Mistress Of The Dark Quotes

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I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because 'romantic' doesn't mean 'sugary.' It's dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can't attain.
Catherine Breillat (Romance)
I love the night passionately. I love it as I love my country, or my mistress, with an instinctive, deep, and unshakeable love. I love it with all my senses: I love to see it, I love to breathe it in, I love to open my ears to its silence, I love my whole body to be caressed by its blackness. Skylarks sing in the sunshine, the blue sky, the warm air, in the fresh morning light. The owl flies by night, a dark shadow passing through the darkness; he hoots his sinister, quivering hoot, as though he delights in the intoxicating black immensity of space.
Guy de Maupassant
Mistress, I have never asked anything of you in my servitude. But now, I beg you this: do not make me keep passing these adolescent sentiments back and forth all night.
Richelle Mead (Shadow Heir (Dark Swan, #4))
Self-doubt is a persuasive mistress; careful not to shag her or you’ll never get your balls back.” - Simon Hunt
Dannika Dark (Twist (Mageri, #2; Mageriverse #2))
Modern civilization has made woman a little wiser, but it has increased her suffering because of man's covetousness. The woman of yesterday was a happy wife, but the woman of today is a miserable mistress. In the past she walked blindly in the light, but now she walks open-eyed in the dark. She was beautiful in her ignorance, virtuous in her simplicity, and strong in her weakness. Today she has become ugly in her ingenuity, superficial and heartless in her knowledge. Will the day ever come when beauty and knowledge, ingenuity and virtue, and weakness of body and strength of spirit will be united in a woman?
Kahlil Gibran (Broken Wings)
The only way to lose a kingdom is if your power drops or..well, if you're killed." "I'm sure Volusian would love to help with that." My minion walked near me, needing no horse to move swiftly. Upon hearing his name, he said, "I would perform the deed with great relish and much suffering on your part, mistress." "You can't put a price on that kind of loyalty," I told Kiyo.
Richelle Mead (Thorn Queen (Dark Swan, #2))
(Men without ambition are boring) And that attitude, mistress, is why the females of your kind continue to struggle for equality. And why they continue to fail.
Richelle Mead (Storm Born (Dark Swan, #1))
...for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence...
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
I want you to go back to Tucson and bring me the bottle of tequila I keep in my liquor cabinet. And don't scare Tim." Volusian remained motionless in that way of his. "My mistress grows increasingly creative in her ways to torment me." "I thought you'd appreciate it." "Only in so much as it inspires me to equally creative means to rip you apart when I am able to break free of these bonds and finally destroy you." "You see? There's a silver lining to everything. Now hurry up.
Richelle Mead (Thorn Queen (Dark Swan, #2))
Once upon a time there lived in Berlin, Germany, a man called Albinus. He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster. This is the whole of the story and we might have left it at that had there not been profit and pleasure in the telling; and although there is plenty of space on a gravestone to contain, bound in moss, the abridged version of a man's life, detail is always welcome.
Vladimir Nabokov (Laughter in the Dark)
You think I should use magick like mine to open a tomb?" Mari asked in a scoffing tone. Mistress of bluffing, working it here. "That'd be like calling you in to lift a feather.
Kresley Cole (Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (Immortals After Dark, #3))
I took the jacket off, changed my T-shirt for a dark gray tank top, slipped on the tangle of the back sheath, and put the jacket on again. Thugs are us. Great. Just add a super-tight ponytail and loads of mascara, and I’d be ripe to play a supervillain’s evil mistress. Ve haf vays of making you gif us your DNA sample.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Bites (Kate Daniels, #1))
The best I can say, it's like this. A man's in his skin, see, like a nut in its shell ... It's hard and strong, that shell, and it's all full of him. Full of grand man-meat, man-self. And that's all. That's all there is. A woman's a different thing entirely. Who knows where a woman begins and ends? Listen mistress, I have roots, I have roots deeper than this island. Deeper than the sea, older than the raising of the lands. I go back into the dark ... I go back into the dark! Before the moon I am, what a woman is, a woman of power, a woman's power, deeper than the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of islands, older than the Making, older than the moon. Who dares ask questions of the dark? Who'll ask the dark its name?
Ursula K. Le Guin (Tehanu (Earthsea Cycle, #4))
She honestly didn’t know what was worse: living her life in the dream world, or living in a world where everyone lied to her.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
The mushroom-spirit was suddenly fierce. "He is not to kick over any of my mushrooms." "That depends," said the Bear pointedly. "If my brave mistress does not give me something better to do than run to and fro in the dark, I will happily kick over all your mushrooms.
Katherine Arden (The Winter of the Witch (The Winternight Trilogy, #3))
We all have our own scars. Let them be a blessing and not a curse.
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
Hey, Volusian, you haven't been checking me out, have you?" He gave me his trademark bland stare. "I assure you, mistress, the only allure your bare flesh has for me is to remind me how easy it will be to slice open." I laughed. If not for the fact he was actually serious, he'd be so much fun.
Richelle Mead (Storm Born (Dark Swan, #1))
Cats don’t have dark sides. That’s all a shadow is—and though you might be prejudiced against the dark, you ought to remember that that’s where stars live, and the moon and raccoons and owls and fireflies and mushrooms and cats and enchantments and a rather lot of good, necessary things. Thieving, too, and conspiracies, sneaking, secrets, and desire so strong you might faint dead away with the punch of it. But your light side isn’t a perfectly pretty picture, either, I promise you. You couldn’t dream without the dark. You couldn’t rest. You couldn’t even meet a lover on a balcony by moonlight. And what would the world be worth without that? You need your dark side, because without it, you’re half gone. Cats, on the other hand, have a more sensible setup. We just have the one side, and it’s mostly the sneaking and sleeping side anyway. So the other Iago and I feel very companionable toward each other. Whereas I expect my drowsy mistress Above would loathe this version of herself, who is kind and quiet and lonely and rather dear, all the things the original is not. My love stands for both. This one pets me more; that one let me pounce on anything I wanted.
Catherynne M. Valente (The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There (Fairyland, #2))
-You know how to call me although such a noise now would only confuse the air Neither of us can forget the steps we danced the words you stretched to call me out of dust Yes I long for you not just as a leaf for weather or vase for hands but with a narrow human longing that makes a man refuse any fields but his own I wait for you at an unexpected place in your journey like the rusted key or the feather you do not pick up.- -I WILL NEVER FIND THE FACES FOR ALL GOODBYES I'VE MADE.- For Anyone Dressed in Marble The miracle we all are waiting for is waiting till the Parthenon falls down and House of Birthdays is a house no more and fathers are unpoisoned by renown. The medals and the records of abuse can't help us on our pilgrimage to lust, but like whips certain perverts never use, compel our flesh in paralysing trust. I see an orphan, lawless and serene, standing in a corner of the sky, body something like bodies that have been, but not the scar of naming in his eye. Bred close to the ovens, he's burnt inside. Light, wind, cold, dark -- they use him like a bride. I Had It for a Moment I had it for a moment I knew why I must thank you I saw powerful governing men in black suits I saw them undressed in the arms of young mistresses the men more naked than the naked women the men crying quietly No that is not it I'm losing why I must thank you which means I'm left with pure longing How old are you Do you like your thighs I had it for a moment I had a reason for letting the picture of your mouth destroy my conversation Something on the radio the end of a Mexican song I saw the musicians getting paid they are not even surprised they knew it was only a job Now I've lost it completely A lot of people think you are beautiful How do I feel about that I have no feeling about that I had a wonderful reason for not merely courting you It was tied up with the newspapers I saw secret arrangements in high offices I saw men who loved their worldliness even though they had looked through big electric telescopes they still thought their worldliness was serious not just a hobby a taste a harmless affectation they thought the cosmos listened I was suddenly fearful one of their obscure regulations could separate us I was ready to beg for mercy Now I'm getting into humiliation I've lost why I began this I wanted to talk about your eyes I know nothing about your eyes and you've noticed how little I know I want you somewhere safe far from high offices I'll study you later So many people want to cry quietly beside you
Leonard Cohen (Flowers for Hitler)
People do that, of course—they come into your life, illuminate some dark corner you’d not even known was there, then they disappear. True connection is rare, but that’s just the way it is.
Melanie Benjamin (Mistress of the Ritz)
Truly," remarked Nandi as we entered a darkened tunnel, "it is amazing that you have not died yet, mistress." "Well, hang in there. The night is young.
Richelle Mead (Storm Born (Dark Swan, #1))
A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by me: when I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty, who formed us in his own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the form of a beloved mistress, then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my soul is the mirror of the infinite God! O my friend — but it is too much for my strength — I sink under the weight of the splendour of these visions!
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (The Sorrows of Young Werther)
How do you honor a witch who betrayed you?
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
When your dark mother and pale mistress set you this task... Did you think she was locking me in here with you, or you in here with me?
Jay Kristoff (Empire of the Vampire (Empire of the Vampire, #1))
It was strange having so much knowledge at once and having so little power to direct her own fate. But she listened, she watched, and she learned.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
No!" he cried and his face pinched with frustration and pain. "I don't want to hear more reasons why we shouldn't be together. No more confessions to explain why you want to run away from what we share." "Julian," she attempted to interrupt again, but he held up a trembling hand. His dark gaze held hers. "I have moved heaven and earth to bring you back to me. I refuse to let you leave again. You are mine and you shall be mine for the rest of my life. Not as my mistress, but as my wife. And if you don't say yes, I shall be forced to drag you into Hyde Park and make love to you in plain view of everyone. Then you will have to accept my proposal in order to save your reputation." His face softened. "I love you, Cecilia.
Jess Michaels (Undeniable)
At the end of the day, when the sun falls a willing prisoner of the night...and humans, males and females alike, become submitted to the mistress of the dark, my mind begins to wander and wonder. Looking upwards at a blank slate of concrete, the psyque expresses freely what my subconscious is afraid to give free rein. And there and then, between the play of reality and dreamland, I find my place. I find myself.
Eiry Nieves
Lounging indolently in a black silk robe which was loosely tied at the front and which appeared to conceal nothing more than bare skin...she made a conscious effort not to stare at the bare legs with their sprinkling of dark hair...was he even wearing underwear? she thought
Cathy Williams (The Italian Boss's Secretary Mistress)
Telling her the truth seemed like the greatest of risks, and yet I loved her too much to keep her in the dark any longer. I’d feared she would spurn me. Instead, she said she belonged to me and knew she belonged to me from the moment we met, and her body was mine to do with what I wanted. She loved me. She trusted me. She knew I wouldn’t hurt her even if I hurt her. And we kissed for the first time, and I felt something I never dreamed I’d feel.” “Happy?” “Normal.
Tiffany Reisz (The Mistress (The Original Sinners, #4))
There's a great maze of tunnels, a Labyrinth. It's like a great dark city, under the hill. Full of gold, and the swords of old heroes, and old crowns, and bones, and years, and silence.' She spoke if in trance, rapture. Manan watched her. His slabby face never expressed much but stolid, careful sadness; it was sadder than usual now. 'Well, and you're mistress of all that,' he said. 'The silence, and the dark.
Ursula K. Le Guin (The Tombs of Atuan (Earthsea Cycle, #2))
I neither require nor desire your gratitude, mistress. I want nothing in these worlds save your death." Volusian to Eugenie
Richelle Mead (Thorn Queen (Dark Swan, #2))
My past is my story to keep, and my future will be written by me, in my own way, not through the control or influence of you or anyone else.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles #1))
And be thinking, remembering. Trying to. All difficult dark stuff, stories stuffed away, like old socks into old pillowcases. Not quite knowing the weight of truth in them much more. And things that I have let be a long time in the interests of happiness, or at least that daily contentment that I was once I do believe mistress of
Sebastian Barry (On Canaan's Side (Dunne Family #4))
Most aren't trying to kill you, unfortunately. They're trying to bed you, mistress." "Why?" "Probably because of the prophecy," said Nandi. "Prophecy," I said dryly. "Wonderful. Now there's a prophecy." "Mistress," she said hastily, "had you asked us if there was a prophecy-" "Yeah, yeah. I know. What's this one say? That I'm a good lay?
Richelle Mead (Storm Born (Dark Swan, #1))
Better to see the dangers in the world and be ready when someone inevitably turns on you. It is a far preferable surprise to find that a person is kinder than you think, than to discover he is secretly a traitor.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles #1))
for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
Once in the night she wakened and a flood of desolation poured over her. But in the darkness she heard a melodious purring and felt the beautiful touch of a velvet cat.
L.M. Montgomery (The Complete Pat of Silver Bush Series: Pat of Silver Bush / Mistress Pat)
(about sailors) Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them - the ship; and so is their country - the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
Get your priorities straight, young man. When a victim is staring at a blade that has just plunged through his chest, the last thing on his mind is criticism about the lack of ornamentation on your hilt.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
For so long, I’d believed I was doing the right thing by sticking out the marriage to keep our family together, but I finally realized that staying in such a dysfunctional relationship was worse than the alternative.
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
A woman's a different thing entirely. Who knows where a woman begins and ends? Listen, mistress, I have roots, I have roots deeper than this island. Deeper than the sea, older than the raising of the lands. I go back into the dark.
Ursula K. Le Guin (Tehanu (Earthsea Cycle, #4))
Didn’t I fire you this morning?” “Twice,” I answered for him. “You fired him on Sara’s behalf in the elevator when he referred to you as ‘Mistress of the Dark’ in front of that priest, and a second time when he offered to help Jensen get dressed later.
Christina Lauren (Beautiful Boss (Beautiful Bastard, #4.5))
That is who I want you to remember, lad. The man so filled with Arman's love that he could forgive his son for taking his life and the life of his bride. That is the man I knew. The king I served. Just you remember it.' 'But a man with many mistresses. A man who wouldn't have had that problem if he'd--' 'Aye, he was no porcelain saint. He was mixed, torn, pulled by light and darkness, as is every follower of Arman. That is what it is to know Arman and yet still live in this world. Pity those who do not know Arman, because in them there is nothing at all pulling them toward light.
Jill Williamson (From Darkness Won (Blood of Kings, #3))
He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them - the ship; and so is their country - the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
Tobias' body became a marble statue, and she knew she'd reached the darkness of his soul.
Monica Burns (His Mistress (Self-Made Men #2))
No. Kraka is here. He will always be here." She held so still. "I lived as his mistress. What can change that?" "The future," said Berg, in the darkness.
Helen Kirkman (Destiny (Warriors Of The Dragon Banner, #2))
Don't make promises, because circumstances have a way of making you regret them.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
Something in this world always wants to kill you. Don't forget that.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
Just because knowledge exists, doesn't mean people know how to use it .
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
Ah, but Sorceress, on such a journey as ours, is one ever truly done with saving the world?
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
Y'know, I think I've learned something here today. I've learned that friendship is like cheese. The longer it sits around, the stronger it gets...and that, that...friends are like cheap toupees. You've gotta hang onto 'em when things get stormy. But most of all, I've learned that you can search and search the wide world over, but in the end, your own backyard is right...behind...your house.
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
Mistress Allen was only an ordinary provincial manor lady, bent on nothing more sinister than retrieving money of which she felt defrauded, and in the process either quarreling with or using people.
Anya Seton (Green Darkness)
The servant, still a child, cranes his neck, turns his face up toward all of them. He is dark as history, origin of the word native: the weight of blood, a pale mistress on his back, heavier every year.
Natasha Trethewey (Thrall)
EDGAR A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress' heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven: one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it: wine loved I deeply, dice dearly: and in woman out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman: keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders' books, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: Says suum, mun, ha, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by. Storm still.
William Shakespeare (King Lear)
The Ptolemies were in fact Macedonian Greek, which makes Cleopatra approximately as Egyptian as Elizabeth Taylor. The word ‘honey skinned’ recurs in descriptions of her relatives and would presumably applied to hers as well, despite the inexactitudes surrounding her mother and paternal grandmother. There was certainly Persian blood in the family, but even an Egyptian mistress is a rarity among the Ptolemies. She was not dark skinned.
Stacy Schiff (Cleopatra: A Life)
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Lord Byron (Darkness)
The Second Koran tells us that the darkness in ourselves is a sinister thing. It waits until we relax, it waits until we reach the most vulnerable moments, and then it snares us. I want to be dutiful. I want to do what I should. But when I go back to the tube, I think of where I am going; to that small house and my empty room. What will I do tonight? Make more paper flowers, more wreaths? I am sick of them. Sick of the Nekropolis. I can take the tube to my mistress' house, or I can go by the street where Mardin's house is. I'm tired. I'm ready to go to my little room and relax. Oh, Holy One, I dread the empty evening. Maybe I should go by the street just to fill up time. I have all this empty time in front of me. Tonight and tomorrow and the week after and the next month and all down through the years as I never marry and become a dried-up woman. Evenings spent folding paper. Days cleaning someone else's house. Free afternoons spent shopping a bit, stopping in tea shops because my feet hurt. That is what lives are, aren't they? Attempts to fill our time with activity designed to prevent us from realizing that there is no meaning?
Maureen F. McHugh
You’d think the fairies would have thought of something more creative. Practically every princess in peril has been saved by Love’s First Kiss! For goodness’ sake, between witches and fairies, can’t we think of something more original? I’m weary of this. Why must a young girl need a man to save her? Why can’t a princess fight for her own life, break her own curse? Why must it always be a prince? By Hades, I want to kill Prince Phillip on principle, just so we don’t have yet one more prince kissing some helpless sleeping girl, making her feel like she has to marry him out of gratitude.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
I won’t say it’s going to be easy for me, Madeline. I’ve lived too long in darkness and shadows, but if you’re willing to stick by me, to give me a chance, I’ll give you whatever you wish.” “My wish has already come true,” she said, smiling into his upturned face. “It was you, after all.” -Blaine and Madeline
Charlotte Featherstone (Mistress of the Night)
Some instinct told her that this was usually done in darkness and with eyes tightly shut, that usually all the pleasure was hugged tightly to oneself, the pleasure-giver shut out. Even in her inexperience she sensed that lovers did not always love with eyes open and focused on each other’s whenever it was feasible to do so.
Mary Balogh (More Than a Mistress (Mistress Trilogy, #1))
Why must a young girl need a man to save her? Why can’t a princess fight for her own life, break her own curse? Why must it always be a prince? By Hades, I want to kill Prince Phillip on principle, just so we don’t have yet one more prince kissing some helpless sleeping girl, making her feel like she has to marry him out of gratitude.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
The Cavalier Servente by Stewart Stafford Her lover creeps On stairs that creak To where the mistress sleeps To wet his beak. Affairs in the dark When matrimony is parked A disloyal lark Starts the carnal spark. At break of day The cuckolder creeps away From naughty play He’s had his way. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.
Stewart Stafford
But if you will not take this Counsel, and persist in thinking a Commerce with the Sex inevitable, then I repeat my former Advice, that in all your Amours you should prefer old Women to young ones. You call this a Paradox, and demand my Reasons. They are these: 1. Because as they have more Knowledge of the World and their Minds are better stor'd with Observations, their Conversation is more improving and more lastingly agreable. 2. Because when Women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over Men, they supply the Diminution of Beauty by an Augmentation of Utility. They learn to do a 1000 Services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all Friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old Woman who is not a good Woman. 3. Because there is no hazard of Children, which irregularly produc'd may be attended with much Inconvenience. 4. Because thro' more Experience, they are more prudent and discreet in conducting an Intrigue to prevent Suspicion. The Commerce with them is therefore safer with regard to your Reputation. And with regard to theirs, if the Affair should happen to be known, considerate People might be rather inclin'd to excuse an old Woman who would kindly take care of a young Man, form his Manners by her good Counsels, and prevent his ruining his Health and Fortune among mercenary Prostitutes. 5. Because in every Animal that walks upright, the Deficiency of the Fluids that fill the Muscles appears first in the highest Part: The Face first grows lank and wrinkled; then the Neck; then the Breast and Arms; the lower Parts continuing to the last as plump as ever: So that covering all above with a Basket, and regarding2 only what is below the Girdle, it is impossible of two Women to know an old from a young one. And as in the dark all Cats are grey, the Pleasure of corporal Enjoyment with an old Woman is at least equal, and frequently superior, every Knack being by Practice capable of Improvement. 6. Because the Sin is less. The debauching a Virgin may be her Ruin, and make her for Life unhappy. 7. Because the Compunction is less. The having made a young Girl miserable may give you frequent bitter Reflections; none of which can attend the making an old Woman happy. 8thly and Lastly They are so grateful!! Thus much for my Paradox. But still I advise you to marry directly; being sincerely Your affectionate Friend.
Benjamin Franklin
At childhood’s end, the houses petered out into playing fields, the factory, allotments kept, like mistresses, by kneeling married men, the silent railway line, the hermit’s caravan, till you came at last to the edge of the woods. It was there that I first clapped eyes on the wolf. He stood in a clearing, reading his verse out loud in his wolfy drawl, a paperback in his hairy paw, red wine staining his bearded jaw. What big ears he had! What big eyes he had! What teeth! In the interval, I made quite sure he spotted me, sweet sixteen, never been, babe, waif, and bought me a drink, my first. You might ask why. Here’s why. Poetry. The wolf, I knew, would lead me deep into the woods, away from home, to a dark tangled thorny place lit by the eyes of owls. I crawled in his wake, my stockings ripped to shreds, scraps of red from my blazer snagged on twig and branch, murder clues. I lost both shoes but got there, wolf’s lair, better beware. Lesson one that night, breath of the wolf in my ear, was the love poem. I clung till dawn to his thrashing fur, for what little girl doesn’t dearly love a wolf? Then I slid from between his heavy matted paws and went in search of a living bird – white dove – which flew, straight, from my hands to his hope mouth. One bite, dead. How nice, breakfast in bed, he said, licking his chops. As soon as he slept, I crept to the back of the lair, where a whole wall was crimson, gold, aglow with books. Words, words were truly alive on the tongue, in the head, warm, beating, frantic, winged; music and blood. But then I was young – and it took ten years in the woods to tell that a mushroom stoppers the mouth of a buried corpse, that birds are the uttered thought of trees, that a greying wolf howls the same old song at the moon, year in, year out, season after season, same rhyme, same reason. I took an axe to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf as he slept, one chop, scrotum to throat, and saw the glistening, virgin white of my grandmother’s bones. I filled his old belly with stones. I stitched him up. Out of the forest I come with my flowers, singing, all alone. Little Red-Cap
Carol Ann Duffy (The World's Wife)
The lazy, laughing South With blood on its mouth. The sunny-faced South,     Beast-strong,     Idiot-brained. The child-minded South Scratching in the dead fire’s ashes For a Negro’s bones.     Cotton and the moon,     Warmth, earth, warmth,     The sky, the sun, the stars,     The magnolia-scented South. Beautiful, like a woman, Seductive as a dark-eyed whore,     Passionate, cruel,     Honey-lipped, syphilitic—     That is the South. And I, who am black, would love her But she spits in my face. And I, who am black, Would give her many rare gifts But she turns her back upon me.     So now I seek the North—     The cold-faced North,     For she, they say,     Is a kinder mistress, And in her house my children May escape the spell of the South.
Langston Hughes (The Weary Blues)
I’ll never be able to give you a sonnet. I may be a songwriter, but the iambic pentameter thing throws me off. So this is what I got: tattered angel comes to me/beguiles and shelters me/pretty sexy dark love/eternity will set us free.” “That was perfect.” “It’s just a start. I’ll write songs for you every day,” he said. “You are my melody, Kambriel. Together we’re the perfect harmony.
Michele Hauf (The Dark's Mistress (Wicked Games series))
Yes, she might have managed to lift the portcullis—with concentration, an unprecedented bout of luck, and the absence of a hangover. Oh, and if she were in mortal danger. Unfortunately, her power was adrenaline-based, making it as infinite as it was uncontrollable. “You think I use magick like mine to open a tomb?” Mari asked in a scoffing tone. Mistress of bluffing, working it here.
Kresley Cole (Wicked Deeds on a Winter's Night (Immortals After Dark, #3))
At that moment he didn’t like mankind, the grown-ups, the adults. He never liked them when it was dark. At such times it was his habit to think mankind away. Then the world would seem like a dark, empty house, and he felt a shudder inside himself, as if now he had to search through room after room—dark rooms where you didn’t know what was hidden in the corners—feeling his way across the thresholds where no foot would tread any more apart from his, until in one room the doors in front of and behind him would suddenly close and he would be facing the mistress of the black hordes herself. And at that moment all the locks of all the other doors he had come through would shut, and far beyond the walls the shadows of the darkness would stand watch, like black eunuchs, keeping out all human contact.
Robert Musil (The Confusions of Young Törless)
When I go musing all alone Thinking of divers things fore-known. When I build castles in the air, Void of sorrow and void of fear, Pleasing myself with phantasms sweet, Methinks the time runs very fleet. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I lie waking all alone, Recounting what I have ill done, My thoughts on me then tyrannise, Fear and sorrow me surprise, Whether I tarry still or go, Methinks the time moves very slow. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so mad as melancholy. When to myself I act and smile, With pleasing thoughts the time beguile, By a brook side or wood so green, Unheard, unsought for, or unseen, A thousand pleasures do me bless, And crown my soul with happiness. All my joys besides are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. When I lie, sit, or walk alone, I sigh, I grieve, making great moan, In a dark grove, or irksome den, With discontents and Furies then, A thousand miseries at once Mine heavy heart and soul ensconce, All my griefs to this are jolly, None so sour as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see, Sweet music, wondrous melody, Towns, palaces, and cities fine; Here now, then there; the world is mine, Rare beauties, gallant ladies shine, Whate'er is lovely or divine. All other joys to this are folly, None so sweet as melancholy. Methinks I hear, methinks I see Ghosts, goblins, fiends; my phantasy Presents a thousand ugly shapes, Headless bears, black men, and apes, Doleful outcries, and fearful sights, My sad and dismal soul affrights. All my griefs to this are jolly, None so damn'd as melancholy. Methinks I court, methinks I kiss, Methinks I now embrace my mistress. O blessed days, O sweet content, In Paradise my time is spent. Such thoughts may still my fancy move, So may I ever be in love. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. When I recount love's many frights, My sighs and tears, my waking nights, My jealous fits; O mine hard fate I now repent, but 'tis too late. No torment is so bad as love, So bitter to my soul can prove. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so harsh as melancholy. Friends and companions get you gone, 'Tis my desire to be alone; Ne'er well but when my thoughts and I Do domineer in privacy. No Gem, no treasure like to this, 'Tis my delight, my crown, my bliss. All my joys to this are folly, Naught so sweet as melancholy. 'Tis my sole plague to be alone, I am a beast, a monster grown, I will no light nor company, I find it now my misery. The scene is turn'd, my joys are gone, Fear, discontent, and sorrows come. All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so fierce as melancholy. I'll not change life with any king, I ravisht am: can the world bring More joy, than still to laugh and smile, In pleasant toys time to beguile? Do not, O do not trouble me, So sweet content I feel and see. All my joys to this are folly, None so divine as melancholy. I'll change my state with any wretch, Thou canst from gaol or dunghill fetch; My pain's past cure, another hell, I may not in this torment dwell! Now desperate I hate my life, Lend me a halter or a knife; All my griefs to this are jolly, Naught so damn'd as melancholy.
Robert Burton (The Anatomy of Melancholy: What It Is, With All the Kinds, Causes, Symptoms, Prognostics, and Several Cures of It; in Three Partitions; With Their Several Sections, Members, and Subsections, Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically Opened and Cut Up, V)
The soul then, thus disguised and clad in the vesture of hope, is secure from its second foe, the world, for St. Paul calls hope the helmet of salvation.10 Now a helmet is armor which protects and covers the whole head, and has no opening except in one place, where the eyes may look through. Hope is such a helmet, for it covers all the senses of the head of the soul in such a way that they cannot be lost in worldly things, and leaves no part of them exposed to the arrows of the world. It has one loophole only through which the eyes may look upwards only; this is the ordinary work of hope, to direct the eyes of the soul to God alone; as David says, “My eyes are always to our Lord,”11 looking for succor nowhere else; as he says in another psalm, “As the eyes of the handmaid on the hands of her mistress, so are our eyes to our Lord God until He have mercy on us,”12 hoping in Him. 9. The green vesture of hope—for the soul is then ever looking upwards unto God, disregarding all else, and delighting only in Him—is so pleasing to the Beloved that the soul obtains from Him all it hopes for. This is why He tells the soul in the Canticle, “Thou hast wounded My heart in one of thine eyes.”13 It would have been useless for the soul, if it had not put on the green robe of hope in God, to claim such love, for it would not have succeeded, because that which influences the Beloved, and prevails, is persevering hope. It is in the vesture of hope that the soul goes forth disguised in this secret and dark night; seeing that it goes forth so detached from all possession, without any consolations, that it regards nothing, and that its sole anxiety is about God, putting its “mouth in the dust if so be there may be hope” in the words of Jeremiah quoted already.14 10.
Juan de la Cruz (Dark Night of the Soul)
before he went back to helping the boy. Missing from the Warrior tent were Kalona and Aurox. For obvious reasons, Thanatos had decided the Tulsa community wasn’t ready to meet either of them. I agreed with her. I wasn’t ready for … I mentally shook myself. No, I wasn’t going to think about the Aurox/Heath situation now. Instead I turned my attention to the second of the big tents. Lenobia was there, keeping a sharp eye on the people who clustered like buzzing bees around Mujaji and the big Percheron mare, Bonnie. Travis was with her. Travis was always with her, which made my heart feel good. It was awesome to see Lenobia in love. The Horse Mistress was like a bright, shining beacon of joy, and with all the Darkness I’d seen lately, that was rain in my desert. “Oh, for shit’s sake, where did I put my wine? Has anyone seen my Queenies cup? As the bumpkin reminded me, my parents are here somewhere, and I’m going to need fortification by the time they circle around and find me.” Aphrodite was muttering and pawing through the boxes of unsold cookies, searching for the big purple plastic cup I’d seen her drinking from earlier. “You have wine in that Queenies to go cup?” Stevie Rae was shaking her head at Aphrodite. “And you’ve been drinkin’ it through a straw?” Shaunee joined Stevie Rae in a head shake. “Isn’t that nasty?” “Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Aphrodite quipped. “There are too many nuns lurking around to drink openly without hearing a boring lecture.” Aphrodite cut her eyes to the right of us where Street Cats had set up a half-moon display of cages filled with adoptable cats and bins of catnip-filled toys for sale. The Street Cats had their own miniature version of the silver and white tents, and I could see Damien sitting inside busily handling the cash register, but except for him, running every aspect of the feline area were the habit-wearing Benedictine nuns who had made Street Cats their own. One of the nuns looked my way and I waved and grinned at the Abbess. Sister Mary Angela waved back before returning to the conversation she was having with a family who were obviously falling in love with a cute white cat that looked like a giant cottonball. “Aphrodite, the nuns are cool,” I reminded her. “And they look too busy to pay any attention to you,” Stevie Rae said. “Imagine that—you may not be the center of everyone’s attention,” Shaylin said with mock surprise. Stevie Rae covered her giggle with a cough. Before Aphrodite could say something hateful, Grandma limped up to us. Other than the limp and being pale, Grandma looked healthy and happy. It had only been a little over a week since Neferet had kidnapped and tried to kill her, but she’d recovered with amazing quickness. Thanatos had told us that was because she was in unusually good shape for a woman of her age. I knew it was because of something else—something we both shared—a special bond with a goddess who believed in giving her children free choice, along with gifting them with special abilities. Grandma was beloved of the Great Mother,
P.C. Cast (Revealed (House of Night #11))
It is due, however, to my mistress to say of her, that she did not adopt this course of treatment immediately. She at first lacked the depravity indispensable to shutting me up in mental darkness. It was at least necessary for her to have some training in the exercise of irresponsible power, to make her equal to the task of treating me as though I were a brute. My mistress was, as I have said, a kind and tender-hearted woman; and in the simplicity of her soul she commenced, when I first went to live with her, to treat me as she supposed one human being ought to treat another. In entering upon the duties of a slaveholder, she did not seem to perceive that I sustained to her the relation of a mere chattel, and that for her to treat me as a human being was not only wrong, but dangerously so. Slavery proved as injurious to her as it did to me. When I went there, she was a pious, warm, and tender-hearted woman. There was no sorrow or suffering for which she had not a tear. She had bread for the hungry, clothes for the naked, and comfort for every mourner that came within her reach. Slavery soon proved its ability to divest her of these heavenly qualities. Under its influence, the tender heart became stone, and the lamblike disposition gave way to one of tiger-like fierceness.
Frederick Douglass (Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass)
I will have you for husband tonight,” she said in fierce, low tones, “or I will not go until I do!” “If there was any way, I would,” he protested. “Daise Congar would crack my head if I wanted to go against custom. For the love of the Light, Faile, just carry the message, and I’ll wed you the very first day I can.” He would. If that day ever came. Suddenly she was very intent on his beard, smoothing it and not meeting his eyes. She started speaking slowly but picked up speed like a runaway horse. “I … just happened to mention … in passing … I just mentioned to Mistress al’Vere how we had been traveling together—I don’t know how it came up—and she said—and Mistress Congar agreed with her—not that I talked to everybody!—she said that we probably—certainly—could be considered betrothed already under your customs, and the year is just to make sure you really do get on well together—which we do, as anyone can see—and here I am being as forward as some Domani hussy or one of those Tairen galls—if you ever even think of Berelain—oh, Light, I’m babbling, and you won’t even—” He cut her off by kissing her as thoroughly as he knew how. “Will you marry me?” he said breathlessly when he was done. “Tonight?” He must have done ever better with the kiss than he thought; he had to repeat himself six times, with her giggling against his throat and demanding he say it again, before she seemed to understand. Which was how he found himself not half an hour later kneeling opposite her in the common room, in front of Daise Congar and Marin al’Vere, Alsbet Luhhan and Neysa Ayellin and all the Women’s Circle. Loial had been roused to stand for him with Aram, and Bain and Chiad stood for Faile. There were no flowers to put in her hair or his, but Bain, guided by Marin, tucked a long red wedding ribbon around his neck, and Loial threaded another through Faile’s dark hair, his thick fingers surprisingly deft and gentle. Perrin’s hands trembled as he cupped hers. “I, Perrin Aybara, do pledge you my love, Faile Bashere, for as long as I live.” For as long as I live and after. “What I possess in this world I give to you.” A horse, an axe, a bow. A hammer. Not much to gift a bride. I give you life, my love. It’s all I have. “I will keep and hold you, succor and tend you, protect and shelter you, for all the days of my life.” I can’t keep you; the only way I can protect you is to send you away. “I am yours, always and forever.” By the time he finished, his hands were shaking visibly. Faile moved her hands to hold his. “I, Zarine Bashere …” That was a surprise; she hated that name. “ … do pledge you my love, Perrin Aybara … .” Her hands never trembled at all.
Robert Jordan (The Shadow Rising (The Wheel of Time, #4))
No regrets?” he murmured to Hunt as they strode down the hall, while Shaw and St. Vincent followed at a more leisurely pace. Hunt glanced at him with a questioning smile. He was a big, dark-haired man, with the same sense of uncompromising masculinity and the same avid interest in hunting and sportsmanship that Marcus possessed. “About what?” “Being led around by the nose by your wife.” That drew a wry grin from Hunt, and he shook his head. “If my wife does lead me around, Westcliff, it’s by an altogether different body part. And no, I have no regrets whatsoever.” “I suppose there’s a certain convenience in being married,” Marcus mused aloud. “Having a woman close at hand to satisfy your needs, not to mention the fact that a wife is undoubtedly more economical than a mistress. There is, moreover, the begetting of heirs to consider…” Hunt laughed at his effort to cast the issue in a practical light. “I didn’t marry Annabelle for convenience. And although I haven’t tabulated any numbers, I can assure you that she is not cheaper than a mistress. As for the begetting of heirs, that was the farthest thing from my mind when I proposed to her.” “Then why did you?” “I would tell you, but not long ago you said that you hoped I wouldn’t start—how did you put it?—‘pollinate the air with maudlin sentiment.’” “You believe yourself to be in love with her.” “No,” Hunt countered in a relaxed manner, “I am in love with her.” Marcus lifted his shoulders in a brief shrug. “If believing that makes marriage more palatable to you, so be it.” “Good God, Westcliff…” Hunt murmured, a curious smile on his face, “haven’t you ever been in love?” “Of course. Obviously I have found that some women are preferable to others in terms of disposition and physical appearance—” “No, no, no…I’m not referring to finding someone who is ‘preferable.’ I mean completely being absorbed by a woman who fills you with desperation, longing, ecstasy…” Marcus threw him a disparaging glance. “I haven’t time for that nonsense.” Hunt annoyed him by laughing.
Lisa Kleypas (It Happened One Autumn (Wallflowers, #2))
It’s dark as a tomb in here,” she said, unable to see more than shadows. “Will you light the candles, please,” she asked, “assuming there are candles in here?” “Aye, milady, right there, next to the bed.” His shadow crossed before her, and Elizabeth focused on a large, oddly shaped object that she supposed could be a bed, given its size. “Will you light them, please?” she urged. “I-I can’t see a thing in here.” “His lordship don’t like more’n one candle lit in the bedchambers,” the footman said. “He says it’s a waste of beeswax.” Elizabeth blinked in the darkness, torn somewhere between laughter and tears at her plight. “Oh,” she said, nonplussed. The footman lit a small candle at the far end of the room and left, closing the door behind him. “Milady?” Berta whispered, peering through the dark, impenetrable gloom. “Where are you?” “I’m over here,” Elizabeth replied, walking cautiously forward, her arms outstretched, her hands groping about for possible obstructions in her path as she headed for what she hoped was the outside wall of the bedchamber, where there was bound to be a window with draperies hiding its light. “Where?” Berta asked in a frightened whisper, and Elizabeth could hear the maid’s teeth chattering halfway across the room. “Here-on your left.” Berta followed the sound of her mistress’s voice and let out a terrified gasp at the sight of the ghostlike figure moving eerily through the darkness, arms outstretched. “Raise your arm,” she said urgently, “so I’ll know ‘tis you.” Elizabeth, knowing Berta’s timid nature, complied immediately. She raised her arm, which, while calming poor Berta, unfortunately caused Elizabeth to walk straight into a slender, fluted pillar with a marble bust upon it, and they both began to topple. “Good God!” Elizabeth burst out, wrapping her arms protectively around the pillar and the marble object upon it. “Berta!” she said urgently. “This is no time to be afraid of the dark. Help me, please. I’ve bumped into something-a bust and its stand, I think-and I daren’t let go of them until I can see how to set them upright. There are draperies over here, right in front of me. All you have to do is follow my voice and open them. Once we do, ‘twill be bright as day in here.” “I’m coming, milady,” Berta said bravely, and Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve found them!” Berta cried softly a few minutes later. “They’re heavy-velvet they are, with another panel behind them.” Berta pulled one heavy panel back across the wall, and then, with renewed urgency and vigor, she yanked back the other and turned around to survey the room. “Light as last!” Elizabeth said with relief. Dazzling late-afternoon sunlight poured into the windows directly in front of her, blinding her momentarily. “That’s much better,” she said, blinking. Satisfied that the pillar was quite sturdy enough to stand without her aid, Elizabeth was about to place the bust back upon it, but Berta’s cry stopped her. “Saints preserve us!” With the fragile bust clutched protectively to her chest Elizabeth swung sharply around. There, spread out before her, furnished entirely in red and gold, was the most shocking room Elizabeth had ever beheld: Six enormous gold cupids seemed to hover in thin air above a gigantic bed clutching crimson velvet bed draperies in one pudgy fist and holding bows and arrows in the other; more cupids adorned the headboard. Elizabeth’s eyes widened, first in disbelief, and a moment later in mirth. “Berta,” she breathed on a smothered giggle, “will you look at this place!
Judith McNaught (Almost Heaven (Sequels, #3))
In an instant, five harlequin-like clowns emerged and began to perform all kinds of acrobatic tricks, encircling us––correction...corralling us. They were graceful but a little creepy too. They were wearing black and white costumes that were form fitting and appeared to move like some psychedelic drug trip when they flipped around. That of course was odd, but not nearly as odd as the chant they were singing as they continued to perform their tricks. See us dance. Watch us flip. Care to take a chance? We’ll only need a sip. Come to see our mistress? Or come to see our master? She can be quite viscous. But he is a disaster. We love them both, and we’ll let you choose. Either way, we wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.
Brynn Myers (Falling Out of Focus)
And this also,” said Marlow suddenly, “has been one of the dark places of the earth.” He was the only man of us who still “followed the sea.” The worst that could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home order, and their home is always with them—the ship; and so is their country—the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as destiny. For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent, and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination of moonshine.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN A Song Fill the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life’s varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask’d in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved! — who has not? — but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart’s in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change; Thou grow’st old — who does not? — but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We aree jealous! — who is not? — thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last; There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was opened on earth, And Misery’s triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.
Lord Byron (Delphi Complete Works of Lord Byron)
To a chorus of resonant barking, the instruments proceeded to adjust themselves into tune. A billy-goat, alarmed, aroused his harem, and distantly a muffled lowing broke out. Philippa said, ‘Oh dear. It must have cost a fortune. Did Gideon ever do this to you?’ Kate thought. ‘No, but I did it to him. He hadn’t called to see me for a week, so I sent eight bell ringers to serenade him at cock-crow and his mother’s parrot dropped dead, quoting Luther.’ ‘What did it say?’ Philippa said. Sitting on the sill, with her long brown hair falling over her night robe, she looked, in the darkness, like the daughter who had come back from Turkey: calm and smiling and soignée. ‘Music is a fair and lovely gift of God, and deserves to be extolled as the mistress and governess of the feelings of the human heart,’ said Kate, surprised.
Dorothy Dunnett (Checkmate (The Lymond Chronicles, #6))
There. On the end.” Flowers pointed. “Wait. I’ll go announce you.” He slipped inside the tent, leaving Griff to contemplate the gilded skull of his old friend. In life, Ser Myles Toyne had been ugly as sin. His famous forebear, the dark and dashing Terrence Toyne of whom the singers sang, had been so fair of face that even the king’s mistress could not resist him; but Myles had been possessed of jug ears, a crooked jaw, and the biggest nose that Jon Connington had ever seen. When he smiled at you, though, none of that mattered. Blackheart, his men had named him, for the sigil on his shield. Myles had loved the name and all it hinted at. “A captain-general should be feared, by friend and foe alike,” he had once confessed. “If men think me cruel, so much the better.” The truth was otherwise. Soldier to the bone, Toyne was fierce but always fair, a father to his men and always generous to the exile lord Jon Connington.
George R.R. Martin (A Dance with Dragons (A Song of Ice and Fire, #5))
Adelia began to get cross. Why was it women who were to blame for everything—everything, from the Fall of Man to these blasted hedges? “We are not in a labyrinth, my lord,” she said clearly. “Where are we, then?” “It’s a maze.” “Same difference.” Puffing at the horse: “Get back, you great cow.” “No, it isn’t. A labyrinth has only one path and you merely have to follow it. It’s a symbol of life or, rather, of life and death. Labyrinths twist and turn, but they have a beginning and an end, through darkness into light.” Softening, and hoping that he would, too, she added, “Like Ariadne’s. Rather beautiful, really.” “I don’t want mythology, mistress, beautiful or not, I want to get to that sodding tower. What’s a maze when it’s at home?” “It’s a trick. A trick to confuse. To amaze.” “And I suppose Mistress Clever-boots knows how to get us out?” “I do, actually.” God’s rib, he was sneering at her, sneering. She’d a mind to stay where she was and let him sweat. “Then in the name of Christ, do it.” “Stop bellowing at me,” she yelled at him. “You’re bellowing.” She saw his teeth grit in the pretense of a placatory smile; he always had good teeth. Still did. Between them, he said, “The Bishop of Saint Albans presents his compliments to Mistress Adelia and please to escort him out of this hag’s hole, for the love of God. How will you do it?” “My business.” Be damned if she’d tell him. Women were defenseless enough without revealing their secrets. “I’ll have to take the lead.” She stumped along in front, holding Walt’s mount’s reins in her right hand. In the other was her riding crop, which she trailed with apparent casualness so that it brushed against the hedge on her left. As she went, she chuntered to herself. Lord, how disregarded I am in this damned country. How disregarded all women are. ... Ironically, the lower down the social scale women were, the greater freedom they had; the wives of laborers and craftsmen could work alongside their men—even, sometimes, when they were widowed, take over their husband’s trade. Adelia trudged on. Hag’s hole. Grendel’s mother’s entrails. Why was this dreadful place feminine to the men lost in it? Because it was tunneled? Womb-like? Is this woman’s magic? The great womb? Is that why the Church hates me, hates all women? Because we are the source of all true power? Of life? She supposed that by leading them out of it, she was only confirming that a woman knew its secrets and they did not. Great God, she thought, it isn't a question of hatred. It’s fear. They are frightened of us. And Adelia laughed quietly, sending a suggestion of sound reverberating backward along the tunnel, as if a small pebble was skipping on water, making each man start when it passed him. “What in hell was that?” Walt called back stolidly, “Reckon someone’s laughing at us, master.” “Dear God.
Ariana Franklin (The Serpent's Tale (Mistress of the Art of Death, #2))
What do we have here?” Grant slurs at me. He seems different and it raises flags in my mind. His fingers wrap around a section of my hair and it scares me. His face is flushed red and his eyes are glassy and bright. I can smell the smoky scent of whiskey or scotch rolling off his tongue as he speaks and breathes heavily. “I’m lost and I need a ride home.” My voice wavers as I speak and I hate it. I fist my hands in the hem of my blazer. “I’ll get Albert for you, but first spend some time with me,” he slurs again, sounding like his tongue is too large for his mouth. As if sensing my attention, the tip of his tongue sneaks out and slides along his supple bottom lip. He smiles as he tastes the alcohol that’s staining his mouth. His eyes are bright and shiny and glazed over. He has a smirk on his face that shows off his dimple. It no longer reminds me of Whitt. It seems sinister and dangerous- promising something I’m not ready to experience. The feel of his fingers playing with my hair gives me goosebumps and I shiver as my scalp tightens, sucking up the pleasant attention. I do my first stupid-girl moment of my life. I shameless crush on a guy and let it turn my thoughts to mush. “Okay, if you promise to call Albert first.” I try to negotiate with him and he gives me a naughty smirk for agreeing. He backs me up with his physical presence. His front touches mine- chest-to-chest. His lips part and breathes the smoky, whiskey scent onto my chin. My back hits the door behind me with an audible thump. He reaches around me and I don’t wince. I anticipate him touching me and crave it. Instead, his hand twists the doorknob by my hip and I fall backwards. I’m pushed into a dark room until my legs connect with the edge of a bed. I can’t see anything, and the only sound is our combined breathing. I feel alive with caution. I’m aware of every hair, every nerve on my flesh. My senses are so in-tuned that I can feel my system pumping the blood through my veins nourishing my whole body.
Erica Chilson (Jaded (Mistress & Master of Restraint, #5))
I never liked North America, even first trip. It is not most crowded part of Terra, has a mere billion people. In Bombay they sprawl on pavements; in Great New York they pack them vertically--not sure anyone sleeps. Was glad to be in invalid's chair. Is mixed-up place another way; they care about skin color--by making point of how they don't care. First trip I was always too light or too dark, and somehow blamed either way, or was always being expected to take stand on things I have no opinions on. Bog knows I don't know what genes I have. One grandmother came from a part of Asia where invaders passed as regularly as locusts, raping as they went--why not ask her? Learned to handle it by my second makee-learnee but it left a sour taste. Think I prefer a place as openly racist as India, where if you aren't Hindu, you're nobody--except that Parsees look down on Hindus and vice versa. However I never really had to cope with North America's reverse-racism when being "Colonel O' Kelly Davis, Hero of Lunar Freedom.
Robert A. Heinlein (The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress)
Though all the brilliant intellects of the ages were to concentrate upon this one theme, never could they adequately express their wonder at this dense darkness of the human mind. Men do not suffer anyone to seize their estates, and they rush to stones and arms if there is even the slightest dispute about the limit of their lands, yet they allow others to trespass upon their life—nay, they themselves even lead in those who will eventually possess it. No one is to be found who is willing to distribute his money, yet among how many does each one of us distribute his life! In guarding their fortune men are often closefisted, yet, when it comes to the matter of wasting time, in the case of the one thing in which it is right to be miserly, they show themselves most prodigal. And so I should like to lay hold upon someone from the company of older men and say: "I see that you have reached the farthest limit of human life, you are pressing hard upon your hundredth year, or are even beyond it; come now, recall your life and make a reckoning. Consider how much of your time was taken up with a moneylender, how much with a mistress, how much with a patron, how much with a client, how much in wrangling with your wife, how much in punishing your slaves, how much in rushing about the city on social duties. Add the diseases which we have caused by our own acts, add, too, the time that has lain idle and unused; you will see that you have fewer years to your credit than you count. Look back in memory and consider when you ever had a fixed plan, how few days have passed as you had intended, when you were ever at your own disposal, when your face ever wore its natural expression, when your mind was ever unperturbed, what work you have achieved in so long a life, how many have robbed you of life when you were not aware of what you were losing, how much was taken up in useless sorrow, in foolish joy, in greedy desire, in the allurements of society, how little of yourself was left to you; you will perceive that you are dying before your season!"7 What, then, is the reason of this? You live as if you were destined to live forever, no thought of your frailty ever enters your head, of how much time has already gone by you take no heed. You squander time as if you drew from a full and abundant supply, though all the while that day which you bestow on some person or thing is perhaps your last. You have all the fears of mortals and all the desires of immortals. You will hear many men saying: "After my fiftieth year I shall retire into leisure, my sixtieth year shall release me from public duties." And what guarantee, pray, have you that your life will last longer? Who will suffer your course to be just as you plan it? Are you not ashamed to reserve for yourself only the remnant of life, and to set apart for wisdom only that time which cannot be devoted to any business? How late it is to begin to live just when we must cease to live! What foolish forgetfulness of mortality to postpone wholesome plans to the fiftieth and sixtieth year, and to intend to begin life at a point to which few have attained!
Seneca (On the Shortness of Life)
Dark-eyed Lira reached Lan only moments before Bukama, the pair of them gently parting slashes in his clothes to examine his injuries. She shivered delicately as each was revealed, but she discussed whether an Aes Sedai should be sent for to give Healing and how much stitching was needed in as calm a tone as Bukama, and disparagingly dismissed his hand on the needle in favor of her own. Mistress Arovni stalked about, holding her skirts up out of patches of bloody mud, glaring at the corpses littering her stableyard, complaining in a loud voice that gangs of footpads would never be wandering in daylight if the Watch was doing its job. The Domani woman who had stared at Lan inside agreed just as loudly, and for her pains received a sharp command from the innkeeper to fetch the Watch, along with a shove to start her on her way. It was a measure of Mistress Arovni’s shock that she treated one of her patrons so, a measure of everyone’s shock that the Domani woman went running without complaint. The innkeeper began organizing men to drag the bodies out of sight.
Robert Jordan (New Spring (The Wheel of Time, #0))
A rattle of dishes warned of a servant’s entry into the hall, but Christopher was incensed, and half turning with a growl, he gestured Paine back. “Get out of here, man!” “Christopher!” Erienne gasped and took two halting steps to follow the befuddled servant, but Christopher came around to face her with a glare. “Stay where you are, madam! I am not finished with you.” “You have no right to give orders here,” she protested, her own ire growing. “This is my husband’s house!” “I’ll give orders when and where I damn well please, and for once, you will stand and listen until I’m through!” More than a trifle outraged herself, Erienne hurled back her answer. “You may command the men on your ship to your will, Mister Seton, but you have no such authority here! Good day to you!” Catching up her skirts, she whirled and stalked toward the tower until she heard the sound of rapid footsteps coming behind her, then a sudden panic seized her that he would make such a scene that she would not be able to face the servants… or her husband. She raced into the entry, stepping over the puddle, and took to the stairs, forcing every bit of strength she could into her limbs. She had barely gained the fourth step when she heard sliding feet, a loud thump, and then a painful grunt followed by an angry curse. When she whirled, Christopher was just coming to rest in a heap against the wall after sliding across the floor, partway on his back. For a moment she stared aghast at the dignified man sprawled in a most undignified manner, but when he raised his head to look at her with barely contained rage, she was struck by the humor of it all. Bubbling laughter broke forth, winning from him a dark scowl of exasperation. “Are you hurt, Christopher?” she asked sweetly. “Aye! My pride has been mightily bruised!” “Oh, that will mend, sir,” she chuckled, spreading her skirts to perch primly on the step above him. Her eyes danced with a lively light that was simply dazzling to behold. “But you should take care. If such a modest spot of water can bring you down so abruptly, I would not advise sailing beyond these shores.” “ ’Tis not a spot of water that’s brought me down, but a waspish wench who sets her barbs against me at every turn.” “You dare accuse me when you come in here huffing and snorting like a raging bull?” She gave a throaty, skeptical laugh. “Really, Christopher, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You frightened Paine and nearly made me swallow my heart.” “That’s an impossibility, madam, for that thing is surely made of cold, hard steel.” “You’re pouting,” she chided flippantly, “because I have not fallen swooning at your feet.” “I’m angry because you continually deny the fact that you should be my wife!” he stated emphatically. Footsteps on the stairs behind Erienne made them glance up. Aggie came nonchalantly down the steps, seeming unaware of Christopher’s storm-dark frown. Excusing herself, she stepped past her mistress. Finally, on reaching level footing, she contemplated the man, a twinkle of mischief in her eye. “Aren’t ye a wee bit old ter be takin’ yer leisure on the floor, sir?” He raised a brow at Erienne as that one smothered a giggle, and with a snort, got to his feet and brushed off his breeches and coatsleeve. -Christopher, Erienne, and Aggie
Kathleen E. Woodiwiss (A Rose in Winter)
A VALEDICTION: OF THE BOOK I'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt do To anger destiny, as she doth us; How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus, And how posterity shall know it too; How thine may out-endure Sibyl's glory, and obscure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame, And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name. Study our manuscripts, those myriads Of letters, which have past 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades, Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees, how Love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records. This book, as long-lived as the elements, Or as the world's form, this all-graved tome In cypher writ, or new made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals and Goths invade us, Learning were safe; in this our universe, Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse. Here Love's divines—since all divinity Is love or wonder—may find all they seek, Whether abstract spiritual love they like, Their souls exhaled with what they do not see; Or, loth so to amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something which they may see and use; For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it. Here more than in their books may lawyers find, Both by what titles mistresses are ours, And how prerogative these states devours, Transferred from Love himself, to womankind; Who, though from heart and eyes, They exact great subsidies, Forsake him who on them relies; And for the cause, honour, or conscience give; Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative. Here statesmen, (or of them, they which can read) May of their occupation find the grounds; Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds, If to consider what 'tis, one proceed. In both they do excel Who the present govern well, Whose weakness none doth, or dares tell; In this thy book, such will there something see, As in the Bible some can find out alchemy. Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee, As he removes far off, that great heights takes; How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be; To take a latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?
John Donne (The Love Poems)
Darkness: I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings—the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails—men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress—he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects—saw, and shriek'd, and died— Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— A lump of death—a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge— The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them—She was the Universe.
Lord Byron
After many years the woman died, of natural causes. And a few years after that, the ogre died. Eventually, his mistresses died, down on the ground, in the people village, over decades. The war men and women died. The human girl who had escaped her early death died, across the land, over by the ocean, in her shack of blue bowls and rocking chairs. The witch, who had originally made the cake and made up up the spell and given it as a gift to her beloved ogre friend, died. The cake went on and on. Time passed... And the cake, always wanting to please, the cake who had found a way to survive its endlessness by recreating its role over and over again, tried to figure out, in its cake way, what this light-dappled object might want to eat. So it became darkness, a cake of darkness. It did not have to be human food. It did not have to be digestible through a familiar tract. It lay there on the dirt, waiting, a simmering cake of darkness. Through time, and wind, and earthquakes, and chance. At last the cloak fell out of the tree and blew across the land and happened upon the cake where it ate its darkness and extinguished its own dappled light. The cloak disappeared into night and was not seen again, as it was only a piece of coat shaped darkness now and could not be spotted so easily, had there been any eyes left to see it. It floated and joined with nowhere. Darkness was overtaking everything, anyway, pouring over the land and sky. The cake itself, still in the shape of darkness, sat on the hillside. 'What's left?' said the cake. It thought in blocks of feeling. It felt the thick darkness all around it. 'What is left to eat me, to take me in?' Darkness did not want to eat more darkness, not especially. Darkness did not care for carrot cake, or apple pie. Darkness did not seem interested in a water cake or a cake of money. Only when the cake filled with light did it come over. The darkness circling around the light, devouring the light. But the cake kept refilling, as we know. This is the spell of the cake. And the darkness eating light, and again, light, and again, light, lifted.
Aimee Bender (The Color Master: Stories)
Tempestuous plains tell the tale, Windswept wastes do bewail, Haunting Spirit of the land, Seeks the living, seeks the damned. Horizoned edge sheared with grass, Dark Storm Rising in the pass, Ageless Spirit seeks the path, To torment souls to the last. Brooding Spirit upon the plain, Thunderhead gathers for the rain. Light grows dim then bolts with pain, On dry Earth her sin is stained. (Frightened creatures do stampede, Into night, they do recede). Ungodded hand on seasoned blade, Reaps the harvest of the Age. Released from her eternal din, Spirit of the Age rises again. Seeking to plunder and consume, Those who were proud, those who presumed. Spirits rage while storm draws nigh, Upon burning plain and emblazoned sky. It is said giants grapple in the Earth so deep, To contend for souls that they might keep. The Storm spirit now searches the high and the low, To seek her manchild victim in the fields below. Leaves bad wasteland to claim but a fallen man, Denying it Heaven, crowning it, ‘Son of the Damned.’ Treacherous Spirit of the far lost night, Tramples souls down denying them light. Storm seethes with furious hiss, Leads men on to bottomless pit. This most ancient of foes has come from her den, To seek the living, to make ready those dead. A living sacrifice is her soul desire, To snatch the soul for black funeral pyre. A double-damned devil, that is she, This one who lies, who claims to make free. A lying spirit, that is her domain, A storm-wracked Fury of self-proclaim. Onward she seeks, this bleak Northern wind, Searching for naught but for a soul akin. Amidst the howling and the rage, To murder again, that is her trade. As this spirit of graves left the plain, She left a wake of dead in shrouded train. Now down from the plain Storm did come, Unto those cities wherein was no sun. There with whirlwind she did rip and scour, For those souls of whom she could tear and devour. She comes to seek the living and the dead, Those who were frightened, those with no dread. Thus upon those she did acclaim, “I am the Mistress of the living and the slain.” O’ haunting Spirit of this land, Taker of life, maker of the damned. --On Villainess Storm, Ch. One Valley of the Damned
douglas m laurent
He had been right. Kestrel felt better the moment she opened her eyes. Her knee was sore and wrapped in a bandage, but the fevered swelling was gone, and a great deal of pain with it. Her father was standing, his back to her as he looked out the dark window. “You’d better release me from our bargain,” she said. “The military won’t take me now, not with a bad knee.” He turned and echoed her faint smile. “Don’t you wish that were so,” he said. “Painful though it is, this isn’t a serious wound. You’ll be on your feet soon, and walking normally before a month’s out. There’s no permanent damage. If you doubt me and think I’m blinded by my hope to see you become an officer, the doctor will tell you the same thing. She’s in the sitting room.” Kestrel looked at the closed door of her bedroom and wondered why the doctor wasn’t in the room with them now. “I want to ask you something,” her father said. “I’d prefer she didn’t hear.” Suddenly it seemed as if Kestrel’s heart, not her knee, was sore. That it had been cut into, and bled. “What kind of deal did you make with Irex?” her father asked. “What?” He gave her a level look. “The duel was going badly for you. Then Irex held back, and you two seemed to have quite an interesting conversation. When the fighting resumed, it was as if Irex was a different person. He shouldn’t have lost to you--not like that, anyway--unless you said something to make him.” She didn’t know how to respond. When her father had asked his question she was so horribly grateful he wasn’t probing into her reasons for the duel that she missed some of his words. “Kestrel, I just want to make sure that you haven’t given Irex some kind of power over you.” “No.” She sighed, disappointed that her father had seen through her victory. “If anything, he’s in my power.” “Ah. Good. Will you tell me how?” “I know a secret.” “Very good. No, don’t tell me what it is. I don’t want to know.” Kestrel looked at the fire. She let the flames hypnotize her eyes. “Do you think I care how you won?” her father said softly. “You won. Your methods don’t matter.” Kestrel thought about the Herran War. She thought about the suffering her father had brought to this country, and how his actions had led to her becoming a mistress, and Arin a slave. “Do you really believe that?” “Yes,” he said. “I do.
Marie Rutkoski (The Winner's Curse (The Winner's Trilogy, #1))
Raphael pulled out a paperback and handed it to me. The cover, done back in the time when computer-aided imagine manipulation had risen to the level of art, featured an impossibly handsome man, leaning forward, one foot in a huge black boot resting on the carcass of some monstrous sea creature. His hair flowed down to his shoulders in a mane of white gold, in stark contrast to his tanned skin and the rakish black patch hiding his left eye. His white, translucent shirt hung open, revealing abs of steel and a massive, perfectly carved chest graced by erect nipples. His muscled thighs strained the fabric of his pants, which were unbuttoned and sat loosely on his narrow hips, a touch of a strategically positioned shadow hinting at the world’s biggest boner. The cover proclaimed in loud golden letters: The Privateer’s Virgin Mistress, by Lorna Sterling. “Novel number four for Andrea’s collection?” I guessed. Raphael nodded and took the book from my hands. “I’ve got the other one Andrea wanted, too. Can you explain something to me?” Oh boy. “I can try.” He tapped the book on his leather-covered knee. “The pirate actually holds this chick’s brother for ransom, so she’ll sleep with him. These men, they aren’t real men. They’re pseudo-bad guys just waiting for the love of a ‘good’ woman.” “You actually read the books?” He gave me a chiding glance. “Of course I read the books. It’s all pirates and the women they steal, apparently so they can enjoy lots of sex and have somebody to run their lives.” Wow. He must’ve had to hide under his blanket with a flashlight so nobody would question his manliness. Either he really was in love with Andrea or he had a terminal case of lust. “These guys, they’re all bad and aggressive as shit, and everybody wets themselves when they walk by, and then they meet some girl and suddenly they’re not uber-alphas; they are just misunderstood little boys who want to talk about their feelings.” “Is there a point to this dissertation?” He faced me. “I can’t be that. If that’s what she wants, then I shouldn’t even bother.” I sighed. “Do you have a costume kink? French maid, nurse . . .” “Catholic school girl.” Bingo. “You wouldn’t mind Andrea wearing a Catholic school uniform, would you?” “No, I wouldn’t.” His eyes glazed over and he slipped off to some faraway place. I snapped my fingers. “Raphael! Focus.” He blinked at me. “I’m guessing—and this is just a wild stab in the dark—that Andrea might not mind if once in a while you dressed up as a pirate. But I wouldn’t advise holding her relatives for ransom nookie. She might shoot you in the head. Several times. With silver bullets.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Strikes (Kate Daniels, #3))
Exotic. The word such men use when they want to make dark-eyed women into their mistresses, or rare pale deer into their pets. A word that carries both their thrill and the sense that they are entitled to all that interests them.
Anna-Marie McLemore (Dark and Deepest Red)
Never understood why there weren’t Day Girls.’ ‘Same as why there aren’t woman Masters.’ ‘Mistresses,’ Anne corrects. I wince, feel heat in my face, hotter than the day. ‘The women come out all crooked; it breaks them, burns ’em up. Girls is a bit different, Dain says.’ (...) ‘You know what I think?’ she says. ‘I guess I will in a moment.’ ‘I think they’re frightened of us. And…’ I look in her eyes, dark as the sky in the middle of the night. ‘They should be.
Trent Jamieson (Day Boy)
Maleficent had come to realize it was her fondness for Opal that allowed her to see though her eyes.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
Bugger what they say about fate. Bridey Hawthorn is the cruellest mistress.
L. Starla (Winter's Thrall (Winter's Magic, #2.5))
The Verbally Abusive Relationship by Patricia Evans,
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
It seemed that the two were "running"—leaping and bounding as if weightless—in close pursuit of their prey, which the Count had sighted: a youth of about fourteen, with a very dark skin, like ebony; a startled white smile, or grimace; and eyes protuberant as the eyes of a panicked pony. This, on lower Witherspoon Street, several blocks below the cemetery; on a night of intermittent moonlight and shadows; like big cats they stole upon the youth, soundless; like cats, cuffing and pummeling and clawing him, as he cried out in terror. The Count drove the boy at Mandy, who drove him back to the Count, with the most deft motions of her hands; then, with a muffled cry, the Count fell upon their prey, sinking his teeth deep in the ebony-dark throat, and deeper yet. The Count reached out to seize his mistress's wild windblown hair, and to tug her to him, that she too might embrace the now paralyzed youth, and suffer the paroxysm of gratified desire.
Joyce Carol Oates (The Accursed)
Suddenly one day I sprouted boobs. Not *just* boobs. Enormous boobs. When puberty finally struck, I developed faster than a Polaroid. In my mind at least, I remember going to bed flat as a board one night and waking up with ginormous breasts the next morning. It was like, whoa, dude - this is better than the tooth fairy!
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
Some would say so,” Mistress Wick said. “But there is always more than one way to see the world. Those who claim otherwise would have you dwell forever in the dark.
Margaret Rogerson (Sorcery of Thorns)
Truth be told, slaves in Jamaica have more ranking among themself than massa. In this place two thing matter more than most, how dark a nigger you be and where the white man choose to put you. One have all to do with the other. From highest to lowest, this be how things go. The number one prime nigger who would never get sell is the head of the house slaves. That position so hoity-toity that in some house is a white woman who be that nigger. The head house nigger get charge with so much that she downright run the house, and everybody including the massa do what she say. Homer careful not to cross the line, though. Position can make a negro girl forget herself and there is always the cowhide, the cat-o’-nine and the buckshot to remind her of her place. After she, there be the house slaves who work the rooms and the grounds and the gardens. Sometimes is the prime pretty niggers or the mulatto, quadroon or mustee that work there. Then you have the cooks who the backra trust the most, because the cook know that if the mistress get sick after a meal there goin’ be a whipping or a hanging before the cock even crow. Other house slaves be cleaning and dusting and shining and manservanting and womanservanting and taking care of backra pickneys. After the house slaves come the artisan niggermens, like the blacksmith, the bricklayer, the tanner, the silversmith, niggers who skilled with they hands, followed by the stable boys, coachmen and carters. Next is the field niggers, headed by the Johnny-jumpers who be the right hand and left hand of the slave-drivers. They do most of the whipping and kicking but when the estate running right they have nothing to do, so they whip and kick harder. After Johnny-jumper come the Great Slave Gang, the most expensive slaves, the one who they buy for the long years of hard work. The mens and the womens strapping and handsome like a prime horse. Most be Ashanti, what the white man call Coromantee, but they not easy to control so they get punish plenty for they spiritedness. But a dead Coromantee man can set an estate back up to three hundred pounds so they careful not to kill too much. After that is the Petit Gang, the makeup of plain common nigger. Some cost less than one hundred pounds and they work the other fields, like the ratoon or the tobacco that some planters grown on the side. Other nigger look down ’pon them mens as worthless and them womens as good for rutting, not breeding. On some estate even the pickneys work, mostly in the trash gang to pick up rubbish on the estate or to carry water for the field slaves to drink, or to get firewood. That be the negroes.
Marlon James (The Book of Night Women)
Suddenly, a brilliant burst of green light shot up from the highest tower, warning every nearby creature that Maleficent was in a terrible rage.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
Riley and Jack stood at the words and turned to face the small woman who looked like she couldn't blow over a paper tower. Gray hair and dark-rimmed glasses certainly gave her the appearance of a school mistress, but being so close to the floor? She couldn't be an inch over five feet, and Jack felt like a giant. God knew how Riley felt. ... Jack expected her to sit behind the desk that sat imposingly in the corner, but instead, she led them to a grouping of comfy chairs. The chair seemed to swallow Jack, and he struggled to sit upright, looking over to see Riley was having the same problem. Squirming without making it too obvious, he perched more towards the front. Clearly, the chairs were some kind of torture for parents, one way to level the playing field given her height. She forced all the tall big people to fall into a sofa abyss.
R.J. Scott (Texas Winter (Texas, #2))
After dark, I will show you to your bedroom, and your husband will arrive.” Psyche’s throat twisted like a Twizzler. “My husband?” “Yes, mistress.” “Who is my husband?” “The lord of this house.” “But who is the lord of this house?” “Your husband, of course.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Heroes (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide))
Abusers aren’t interested in wimps. They like a challenge. If an abusive man perceives his spouse or girlfriend as having more power than he does, taking her down a notch or two gives his self-esteem, security, and identity a boost.
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
The Opposite of Famous
Cassandra Peterson (Yours Cruelly, Elvira: Memoirs of the Mistress of the Dark)
She sighed and leaned down, kissed my thigh, and then looked up, and put her arm around my shoulder, moving close, so our thighs and arms were touching. She put her finger to my lips. “Well, Gwendoline, my dear vampire-pale mistress-confessor, who wishes to possess my soul, the first confession is this: I love playing like this. Being your prisoner is exciting. Her voice had gone throaty, dreamy, and her fingers were playing in my stubble, caressing it, stroking it, my recently shaved skull. We slid to the floor and rolled over. I pinned her down. I bit her left nipple, just a delicate nip and twist, and lingering lick and kiss. Remember! Leave no marks! “Oh, Gwendoline, the silliest things arouse me,” she whispered, her teeth tugging my earlobe. “Like what?” I slid off her body, and lay beside her, both of us now on our sides, face to face, only a few inches apart. “Like what?” I repeated, kissing her, and running my hand over the curve of her hip, and cupping her backside. She took a deep breath. “Certain gestures you make drive me crazy.” “Me?” “Yes, like when you reach up to put the curls at the nape of your neck back in place, or when you just touch the nape of your neck. Or when you tilt your head down and look up from under your eye¬brows that are coal-black like arched arrows in flight. Or like the way your English accent in French is sometimes just a bit awkward, and I want to touch your lips and correct you by kissing you. And then – and this is unbearably beautiful – there’s the self-conscious way you sometimes walk, looking down as if abashed at the cobble¬stones just in front of your toes, as if you were self-conscious of your sexual vulnerability, as if you were shy, and retiring, a vestal virgin, a timid, self-conscious child. And then there’s the way your shoes are always so neat and impeccable, even when it is raining, or muddy. I want to get down on my knees and worship! Everything about you is neat and self-contained, and as if it had been just polished.
Gwendoline Clermont (Gwendoline Goes To School)
that we find Christian writers, such as Lactantius, in the fourth century, exposing the absurdity of the practice, and deriding the Romans "for lighting up candles to God, as if He lived in the dark," Had such a custom at that time gained the least footing among Christians, Lactantius could never have ridiculed it as he does, as a practice peculiar to Paganism. But what was unknown to the Christian Church in the beginning of the fourth century, soon thereafter began to creep in, and now forms one of the most marked peculiarities of that community that boasts that it is the "Mother and mistress of all Churches.
Alexander Hislop (The Two Babylons)
Above her lateral line she was blacker than night; below she was a metallic silver. Her physically perfect body represented both the heaven and hell she possessed. She had the lustrous lines of a young mistress and brought all the trouble that accompanies one in her devious black eyes. She teased us by exposing herself from the depths but refused to surrender to our desires. Dreams and nightmares live in close proximity when marlin fishing.
Kenton Geer (Vicious Cycle: Whiskey, Women, and Water)
The sea may be your lover, but she is not your friend. You cannot safely turn your back to her. Her loyalty is that of an ex- wife, her characteristics more of a new mistress; she will bring you to your highest peaks, but beware for on the other side of the high ground lie valleys of unspeakable misery. Her mind games are second to none. She will lead you down darker alleys of your mind than you ever knew existed within. She will make you question all that you are.
Kenton Geer (Vicious Cycle: Whiskey, Women, and Water)
but when she looked into his eyes, those dark velvet brown eyes, Arabella saw something of tenderness. And for all that she should have known better, for all of her common sense, she felt the stirrings of old feelings that she had thought never to feel again.
Margaret McPhee (Gentlemen Of Disrepute: Unmasking The Duke's Mistress / A Dark And Brooding Gentleman (Quills 2 in 1))
To some, a guitar is just wood and string. To others, it’s a shoulder, a jealous mistress, danger, sabbath, a voice in the wilderness, a suit of armor, a curtain to hide behind, a rock to stand on, a flying carpet, a hammer. But sometimes, in moments where light meets the dark, it’s a stake we drive in the ground and the darkness rolls back as a scroll.
Charles Martin (Long Way Gone)
In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness/The Secret Sharer)
But your thirst for knowledge has sparked life back into us, and for that we are grateful.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
Today, mistress, I will give you anything you desire. How about a tall, dark, handsome stranger? I'm sure I can find you one in the market.
Erica Verrillo (Elissa's Odyssey (Phoenix Rising, #2))
there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)
ONCE, IN A HOUSE ON EGYPT STREET, there lived a rabbit who was made almost entirely of china. He had china arms and china legs, china paws and a china head, a china torso and a china nose. His arms and legs were jointed and joined by wire so that his china elbows and china knees could be bent, giving him much freedom of movement. His ears were made of real rabbit fur, and beneath the fur, there were strong, bendable wires, which allowed the ears to be arranged into poses that reflected the rabbit’s mood — jaunty, tired, full of ennui. His tail, too, was made of real rabbit fur and was fluffy and soft and well shaped. The rabbit’s name was Edward Tulane, and he was tall. He measured almost three feet from the tip of his ears to the tip of his feet; his eyes were painted a penetrating and intelligent blue. In all, Edward Tulane felt himself to be an exceptional specimen. Only his whiskers gave him pause. They were long and elegant (as they should be), but they were of uncertain origin. Edward felt quite strongly that they were not the whiskers of a rabbit. Whom the whiskers had belonged to initially — what unsavory animal — was a question that Edward could not bear to consider for too long. And so he did not. He preferred, as a rule, not to think unpleasant thoughts. Edward’s mistress was a ten-year-old, dark-haired girl named Abilene Tulane, who thought almost as highly of Edward as Edward thought of himself. Each morning after she dressed herself for school, Abilene dressed Edward. The china rabbit was in possession of an extraordinary wardrobe composed of handmade silk suits, custom shoes fashioned from the finest leather and designed specifically for his rabbit feet, and a wide array of hats equipped with holes so that they could easily fit over Edward’s large and expressive ears. Each pair of well-cut pants had a small pocket for Edward’s gold pocket watch. Abilene wound this watch for him each morning.
Kate DiCamillo (The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane)
He's like a little boy again now for the first time in years because he's like let out of school, no job, the bills paid, nothing to do but gratefully amuse me, his eyes are shining -- In fact ever since he's come out of San Quentin there's been something hauntedly boyish about him as tho prison walls had taken all the adult dark tenseness out of him -- In fact every evening after supper in the cell he shared with the quiet gunman he'd bent his serious head to a daily letter or at least every-other-day letter full of philosophical and religious musings to his mistress Billie... And when you're in bed in jail after lights out and you're not sleepy there's ample time to just remember the world and indeed savor its sweetness if any (altho it's always sweet to remember it in jail tho harder in prison, as Genet shows) with the result that he'd not only come to a chastisement of his bashing bitternesses (and of course it's always good to get away from alcohol and excessive smoking for two years) (and all that regular sleep) he was just like a kid again, but as I say that haunting kidlikeness I think all ex cons seem to have when they've just come out -- In seeking to severely penalize criminals society by putting the criminals away behind safe walls actually provide them with the means of greater strength for future atrocities glorious and otherwise -- "Well I'll be damned" he keeps saying as he sees those bluffs and cliffs and hanging vines and dead trees, "you mean to tell me you ben alone here for three weeks, why I wouldn't dare that... must be awful at night ... looka that old mule down there... man, dig the redwood country way back in... reminds me of old Colorady b'god when I used to steal a car every day and drive out to hills like this with a fresh little high school sumptin" -- "Yum Yum, " says Dave Wain emphatically turning that big goofy look to us from his driving wheel with his big mad feverish shining eyes full of yumyum and yabyum too --
Jack Kerouac (Big Sur)
Her profession? Ah! as to that, English readers, try not to be too severe. Russia is a great, but hard mistress, who demands of all her children work according to their means and ability. The word spy has an ugly meaning with us, we loathe it, if applied to a man, and cannot even conceive it as an attribute to a young and gifted woman. But in Russia, where all round an absolute monarchy a web of intrigue and conspiracy is woven, where blows are aimed and dealt at the head of the State from every quarter of the Empire, from every class of society, and always from the dark, these blows must be met with counter-blows of the same nature, secret, swift, and dark. An enemy, hidden behind every pillar of a palace, can but be fought by means as secret as his own.
Emmuska Orczy (Collected Works of Baroness Emma Orczy)
Basically, she’s as retiring as I am arrogant—except when she’s sword fighting. Mina is a mistress at arms.
Kresley Cole (Shadow's Seduction (Immortals After Dark, #16; The Dacians, #2))
Future and Fate depend on both the journey and the destination.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles #1))
It comes for you," Lindsay repeated, her voice hideously broken. "You will pass into the sea nothing more than a blackened scaffold, and your dark mistress will not recall your name, for she has swallowed a million of your lecherous kind before you, and she will swallow a million more before she's done.
Matt Tomerlin (The Devil's Fire (Devil's Fire, #1))
Self-doubt is a persuasive mistress; careful not to shag her or you’ll never get your balls back.
Dannika Dark (Twist (Mageri, #2; Mageriverse #2))
But suddenly down the wind came tearing a smell sharper, stronger, more lacerating than any—a smell that ripped across his brain stirring a thousand instincts, releasing a million memories—the smell of hare, the smell of fox. Off he flashed like a fish drawn in a rush through water further and further. He forgot his mistress; he forgot all humankind. He heard dark men cry “Span! Span!” He heard whips crack He raced; he rushed. At last he stopped bewildered; the incantation faded; very slowly wagging his tail sheepishly he trotted back across the fields to where Miss Mitford stood shouting “Flush! Flush! Flush!” and waving her umbrella.
Virginia Woolf (Flush)
Her name is Aurora, for she is my shining light in the darkness.
Serena Valentino (Mistress of All Evil: A Tale of the Dark Fairy (Villains #4))
To make matters worse, his mistress moved into the house shortly after my mother left. Her name was Kanehara, and she was Korean, like my father. She was wicked and cruel, especially toward my younger sisters, but my father never struck Kanehara. Not once.
Masaji Ishikawa (A River in Darkness: One Man's Escape from North Korea)
back to the border with Belarus. Though he would have liked to have gotten some sleep, he kept his eyes open and his head on a swivel the entire way. When they met up with the Old Man’s smugglers and said their good-byes, he thanked her. She had taken a lot of risks on his behalf and he wanted her to know how much he appreciated it. Without her, this could have very well turned into a suicide operation. Climbing into the smuggler’s truck, he made himself comfortable for his next six hours of driving to the border with Poland. There, he’d at least be back in NATO territory, though he couldn’t let his guard down. At least not fully. It wasn’t until he was back on The Carlton Group jet and in the air that the weight of everything he had been under started to lift. Once he was in international airspace, he got up and poured himself a drink. Returning to his seat, he raised the glass and toasted the Old Man. He hoped that somewhere, up there, Reed was proud of him. As he sat there, sipping his bourbon, Harvath conducted a mental after-action report. He went over every single detail, contemplating what he could have done differently, and where appropriate, what he could have done better. Once his review was complete, he went through all of it again, looking for anything that might identify Alexandra, or tie her directly to him. Fortunately, there was nothing he could come up with to be worried about. From Josef’s hospital where she had avoided the cameras and had stayed bundled up, to the interaction with Minayev’s mistress where she had worn the balaclava, and finally to the security guards at Misha’s loft where she had been wearing a dark wig and heavy makeup while making sure to never face the cameras, she had been the perfect partner. Even outside on Moscow’s streets, she had made sure they stayed in the shadows. Alexandra, thinking of everything, had taken down the telephone number of the management company for the building where they had left the hospital worker tied up. She had promised to phone in either a noise complaint or some sort of anonymous tip, so that the man would be found and cut loose. He didn’t know how she planned to get the envelopes
Brad Thor (Backlash (Scot Harvath, #18))
There is a misperception about black women in society. When a black woman presents expectations to a man, she is seen as needy, bossy and a gold digger. When a woman who is not of African American descent expresses the same thing from a man, she is seen as a trophy wife. When a woman of European descent presents the same thing, she is viewed as a classy woman with standards. When a woman of European descent presents the same standards as a black woman, the Caucasian woman is credited for implementing rules of dating when she expects a man to pay for dinner or when she tells a man what she desires out of a relationship. The value of African American women is reduced not only by dominant culture and society, but by men, particularly African American men. The media, radio, music, television, newspapers and movies have devalued African American women when in reality African American women are honorable, respectable, classy, elegant, beautiful, educated and hardworking women. Dark skin women are viewed as angry, unattractive and uneducated within modern society. African American women are seen as loud, irate, insensitive and angry women as a result of labels from some African American men, media, movies and music. Television, magazines, social media, internet, videos and some music present Hispanic, Latino, White and Armenian women as trophy wives, idols and models while presenting African American women as mistresses, one night stands, casual sex, gold diggers and “baby mamas.” Latino and Dominican women are viewed as physically beautiful while Caucasian women are viewed as ideal and classy within media, music, music videos and movies. Media presents black women as bitter, scorned, ghetto, ratchet and promiscuous as if women of other races do not exhibit those characteristics. Women of other races are on television and the internet using profanity, fighting, engaging in sexual acts and cheating, however, there is an emphasis on African American women who exhibit those behaviors” (McEachern 85).
Jessica McEachern (Societal Perceptions)
So much to learn,” I said with a groan. “How will I manage?” She just laughed; and the next day a new arrival brought my most formidable interview yet: with my new maid. “Her name is Mora,” Nee told me, “and she’s a connection of my own Ilvet. An aunt, I think. Ilvet promises she is deft and discreet. She was working for one of the northern families--low pay and too much work--but she stayed until her mistress married and adopted into a household even more huskscraping. Mora and the others suddenly found themselves each doing the work of three, while living in chambers that hadn’t been altered for four hundred years--right down to the mold on the stones. If you like her, she will then hire your staff, whom you will never really see.” I shook my head. “Strange, to consider having a staff I won’t see.” But as I went to the interview, my thought was: You mean, if she likes me. Mora was tall and thin, with gray-streaked dark hair. Her face is more inscrutable even than Shevraeth’s, I thought with dismay. She bowed, then waited, her hands folded, for me to speak. I took a deep breath. “I gather you’re used to sophisticated Court people, and I’d better tell you right out that I’m not sophisticated and haven’t been to Court. Well, except once, but that was against my will. It’s true that I’m going to Court, but I don’t know that I’ll stay past the wedding; and then--most likely--it’s back here for the rest of my life. I go barefoot all summer, and until now I’ve never owned more than one hat. And my friends have all been village people.” She said nothing, but there was the faintest crinkling of humor about her eyes. “On the other hand,” I said, “I’m used to cleaning up after myself. I also won’t interfere with your hiring whomever you need, and you’ll be paid whatever you think fair, at least while we can pay. The fortune came to us on someone’s whim, so I suppose it could disappear the same way.” Mora bowed. “You honor me,” she said, “with your honesty, my lady.” “Does that mean you’ll stay?” I asked, after an uncomfortable pause. She smiled then, just a little. “I believe, my lady,” she said, “it is for you to decide if you want me.” I clapped my hands, relieved that this formidable woman had not left in disgust. “Great. Then start today,” I said, and grinned. “There’s plenty to do if I’m to get properly civilized.
Sherwood Smith (Court Duel (Crown & Court, #2))
Anita approached their target. Deon Simpson couldn’t keep his focus on his mistress as Anita got closer. Jocelyn watched his dark eyes drift from his date’s face to Anita’s curvy form. She hadn’t worn stockings, and her brown skin was smooth and supple, glimpses of it flashing from the slit in her short skirt as she walked. Simpson’s eyes flitted back to the mistress, then once more to Anita. When
Lisa Regan (Drop Dead Crime: Mystery and Suspense from the Leading Ladies of Murder (PI Jocelyn Rush, #2.5))
He had to smile, or his fragile world would fall apart.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
Oh, well, dearie, a woman’s a different thing entirely. Who knows where a woman begins and ends? Listen, mistress, I have roots, I have roots deeper than this island. Deeper than the sea, older than the raising of the lands. I go back into the dark.
Ursula K. Le Guin (Tehanu (Earthsea Cycle, #4))
Who know where a woman begins and ends? Listen, mistress, I have roots, I have roots deeper than this island. Deeper than the sea, older than the rising of the lands. I go back into the dark. I go back into the dark! Before the moon I was. No one knows, no one knows, no one can say what I am, what a woman is, a woman of power, a woman's power, deeper than the roots of trees, deeper than the roots of islands, older than the Making, older than the moon. Who dares asks questions of the dark? Who'll ask the dark its name?
Ursula K. Le Guin (Tehanu (Earthsea Cycle, #4))
There is none but me, Myshella the Dark Lady – and I am the mistress.
Michael Moorcock (Elric of Melniboné and Other Stories)
The Romans themselves had always dreaded that this might be their destiny. As Sallust, their first great historian, put it, “There can be no doubting that Fortune is the mistress of all she surveys, the creature of her own caprices, choosing to broadcast the fame of one man while leaving that of another in darkness, without any regard for the scale of what they might both have achieved.
Tom Holland (Rubicon: The Last Years of the Roman Republic)
But you, the Master-Mistress of my mind, Whose Demon sits high-throned above my stars— But you, whose passionate pinions know no kind, Whose scars are burnt with scars— You will divine my song in your far place, And call it with your wings, and hold it high; And underneath the dark of that embrace Young songs shall cry.
Swinburne Hale (The Demon’s Notebook: Verse and Perverse)
It was promptly settled between us that he and I were to be great friends for ever, and he would say 'our friendship' as though he were speaking of some important and delightful thing which had an existence independent of ourselves, and which he soon called—not counting his love for his mistress—the great joy of his life. These words made me rather uncomfortable and I was at a loss for an answer, for I did not feel when I was with him and talked to him—and no doubt it would have been the same with everyone else—any of that happiness which it was, on the other hand, possible for me to experience when I was by myself. For alone, at times, I felt surging from the depths of my being one or other of those impressions which gave me a delicious sense of comfort. But as soon as I was with some one else, when I began to talk to a friend, my mind at once 'turned about,' it was towards the listener and not myself that it directed its thoughts, and when they followed this outward course they brought me no pleasure. Once I had left Saint-Loup, I managed, with the help of words, to put more or less in order the confused minutes that I had spent with him; I told myself that I had a good friend, that a good friend was a rare thing, and I tasted, when I felt myself surrounded by 'goods' that were difficult to acquire, what was precisely the opposite of the pleasure that was natural to me, the opposite of the pleasure of having extracted from myself and brought to light something that was hidden in my inner darkness. If I had spent two or three hours in conversation with Saint-Loup, and he had expressed his admiration of what I had said to him, I felt a sort of remorse, or regret, or weariness at not having been left alone and ready, at last, to begin my work. … We fear more than the loss of everything else the disappearance of the 'goods' that have remained beyond our reach, because our heart has not taken possession of them.
Marcel Proust
I thumbed through the outfits and my hands grazed leather. A black leather jacket. I could dimly recall wearing it at some point. Must’ve been during my “Oh look, I’m tough!” days. I slipped it on and looked in the bedroom mirror. I looked like a bravo. And it was hot. Oh well. It was better than nothing. I took the jacket off, changed my T-shirt for a dark gray tank top, slipped on the tangle of the back sheath, and put the jacket on again. Thugs are us. Great. Just add a super-tight ponytail and loads of mascara, and I’d be ripe to play a supervillain’s evil mistress. Ve haf vays of making you gif us your DNA sample. I settled for my usual braid. Having rebraided by hair, I paused, considered the arsenal available to me, put on thin wristbands loaded with silver needles, and took nothing else except Slayer. To get clear of two hundred enraged shapechangers I’d need a case of grenades and air support. There was no reason to weigh myself down with extra weapons. Then again, maybe I should take a knife. One knife, as a backup. Okay, two. And that’s it. Armed and dressed to kill—or rather to die quickly but in style—I went to get the wolf-man and together we took the gloomy staircase down to the street.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Bites (Kate Daniels, #1))
The fact is, I just don’t like you, Ma’am. Working with you this past month has been pretty Goddamn unpleasant and I’m ready to see the end of your pretty little backside.” Celeste’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. “How dare you? Do you have any idea of who I really am and what I could do to you if I chose?” He shrugged. “Yeah, I know you think you’re hot shit—a three-star vamp and hotter than a firecracker to look at—but I’ve seen how you treat your people. Pretty is as pretty does, my nana used to say and let me tell you, Celeste, you’re one of the ugliest fucking people I’ve ever met.” “I… why… you…” I had never seen my old mistress so flustered before. “You will stay with me,” she said at last, glaring at him. “You will see this to the end or… or…” “Go ahead,” he said coolly. “Tell me how you’re going to kill me. Then just come on and try it. I may be too much of a gentleman to hit a lady but somehow I don’t think you fall into that category.” Celeste’s eyes narrowed. “You will finish the job I hired you to do or I will ruin your reputation, Mr. Shadowlock. No one will ever hire you in Florida again.” “What a big loss that would be,” he said dryly.
Evangeline Anderson (Scarlet Heat (Born to Darkness, #2; Scarlet Heat, #0))
I suspected this might happen,” she said, struggling to regain some form of composure. “Kn-knowing of your reputation with women, I knew you might someday make an advance to me.” “What just happened between us was not an ‘advance,’” he said thickly. She did not look at him. “If I am to remain as a guest in your household, we must forget this incident.” “Incident,” he repeated scornfully. “This has been building between us for months, since the first time we met.” “It has not,” she countered, while her heart hammered in her throat, nearly choking her into silence. “I won't deny that I find you attractive, I… any woman would. But if you are under the misconception that I would become your mistress—” “No,” he said, his huge hands coming to the sides of her face, fingers curving around the back of her skull. He urged her face upward, and Holly quailed at the look in his dark, passionate eyes. “No, I never thought that,” he said, his voice turning raspy. “I want more from you than that. I want—” “Don't say anything else,” Holly begged, closing her eyes tightly. “We've both gone mad. Let me go this instant. Now, before you make it impossible for me to stay at your estate any longer.” Although she hadn't expected the words to affect him, they seemed to make great impact. There was a long, taut silence. Slowly his hands eased their possessive grip and dropped away. “There's no reason for you to leave my home,” he said. “We'll handle this however you like.” The clutch of panic began to ease from her throat. “I—I want to ignore this as if it never happened.” “All right,” he said at once, although his gaze was frankly skeptical. “You set the rules, my lady.
Lisa Kleypas (Where Dreams Begin)
Nicci knew that if one relied on ethereal deities to solve problems, then those problems usually remained unsolved.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
... conquering territory is one thing, while administering it is quite another.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
A civilization must have laws, but there cannot be justice when a man with no conscience metes out sentences without compassion or mercy.
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
The Wizard's Second Rule? What is that? Is it in the archives?" "Any student of magical lore should know it. The greatest harm can result from the best intentions. ...
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
All dragons are special, my boy - and they have always been rare. Angry red dragons, aloof green dragons, wise gray dragons, evil black dragons...
Terry Goodkind (Death's Mistress (Sister of Darkness: The Nicci Chronicles, #1))
and you’re a good match.’ ‘You have a very precise memory.’ ‘It was yesterday.’ ‘I should have told you he keeps a mistress and ignores me.’ Reacher smiled. He said, ‘Good night, Mrs Mackenzie.’ She left him there, the same as the night before, alone in the dark, on the concrete bench, looking at the stars. At that moment a mile away, Stackley clicked off a phone call and parked his beat-up old pick-up truck in a lot behind an out-of-business retail enterprise three blocks from the centre of town. Earlier in his life he had favoured expensive haircuts, and one time when waiting in the salon he had read a magazine that said success in business depended entirely on ruthless control of costs. Thus wherever possible he slept in his truck. Hence the camper shell. A motel would take what he made on two pills. Why give it away? The old gal across the Snowy Range had bought a box of fentanyl patches, but he had given her one he had already opened, an hour before, very carefully, so he could skim out a patch all his own, for his pocket, for later. The old gal would never notice. If she did, she would assume she was too stoned to count right. A natural reaction. Addicts learned to blame themselves. The same the world over. He took scissors from his glove box, and he cut a quarter-inch strip off the patch, and he slipped it under his tongue. Sublingual, it was called. Another magazine in the same salon said it was the best method of all. Stackley couldn’t argue. At that moment sixty miles away, in the low hills west of town, Rose Sanderson was putting herself to bed. She had pulled down her hood, and taken off her silver track suit top. Under it was a T-shirt, which she took off, and a bra, likewise. She peeled the foil off her face. She used her toothbrush handle to scrape excess ointment off her skin. She buttered it back on the foil. With luck she might get one more day out of it. She ran her sink full of cool water. She took a breath, and held her face under the surface. Her record was four minutes. She came up and shook her head. Her
Lee Child (The Midnight Line (Jack Reacher, #22))
I’m furious with you,” he said almost idly. Curled in his arms, warm and safe with his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek, it was difficult to take his displeasure seriously. “Why?” “You left without saying goodbye this afternoon.” In the lightless, confined cabin, his Scottish accent seemed impossibly exotic, so much more noticeable than in the light of day. She buried her face in his brocade waistcoat and felt his hand rest on her coiled hair. If they weren’t careful, all Lise’s hard work would go for nothing and Campion would emerge from the carriage looking like she’d run through a hurricane. The spicy essence of lemon soap and Lachlan’s skin filled her senses. “I couldn’t bear to tell you that it was our last afternoon together.” He tensed against her and his heart kicked into a faster rhythm. “Last?” She raised her head. Her vision had adjusted enough for her to see the glitter of his eyes. “My aunt is sending me back to Sussex tomorrow.” “Damn it, Campion, you should have told me.” His embrace firmed as he pressed her closer. “I had things to say to you today. Important things.” Happiness had fluttered inside her like fledgling birds since she’d seen him. His somber tone pricked at her elation. “I suppose you want me to leave my aunt’s home and stay in London as your mistress,” she said flatly. He thrust her back against the seat so hard that she bounced. She flinched beneath his blistering anger as his hands tightened on her shoulders. “Of course I wasn’t going to say that, you lovely fool.” She hardly heard him. “I know I’m provincial and poor, but I’m proud of the Parnell name. My parents were fine people who loved me. I can’t bring shame upon their memory by accepting your carte blanche.” She blinked away the prickling rush of moisture. For a fleeting instant tonight, she’d imagined that she was done with tears, at least until Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day. “Whatever else I might choose to do if there were no other considerations.” “So are you saying that you’d like to be my mistress?” he asked slowly, in a tone she couldn’t interpret. She shrugged unhappily and risked the truth. “I don’t want to leave you.” His sigh expressed temper. “Yet you did leave me.” “Lachlan, don’t be angry. Not tonight.” She framed his face with her hands, although it was too dark to see his expression. He’d recently shaved. His skin was smoother than it had been this afternoon. “I know I was a coward, but it seemed easier on both of us if I just disappeared.” “Did it indeed?” The muscles of his cheeks were taut under her palms, but his question sounded merely curious. “I thought that was the last time I’d ever see you.
Anna Campbell (A Grosvenor Square Christmas)
I thought maybe he was human before, but I could tell then that he wasn’t. He was just blackness, pure, thick blackness, pressed against the glass. Staring at him felt like staring at concentrated evil.
Dark Mistress Aurora (True Scary Stories: Volume One - The Shadow Man: Real Horror Mystery With A Twist)
The worst part though was that my Mom lectured me the next day that I’d forgotten to lock the glass door that night when I’d let the dog out, but I know I locked it. I get scared when I tried to understand how that glass door got unlocked and if that shadow man entered my house without my knowledge.
Dark Mistress Aurora (True Scary Stories: Volume One - The Shadow Man: Real Horror Mystery With A Twist)
But as I grabbed the light switch and turned it on, I saw a black figure pressed against the glass door. It was a tall man, his face pressed against the glass, his hands above his head, gripping the glass as well and his face was turned towards me like he had been watching me the entire time I was tiptoeing around in the darkness. I thought maybe he was human before, but I could tell then that he wasn’t. He was just blackness, pure, thick blackness, pressed against the glass. Staring at him felt like staring at concentrated evil.
Dark Mistress Aurora (True Scary Stories: Volume One - The Shadow Man: Real Horror Mystery With A Twist)
Every single night, I think of the Shadow Man. I wonder what he wants and if he’ll ever do more than just watch me sleep if he’s there. I stay up many hours at night just wondering if I’ll ever see him again and hoping that I won’t.
Dark Mistress Aurora (True Scary Stories: Volume One - The Shadow Man: Real Horror Mystery With A Twist)
I ignored her and entered the room fully, just to make sure I looked in every corner and that’s when I saw him. I turned to the right and saw him standing in the corner, in a part of the room you couldn’t see until you entered it. He was black all over. He looked like a three-dimensional shadow. He was much taller than me and his hands were raised above his head. He was frozen in place, but his posture was aggressive, like he was in the middle of charging towards someone to attack them.
Dark Mistress Aurora (True Scary Stories: Volume One - The Shadow Man: Real Horror Mystery With A Twist)
One ship is very much like another, and the sea is always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past, veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance; for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself, which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
Joseph Conrad (Heart of Darkness)