Midnight Cowboy Quotes

Too much time alone had done something peculiar to his heart: A confused and unreliable organ at best, it now held something akin to joy.

There is no Beatitude for the lonesome. The Book doesn't say they are blessed.

Hey, I got an idea, let’s go to the movies. I wanna go to the movies, I want to take you all to the movies. Let’s go and experience the art of the cinema. Let’s begin with the Scream Of Fear, and we are going to haunt us for the rest of our lives. And then let’s go see The Great Escape, and spend our summer jumping our bikes, just like Steve McQueen over barb wire. And then let’s catch The Seven Samurai for some reason on PBS, and we’ll feel like we speak Japanese because we can read the subtitles and hear the language at the same time. And then let’s lose sleep the night before we see 2001: A Space Odyssey because we have this idea that it’s going to change forever the way we look at films. And then let’s go see it four times in one year. And let’s see Woodstock three times in one year and let’s see Taxi Driver twice in one week. And let’s see Close Encounters of the Third Kind just so we can freeze there in mid-popcorn. And when the kids are old enough, let’s sit them together on the sofa and screen City Lights and Stage Coach and The Best Years of Our Lives and On The Waterfront and Midnight Cowboy and Five Easy Pieces and The Last Picture Show and Raging Bull and Schindler’s List… so that they can understand how the human condition can be captured by this amalgam of light and sound and literature we call the cinema.

What he wanted was something soft and fat and gentle, full of rounding sweet places to hide in.

His own life made very little noise of its own, and he found that in silence there was something downright perilous: It had enemies in it that only sound could drive out.

I hate cowboys." "There's nothing I can do to them a horse has not done

I was going to go to bed early and maybe read for a little bit." "Reading. Wow. Not sure I know many girls who do that." Her brows rose. "Then you're hanging out with the wrong girls." "No doubt. I most definitely have been... in the past, but I've raised my standards a bit recently.

Her heart beat a little harder as she tried, too late, to avoid noticing how incredible his ass looked in his jeans. She was in big trouble.

Holy cow." Rene blew out a long, slow whistle and pressed a hand to her chest. "That man is enough to give a girl heart palpitations.

Two things made Tyler purr like a house cat from total contented satisfaction, but only one of them was something he could do out in public.

Need twisted deep and low inside her. It twined through her body like kudzu vines growing out of control, taking over and smothering what little good sense she had left.

I've wanted you since Texas...

Having no sense at all of where he might be headed, Joe Buck simply meandered deeper and deeper into September

As the moon rose before her very eyes, the first beams hit the pond, sending sparkles of light bouncing off the water. "It's beautiful." "So are you." His voice seemed to brush across her, like soft, smooth silk.

Be sure to get her home before midnight. She turns into a rabid coyote when the clock strikes twelve." Sawyer moved on down the bar to fill a pitcher with beer. "That true, darlin'?" Tyrell asked. "Got to take the bad with the good," Jill answered.

You know you're nuts, right?" His brother should know him better than to be surprised that when he did something, he went all in. "No, I'm just that good." Although when riding a bucking animal that out-weighed a man by ten times, being a little crazy didn't hurt.

With cold hands he massaged her right foot, his fingertips digging into all the right places to make her groan. "Feel good?" he asked. "You can't imagine. You have until midnight to stop." He chuckled. "Why midnight?" "Because from then until daylight you can work on the other foot.

I couldn't get my mind off you all day." He spoke as he yanked her shirt over her head, right where she stood. Once that was gone, he moved his hands down to unfasten her jeans. He pushed them and her underwear to the floor in one motion. "I mowed that whole damn hayfield with a hard-on because of you.

What the hell was she doing? This was real. Not some fantasy. "We probably shouldn't ---" "Blame it on the moonlight." He spoke the words close and then his mouth covered hers. With the warmth of his palms against her cheeks and the pressure of his lips pressed to hers, Janie had to think the full moon was a s good an excuse as any for losing her mind and letting Tyler kiss her.

You let me kiss you, but you won't let me take you out on a date." He shook his head. "Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. Maybe I need to convince you that you can't live without me." She raised her brows. "How are you going to do that?" "I'll show you." He pressed closer as his hands roamed down her body. "But it might take all night. That okay with you?" "I've got nowhere else to be....

Big and little they went on together to Molalla, to Tuska, to Roswell, Guthrie, Kaycee, to Baker and Bend. After a few weeks Pake said that if Diamond wanted a permanent traveling partner he was up for it. Diamond said yeah, although only a few states still allowed steer roping and Pake had to cover long, empty ground, his main territory in the livestock country of Oklahoma, Wyoming, Oregon and New Mexico. Their schedules did not fit into the same box without patient adjustment. But Pake knew a hundred dirt road shortcuts, steering them through scabland and slope country, in and out of the tiger shits, over the tawny plain still grooved with pilgrim wagon ruts, into early darkness and the first storm laying down black ice, hard orange-dawn, the world smoking, snaking dust devils on bare dirt, heat boiling out of the sun until the paint on the truck hood curled, ragged webs of dry rain that never hit the ground, through small-town traffic and stock on the road, band of horses in morning fog, two redheaded cowboys moving a house that filled the roadway and Pake busting around and into the ditch to get past, leaving junkyards and Mexican cafes behind, turning into midnight motel entrances with RING OFFICE BELL signs or steering onto the black prairie for a stunned hour of sleep.

When Bay was done she looked down at herself, dressed in a plain white bra, torn bikini underwear, and cowboy boots. “I feel like I’m dressed for the midnight show at the Crazy Horse Saloon,” she muttered. Her mouth went dry when she looked at Owen, who was left wearing cowboy boots and black Calvin Klein’s. The knit cotton underwear hugged him lovingly from waist to thighs. He was a female’s fantasy come to life. They stared at each other, enjoying what they saw. And realizing just how close they’d come to losing their lives. “You look good,” he said.

Hey, I got an idea, let’s go to the movies. I wanna go to the movies, I want to take you all to the movies. Let’s go and experience the art of the cinema. Let’s begin with the Scream Of Fear, and we're gonna have it haunt us for the rest of our lives. And then let’s go see The Great Escape, and spend our summer jumping our bikes, just like Steve McQueen over barb wire. And then let’s catch The Seven Samurai for some reason on PBS, and we’ll feel like we speak Japanese because we can read the subtitles and hear the language at the same time. And then let’s lose sleep the night before we see 2001: A Space Odyssey because we have this idea that it’s going to change forever the way we look at films. And then let’s go see it four times in one year. And let’s see Woodstock three times in one year and let’s see Taxi Driver twice in one week. And let’s see Close Encounters of the Third Kind just so we can freeze there in mid-popcorn. And when the kids are old enough, let’s sit them together on the sofa and screen City Lights and Stage Coach and The Best Years of Our Lives and On The Waterfront and Midnight Cowboy and Five Easy Pieces and The Last Picture Show and Raging Bull and Schindler’s List… so that they can understand how the human condition can be captured by this amalgam of light and sound and literature we call the cinema.

Perhaps nothing would have happened were it not the pit of summer, with a month and a half ahead. There is no air-conditioning in the apartment, and this year - the summer of 1969 - it seems something is happening to everyone but them. People are getting wasted at Woodstock and singing 'Pinball Wizard' and watching Midnight Cowboy, which none of the Gold children are allowed to see. They're rioting outside Stonewall, ramming the doors with uprooted parking meters, smashing windows and jukeboxes. They're being murdered in the most gruesome way imaginable, with chemical explosives and guns that can fire five hundred and fifty bullets in succession, their faces transmitted with horrifying immediacy to the television in the Gold's kitchen. 'They're walking on the motherf***ing moon,' said Daniel, who has begun to use this sort of language, but only at a safe remove from their mother. James Earl Ray is sentenced, and so is Sirhan Sirhan, and all the while the Golds play jacks or darts or rescue Zoya from an open pipe behind the oven, which she seems convinced is her rightful home. But something else created the atmosphere required for this pilgrimage: they are siblings, this summer, in a way they will never be again. Next year, Varya will go to the Catskills with her friend Aviva. Daniel will be immersed in the private rituals of the neighborhood boys, leaving Klara and Simon to their own devices. In 1969, though, they are still a unit, yoked as if it isn't possible to be anything but.

Motor-scooter riders with big beards and girl friends who bounce on the back of the scooters and wear their hair long in front of their faces as well as behind, drunks who follow the advice of the Hat Council and are always turned out in hats, but not hats the Council would approve. Mr. Lacey, the locksmith,, shups up his shop for a while and goes to exchange time of day with Mr. Slube at the cigar store. Mr. Koochagian, the tailor, waters luxuriant jungle of plants in his window, gives them a critical look from the outside, accepts compliments on them from two passers-by, fingers the leaves on the plane tree in front of our house with a thoughtful gardener's appraisal, and crosses the street for a bite at the Ideal where he can keep an eye on customers and wigwag across the message that he is coming. The baby carriages come out, and clusters of everyone from toddlers with dolls to teenagers with homework gather at the stoops. When I get home from work, the ballet is reaching its cresendo. This is the time roller skates and stilts and tricycles and games in the lee of the stoop with bottletops and plastic cowboys, this is the time of bundles and packages, zigzagging from the drug store to the fruit stand and back over to the butcher's; this is the time when teenagers, all dressed up, are pausing to ask if their slips shows or their collars look right; this is the time when beautiful girls get out of MG's; this is the time when the fire engines go through; this is the time when anybody you know on Hudson street will go by. As the darkness thickens and Mr. Halpert moors the laundry cart to the cellar door again, the ballet goes under lights, eddying back nad forth but intensifying at the bright spotlight pools of Joe's sidewalk pizza, the bars, the delicatessen, the restaurant and the drug store. The night workers stop now at the delicatessen, to pick up salami and a container of milk. Things have settled down for the evening but the street and its ballet have not come to a stop. I know the deep night ballet and its seasons best from waking long after midnight to tend a baby and, sitting in the dark, seeing the shadows and hearing sounds of the sidewalk. Mostly it is a sound like infinitely patterning snatches of party conversation, and, about three in the morning, singing, very good singing. Sometimes their is a sharpness and anger or sad, sad weeping, or a flurry of search for a string of beads broken. One night a young man came roaring along, bellowing terrible language at two girls whom he had apparently picked up and who were disappointing him. Doors opened, a wary semicircle formed around him, not too close, until police came. Out came the heads, too, along the Hudsons street, offering opinion, "Drunk...Crazy...A wild kid from the suburbs" Deep in the night, I am almost unaware of how many people are on the street unless someone calls the together. Like the bagpipe. Who the piper is and why he favored our street I have no idea.

Soon it was time for us to leave; the clock had struck midnight, and we had miles to go before we slept. After throwing my bouquet and saying good-byes, Marlboro Man and I ran through the doors of the club and climbed into the back of a smoky black limousine--the vehicle that would take us to the big city miles away, where we’d stay before flying to Australia the next day. As we pulled away from the waving, birdseed-throwing crowd at the front door of the club, we immediately settled into each other’s arms, melting into a puddle of white silk and black boots and sleepy, unbridled romance. It was all so new. New dress…new love…a new country--Australia--that neither of us had ever seen. A new life together. A new life for me. New crystal, silver, china. A newly renovated, tiny cowboy house that would be our little house on the prairie when we returned from our honeymoon. A new husband. My husband. I wanted to repeat it over and over again, wanted to shout it to the heavens. But I couldn’t speak. I was busy. Passion had taken over--a beast had been unleashed. Sleep deprived and exhausted from the celebration of the previous week, once inside the sanctity of the limousine, we were utterly powerless to stop it…and we let it fly. It was this same passion that had gotten us through the early stages of our relationship, and, ultimately, through the choice to wave good-bye to any life I’d ever imagined for myself. To become a part of Marlboro Man’s life instead. It was this same passion that assured me that everything was exactly as it should be. It was the passion that made it all make sense.

I hung up the phone after saying good night to Marlboro Man, this isolated cowboy who hadn’t had the slightest probably picking up the phone to say “I miss you.” I shuddered at the thought of how long I’d gone without it. And judging from the electrical charges searing through every cell of my body, I realized just how fundamental a human need it really is. It was as fundamental a human need, I would learn, as having a sense of direction in the dark. I suddenly realized I was lost on the long dirt road, more lost than I’d ever been before. The more twists and turns I took in my attempt to find my bearings, the worse my situation became. It was almost midnight, and it was cold, and each intersection looked like the same one repeating over and over. I found myself struck with an illogical and indescribable panic--the kind that causes you to truly believe you’ll never, ever escape from where you are, even though you almost always will. As I drove, I remembered every horror movie I’d ever watched that had taken place in a rural setting. Children of the Corn. The children of the corn were lurking out there in the tall grass, I just knew it. Friday the 13th. Sure, it had taken place at a summer camp, but the same thing could happen on a cattle ranch. And The Texas Chain Saw Massacre? Oh no. I was dead. Leatherface was coming--or even worse, his freaky, emaciated, misanthropic brother. I kept driving for a while, then stopped on the side of the road. Shining my brights on the road in front of me, I watched out for Leatherface while dialing Marlboro Man on my car phone. My pulse was rapid out of sheer terror and embarrassment; my face was hot. Lost and helpless on a county road the same night I’d emotionally decompensated in his kitchen--this was not exactly the image I was dying to project to this new man in my life. But I had no other option, short of continuing to drive aimlessly down one generic road after another or parking on the side of the road and going to sleep, which really wasn’t an option at all, considering Norman Bates was likely wandering around the area. With Ted Bundy. And Charles Manson. And Grendel.

I told you I don't want to meet 'girls' and I'm not going to find a woman of any substance at the bars where you yahoos hang out." "Then set up one of those online dating accounts. They have them for older folks now." "Older folks?" Rohn let out a snort as that hit him hard, like a punch to the gut. "Great. Thanks a lot." How the hell old did these kids think he was, anyway? Rohn had quite a few years left before he turned fifty....

The man could kiss. She'd thought his kisses were irresistible all those years ago when she'd been young and naive. Now, as an adult, she knew she'd never be able to resist him or his kiss.

She was falling for him again. Head over heels. That was probably the worst thing that could happen. What she didn't know was what the hell she was going to do about it.

It's good to have you back in town, Bonnie Blue.

The sofa has to go first. We can put that right in the truck to go to the church." "Is something going on I don't know about? Is the church paying top dollar for old stuff or something?

He was breathing a little faster himself, his heart pounding as he leaned in a tiny bit more. He hovered just shy of her lips before braving the final space between them and pressing his mouth to hers. He knew immediately from the first taste of her that one tiny kiss wasn't going to be enough.

So are you officially moved in to her place yet, or just staying over there every night?

Story of her life. The first cute guy she'd seen in what felt like ages and she met him at a dive bar located in another state hours away from where she lived.

Mr. Oklahoma Sex on Wheels

Books were heavy shit. Next time he offered to move someone, he'd make sure the person was less of an intellectual.

He wrestled his focus back to his present dilemma. The two of them standing in a cheap hotel room with nothing to do besides the obvious things a man and woman could do in a room with not much more than bed in it.

I love those shorts." A crinkled formed between her brows. "They're old and ratty."... "I like them, but if you don't, I'd be happy to take them off for you." He cocked one brow ....

The discussion about how she was in Arizona stalking her birth mother, whose name she'd gotten on the duplicate birth certificate she'd ordered because she'd lost her original, should really happen in person, but that was impossible right now. Oh, what a tangled web...

His tongue claimed her, letting her know she was his, which was exactly what she wanted to be.

Time is a Colossus, and he’s marching up Broadway!

She smiled and Joe was touched suddenly by the very special beauty of a lady at the far, far end of her youth - old age just under the surface of her skin, but not yet emerged, not yet.

There is a certain way of climbing inside of time that gives a man ownership of the world and everything in it. Like, for instance, when you hear a jukebox it plays only what you need to hear.

She had enormous gray eyes and knees that made you cry they were so sorry looking and knobby. If there is some part of every loved one that will make you cry to contemplate it, such for Joe were these poor, sad, bony knees of Sally Buck.

Her voice went soft and sweet: it seemed to be luring some small child into a gas chamber with promises of candy.

complete food:

There was one idea that might have turned out pretty interesting. Hunter S. Thompson had written a book called Songs of the Doomed, and in the first few pages he mentions sitting around and listening to something off The Caution Horses, then he mentions the band later on in there, too. He's always been one of our favourite wackos, so we decided to call him up and see if we could maybe work on something together. It took a while to get him on the phone, because he'd wake up at midnight, stay up all night, drinking and watching sports, then sleep through the day. But we ended up having a bunch of weird phone conversations with him. His idea was we'd go to his ranch out in Colorado, get a camera crew, no script and 'just go crazy, man!' That didn't really fit what we had in mind; we wanted a little more structure than that. Going crazy isn't what we do. But he wasn't into that, at all. He didnt want to write anything, he just wanted this wacked-out thing. Eventually he got really pissed off for some reason. He sent us a fax, saying 'If you guys show up here, you're going home in body bags!' What did we do to piss him off that much?

Cowboys are the worst. Not much I can do to them that a horse already hasn't. - Reacher

It said, You are in a burning building and Jesus is the only possible fireman.