lake house no longer filled to the brim. As quiet as the moment we first walked in⏤and we'll sit on this hill. Feeling the stillness that exists. And then we end⏤we end where we started. Just us. All six of us.

Did you just roll your eyes at me?" "Yes, I did and you better get used to it if you're going to say stupid things.

Only God could save me from a certain deadly fate, and so rightfully, he sent the devil to rescue me.

Ohhh,” Lily gasps in realization. She frowns a little and then turns to Loren. I hear her whisper, “So we’re not magic?” “We’re definitely magic,” he whispers back with a nod. “Then what are they?” Her eyes flicker to Connor and me, catching us watching them. Lo purposely raises his voice so we can hear. “An immortal god who married an immortal demon.” He flashes me a dry smile. “Match made in purgatory.

Since the first human eye saw a leaf in Devonian sandstone and a puzzled finger reached to touch it, sadness has lain over the heart of man. By this tenuous thread of living protoplasm, stretching backward into time, we are linked forever to lost beaches whose sands have long since hardened into stone. The stars that caught our blind amphibian stare have shifted far or vanished in their courses, but still that naked, glistening thread winds onward. No one knows the secret of its beginning or its end. Its forms are phantoms. The thread alone is real; the thread is life.

Oh my! Did you see him?' Exie stops abruptly and turns to watch a man who smiles at her. ' Ooh yeah, he is fine.' 'You're not going to stop to talk to him?' 'Why ruin what we have by getting to know him?' She said with a wink.

I assumed he would be busy with some inflatable whore! Or did she round a corner to fast and bust a tit on her way here?

If an injury has to be done to a man it should be so severe that his vengence need not be feared" Nicolo Machiavelli Nicholas Jayzon

She is not too good about sharing and I am not too good with having to listen her complain. So, please stay away from her.

Whiskey Wendi," Kerrick said. "Oh, yes," Loren said. A slow smile spread on his lips. "That was Grzebien? Wow that was... a wild time." "That was also over a year ago before Estrid and when the Booze Baron ruled the town. Do you really think the people would remember us?" Quain asked. "Whiskey Wendi," Loren repeated, looking at Quain with a gleam in his eyes. "Oh, yeah." Quain grinned. "Yeah, they'd remember.

Loren Hale is not the monster in his son's eyes. He's the hero.

I have the body - they didn't have to tell me that - or that I am innocent looking enough to drive the man crazy, but I blushed when they call me pretty.

You could recognize him from any angle: lean tall stature, deep black hair, and a walk that had an air of authority - like no one could possibly have anything to say that was of any importance to him

After what I told her and she still wants me to date her son? He must be a perfectly wonderful catch.

...he walks out the door making eye contact with me for only a second. It was at that moment that he lured me in. I was captivated by him and, for the first time, I understood his power. Nicholas Jayzon commanded attention when he walked into a room.

The last time I saw him, I didn't breath again until he had dressed himself completely. From the crack in my sister's door, I saw him get out of her bed and inhale, as if he had accomplished his mission for the day.

Nick almost breaks a full smile when the men around him laugh aloud. "I don't kiss on the cheek." He said smoothly giving her the opportunity to end it there, but instead, she drags the bride over to him and asks again.

Nick snatches the picture from the man's hand and laughs. "This is funny to you, asshole?" Nick tosses the picture back behind him. "No. No, it's not. What is funny is that you believe your whore of a wife." "Stand up your spineless punk!" The man yells in sheer rage.

Oh, that boy is in so much trouble.' Exie screeches out of the parking lot as if Jerran can hear her.

Hot as hell isn't he?' Exie questioned from over my shoulder. 'Yeah, I guess he is' 'You guess? Are you blind? Girl, he is so fine it's scary. I nearly had an orgasm the other day when he asked me a cup of tea. But don't stare too hard, Meagan will scratch your eyes out if she catches you staring at her man.' Exie said with a high eyebrow warning.

Few approach Nick the rest of the night, I am the only one brave enough to take him his specially made tea. "Thank you", he said barely glancing up at me. "You're welcome", I said waiting for him to look up at me but he won't. I have to force myself to say something before the doubt takes me over. " That guy was wrong, but you should have ignored her to begin with. She would have been humiliated enough by that alone. Your ego got in the way of your judgment." I said before walking away proudly.

I'm Exie and despite what you may hear I am the best dancer here. No one else compares. So, don't even think you're going to come in here and take my time slots. With a slight smile,' Well, if you're that good then you shouldn't have to worry about it, should you' I said. Exie's bright smile forms smoothly across her face, 'I like you...

The mind sees what the eyes cannot

She is a mess, her dress once pulled together long and fresh, now drooping and awkwardly weighted to one side of her head. "What happened? Are you okay?" The women clamor around her. Nick walks out in perfect order and perfect swagger, passing her with a downward glance. "You forgot your panties". He said tossing her underwear onto the table in front of her. After being embarrassingly ignored by the group of debutants, the nearby college boys feel justified by the turn of events and break into hysterics. Slinking out the side door, the mortified women exit without another word.

Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

The pretense that place does not matter turns us all into straw dogs subjected to the whims of marketing. If we are unattached, we need. We need so many things to ground us. If we point the lens into the core of us and no galaxy appears, then what? We dangle, storyless, bland words rolling across the windy landscapes of our tongues. We stay awake all hours of the night, peering out windows until, at last, we let go of longing and accept the constellations that connect us all. We rest our eyes on a horizon that tells a story from the bones out, embraces us from the skin in, lets us rise from the dust of where we’ve been and where we are, like coyotes, hunting, hungry, finally knowing exactly what it is that feeds us. MINERAL AS IN SOLID, CRYSTALLINE, INTERLOCKED, CREATING A SOMETIMES

One day we are looking at the Magnum photograph of Sophia Loren at the Christian Dior show in Paris in 1968 and thinking yes, it could be me, I could wear that dress, I was in Paris that year; a blink of the eye later we are in one or another doctor's office being told what has already gone wrong, why we will never again wear the red suede sandals with the four-inch heels, never again wear the gold hoop earrings, the enameled beads, never now wear the dress Sophia Loren is wearing.

I hadn't slept so well - story of my fuckin' life right there - so I entertained my fraying senses with the procession of passing billboards. One, in particular, caught my ever-discerning eye: KILL YOURSELF AT A DIVE BAR The fuck? I blinked, shook the cobwebs outta my head. The billboard now read - TREAT YOURSELF AT OUR DAY SPA 'Better', I thought. But not by much.

I don’t want to hurt you,” he said softly, “but I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting you.” Her ribs cinched tight, stealing her air for a second. “Finn…” He looked up, pushing her hair away from her face, apologies in his eyes. “It’s selfish. I feel like a vampire, taking all I can from you, sucking up the light before I have to go back into the cave. I’m trained to evaluate worst-case scenarios. This scenario is only going to get worse the longer I stick around, but I can’t stop, even when I know I should walk away now. I can’t quit you. Tell me to leave you alone, Liv. Tell me you don’t want me here.” The words wound through Liv like a song, a melancholy one that simultaneously made her want to smile and cry. She stared at him, at the earnest green eyes, the stubbled cheeks, the beautiful sweet boy who’d turned into a beautiful caring man. One who thought he was breaking his personal code by being here with her, putting her heart at risk. She slid her hands onto his shoulders. “I’m not going to lie to you. And what’s the worst-case scenario? I fall in love?” He winced and glanced away. “Right.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips over his cheek, bravery swelling in her. “I have good news then.” He met her gaze. “You’re already too late. Worst-case scenario achieved. So you might as well ride it out to the end now and make it worth it.” He inhaled a sharp breath, his expression going slightly panicked. “Liv.” She pressed her fingers over his mouth, her heart beating wildly but her voice staying steady. “Don’t freak out about what’s already done. When you leave, no matter what, you can know that you gave me a gift. You reminded me that I’m capable of feeling this.” She looped her arms around his neck. “Now let me feel it, Finn. Don’t take that away by trying to protect me. I don’t need your protection. I just need you to be yourself with me. I love you. And you will leave. And I will be okay.” She said the words almost more to herself than to him. She had to believe that. Had to hold on to that. Because there was no putting the feelings back in a box. They were there. Maybe had always been there on some level, waiting to bloom again. They would come along with a broken heart, but for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt fully present. Alive. Real. For that, she would pay the price.

Maybe we should change plans. I feel a fever coming on.” She looked over at him. “Oh really?” He nodded and gave her a serious look. “Yes. I think I need to call and tell them I’ll be in bed for a week. It’s bad. Want to play nurse?” She pulled her hand free and pinched his arm. “Stop. There’s no going back now. We’re doing this. Plus, you’re going to be fine. I’m here to run interference. They’ll be much more likely to take jabs at me than you.” His expression darkened. “I’m not going to let them insult you, Liv. That’s a deal breaker.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Let ’em. After the week I had, I can deal with whatever they throw at me.” He lowered the radio. “You do seem oddly calm about all this. You remember my dad, right?” “Vividly.” “So is it just the sex relaxing you or something else?” He sent her a look of mock concern. “Have you been drinking? Eating mushrooms? Dropping acid?” “Not exactly.” She took a breath and looked forward. “Worse.” “Worse than dropping acid? I’m not even sure what that would be. Meth? Toad licking?” She grimaced. “Ew, gross. Not as bad as licking toads.” “Well, that’s a relief. We did just kiss.” “I quit my job.” “You—” The car jerked to a halt, the tires screeching as he almost missed a stop sign. “What?” She bit her lip and glanced his way. “Yes. That look on your face. That’s basically what I’ve been feeling inside since I walked out of work last night.” He stared at her, green eyes searching. “You’re just telling me this now? Liv…” She shrugged. “I was going to lead with that, but then you had to go and be all hot and seductive. I just quit my job is kind of a mood killer. Plus, I’m…okay about it.

I didn’t know people like this really existed,” Muse said. But she did. She saw them at Starbucks, the harried, doe-eyed women who thought a coffee shop was the perfect place for Mommy and Me hour, what with Brittany and Madison and Kyle in tow, all running around while the mommies—college graduates, former intellectuals—gabbed incessantly about their offspring as if no other child had ever existed. They gabbed about their poopies—yes, for real, their bowel movements!—and their first word and their social skills and their Montessori schools and their gymnastics and their Baby Einstein DVDs and they all had this brain-gone smile, like some alien had sucked their head dry, and Muse despised them on one level, pitied them on another and tried so damn hard not to be envious. Loren

Okay,” Loren said. “Anything else?” It was like a shadow fell over his face. “Eldon?” “Yeah,” he said. “There’s something else.” “I don’t like the way you said that.” “I don’t like saying it, believe me. But I think whoever did this did more than just smother her.” “What do you mean?” “You know anything about stun guns?” “Some.” “I think they used one.” He swallowed. “In her.” “When you say ‘in her,’ do you mean—” “I mean exactly what you think,” he said, interrupting her. “Hey, I’m a product of Catholic school too, okay?” “Are there burn marks?” “Faint. But if you know what you’re doing—and especially in an area that sensitive—you really shouldn’t leave them. It was also a one-prong stunner, if that helps. Most, like the police-issue stun guns, have two prongs. I’m still running tests, but my guess is, she died in a lot of pain.” Loren closed her eyes.

The girl cupped her hands over her eyes and blinked. She was pretty enough, with blonde highlights that you can only find in youth or a bottle. “Hi.” Loren

The receptionist at Horne, Buckman and Pierce, a classic battle-ax who was comfortably past her prime, eyed Loren as if she’d recognized her from a sex offender poster. Full frown in place, the battle-ax told her to sit. Randal

She shook Loren’s hand firmly, meeting her eye and softening it with a smile. She gave Steinberg a hug and buss on the cheek. “I’d like you to meet Adam Yates. He’s the FBI Special Agent in Charge of the Las Vegas office.” Adam

Adam Yates wore freshly ironed khakis and a bright pink shirt that might be the norm on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach but not Broad Street in Newark. He wore loafers without socks, his legs too casually crossed. He had that whole Old World, came-over-on-the-Mayflower thing going on, what with the receding ash-blond hair, the high cheekbones, the eyes so ice blue she wondered if he was wearing contacts. His cologne smelled like freshly cut grass. Loren liked it.

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod Indigenous Poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, by Joy Harjo Ghost River (Wakpá Wanági), by Trevino L. Brings Plenty The Book of Medicines, by Linda Hogan The Smoke That Settled, by Jay Thomas Bad Heart Bull The Crooked Beak of Love, by Duane Niatum Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier Little Big Bully, by Heid E. Erdrich A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, by Eric Gansworth NDN Coping Mechanisms, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Invisible Musician, by Ray A. Young Bear When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo New Poets of Native Nations, edited by Heid E. Erdrich The Failure of Certain Charms, by Gordon Henry Jr. Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

They embraced on the bed. His hands touched her thighs, making the soft flesh tingle. Then they moved up her body to her breasts, and he held the heavy mounds of firm flesh for a moment, until she started to pant. “Now, Lew. I’m ready — right now — ” The preliminaries had made her impatient. Now his body was against hers, and she shut her eyes tight, feeling the pinwheeling excitement in her breasts and thighs and loins and buttocks, and he grasped her tightly and she let out a gasp as their bodies joined and began to move, and she felt the thrills cascading through her body, delight upon delight. She dug her fingers into his back and he pressed down on her, flattening her deliciously, and his hands were squeezing her breasts, and she cried out in pleasure as he moved above her — And the cold, clear thought cut through her brain: What on earth am I doing?

Passyunk Avenue (pronounced pashunk by the locals) cuts a rude swath across an otherwise orderly grid of streets in South Philadelphia. Except for Passyunk (and Moyamensing) Avenue, the neighborhood is composed of a uniform matrix of numbered and named streets—one big street followed by two little streets. Viewed on a map, they form ninety-degree angles and predictable intersections. Passyunk Avenue, or simply Passyunk, is the great disruptor of this comforting geometry. Irregular and meandering, its slashing path intersects with the more obedient byways. Together they form a unique gridwork of inconvenient crossings and odd angles. The cumulative result is one of strangely shaped buildings. Their pointy corners puncture curious cells of dead space—the spaces between. While born of necessity, the resulting architecture created by these acute angles also manages to be strangely beautiful, an exotic visage in a sea of pretty faces. If you’ve ever seen the famous photo of Sophia Loren giving the side-eye to Jayne Mansfield, that’s Passyunk—South Philly’s middle finger to white bread Center City.

Campus is dark by the time we leave Kepler’s office. We walk side by side down the wide sidewalk that runs along the Quad. There’s a safe three feet between us, our hands in our pockets, and I’m trying my damnedest not to let my eyes linger on him. Act cool, J. And not like you just came in your TA’s mouth.

Time froze, every detail searing itself into memory. Loren’s tie tack was a little crooked, and the gel that kept his blonde hair immaculate was losing its hold. He didn’t look as though he’d just held a long, suspicious meeting so much as just awakened from a nap. In any other context, Buster might have found it funny, but here, in an empty conference room, with the sudden fluorescent lights stabbing at his eyes, the effect was terrifying. Any words he could have knitted together fled for the dark corners of the room, hiding under his spilled papers, in the spaces between the furniture and the floorboards, behind the heavy maroon drapes at the windows. He opened his mouth anyway, and even the start of a stammer died in his throat as his breath stalled out.

and looked at Loren Page, who had taken on a strange look.

I lived my life as best I could, hidden behind a thin yet sturdy veil of shyness. Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but I was really shy, perhaps because of our situation: My father was absent, and my mother was too blond, too tall, too lively, and, above all, unmarried. Her eccentric, excessive beauty embarrassed me. She was a ragazza madre, a girl-mother, as the saying goes. I dreamed of a normal, reassuring mother, with black hair, a creased apron, her hands rough, and her eyes tired—like Mamma Luisa, whom I would find once again a few decades later in A Special Day, a movie in which I play a character named Antonietta, a devoted housewife and mother of six.

Aurelia plunged headfirst into a white expanse of emptiness. There was no time to close her eyes. After a single aching heartbeat, a great shape appeared, looming below. It was an impossible shape, woven out of shifting light, shimmering, polished scales, and wickedly spread blades reaching out towards her. There was a jolt. There was pain. Then there was nothing.

And this time, close your eyes, you weirdo.

This time, close your eyes, you weirdo.