Nicole Movie Quotes

People who LIKE movies have a favorite. People who LOVE movies couldn't possibly choose.

That's what I do. Watch movies and read. Sometimes I even pretend to write, but I'm not fooling anyone. Oh, and I go to the mailbox.

You don't have to be naked to be sexy.

You’re lost in your own world, in the things that happen there, and you’ve locked all the doors. Sometimes I look at you sleeping. I wake up and look at you and I feel closer to you when you’re like that, unguarded, than when you’re awake. When you’re awake you’re like someone with her eyes closed, watching a movie on the inside of your eyelids. I can’t reach you anymore. Once upon a time I could, but not now, and not for a long time.

I work with funny and cute gossipy filmmakers, that are smart and nice like little garden gnomes (tho not Jena, she's tall, lean and more like Glenda the Good Witch, tho in a more judgey way), and who NOTICE THINGS LIKE LOVE! So they can gossip about it when not working on their movie!

The first day of kindergarten when the little boy in a blue polo shirt had sat next to me and told me he’d be my friend when I couldn’t stop crying after my dad had dropped me off. The boy who’d brought me a tray of brownies, a stack of movies, and sat with me on the couch all week after I broke my leg in fifth grade. The boy who’d blushed whenever I talked to him or looked his way when we became teenagers. The same boy who made it his business to make sure all the other boys treated me right.

The person standing in the doorway is a frail blonde who looks like she’s been plucked off the poster of some Gothic horror movie. She’s wearing a ripped wedding dress, torn in several places, dusty and bloodstained at the hem.

Jena said, "They need to keep their relationship out of our business," and went back to work. Which bizarrely made me defensive of Aunt Lauren and Uncle P all of a sudden, as my aunt and uncle, not the director/writer-producer of the movie I'm working on, and I wanted to yell: "This is why they’re good! Because they’re so friggin passionate! And bring it all to work! Lighten up, people! Let them have their emotions! That’s what makes artists! That’s what makes GREAT artists!!!" But I didn't because I was also pissed.

Is that...the Looney Tunes theme?" Mer and St. Clair cock their ears. "Why,yes.I believe it is," St. Clair says. "I heard 'Love Shack' a few minutes ago," Mer says. "It's official," I say. "America has finally ruined France." "So can we go now?" St. Clair holds up a small bag. "I'm done." "Ooo,what'd you get?" Mer asks. She takes his bag and pulls out a delicate, shimmery scarf. "Is it for Ellie?" "Shite." Mer pauses. "You didn't get anything for Ellie?" "No,it's for Mum.Arrrgh." He rakes a hand through his hair. "Would you mind if we pop over to Sennelier before we go home?" Sennelier is a gorgeous little art supply sore,the kind that makes me wish I had an excuse to buy oil paints and pastels. Mer and I went with Rashmi last weekend. She bought Josh a new sketchbook for Hanukkah. "Wow.Congratulations,St. Clair," I say. "Winner of today's Sucky Boyfriend award.And I thought Steve was bad-did you see what happened in calc?" "You mean when Amanda caught him dirty-texting Nicole?" Mer asks. "I thought she was gonna stab him in the neck with her pencil." "I've been busy," St. Clair says. I glance at him. "I was just teasing." "Well,you don't have to be such a bloody git about it." "I wasn't being a git. I wasnt even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms-" "Piss off." He snatches his bag back from Mer and scowls at me. "HEY!" Mer says. "It's Christmas. Ho-ho-ho. Deck the halls. Stop fighting." "We weren't fighting," he and I say together. She shakes her head. "Come on,St. Clair's right. Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps." "I think it's pretty," I say. "Besides, I'd rather look at ribbons than dead rabbits." "Not the hares again," St. Clair says. "You're as bad as Rashmi." We wrestle through the Christmas crowds. "I can see why she was upset! The way they're hung up,like they'd died of nosebleeds. It's horrible. Poor Isis." All of the shops in Paris have outdone themselves with elaborate window displays,and the butcher is no exception. I pass the dead bunnies every time I go to the movies. "In case you hadn't noticed," he says. "Isis is perfectly alive and well on the sixth floor.

na kept her head down and pulled Lockie out into the street. She hoped he would manage to avoid standing on anything. His bare feet were already filthy but the streets of the Cross held the worst bits of human detritus. Tina didn’t want to have to deal with a piece of glass in Lockie’s foot, or worse. He was walking on tiptoe and more than one adult stopped to look at them. Tina moved quickly, getting Lockie out of sight before the questions had time to form. People tended to ask a lot more questions in the daytime. They saw things more clearly. Tina preferred the dark, where it was easy to hide.She had no idea what she was going to do with the kid after the new clothes and a shower. Maybe if he was warm and fed he would agree to walk into the police station and tell his story. Maybe he just needed a little time. He looked like a thinker. It was possible that she was really fucking up by keeping him. She had no idea what his body had been through. He could drop dead right now or have some kind of psycho meltdown.He looked at the ground as he walked. He held her hand and she guided him around the obstacles. He would not look up.He was locked up inside himself. His body was doing what it needed to do and maybe somewhere in his mind he was trying to find a key. If she got him to go to the police they would bring in a counsellor. Someone with a box of dolls and a soft voice. She had seen a movie about it. Lockie would be able to point to the doll and tell everyone exactly how his childhood had been taken. But would that help? Tina hoped he would be ready to talk to the police soon. If he wasn’t she was really screwed.

But remember 2003, though, when girls wore those miniskirts that were like six floaty napkins stapled to a scrunchie, with perhaps an Edwardian waistcoat sewn of cobwebs as a top? Where at any moment a baby’s sneeze across campus might expose Kaylee’s entire bunghole and even the slouchy Western belt she wore over her three layers of different-colored camisoles couldn’t save her? In case you’ve repressed the memory, 2003 was the kind of year where Jessica Simpson might wear rubber flip-flops to the Golden Globes, and Nicole Richie was nearly elected president on a platform of “straight blonde hair on top, long curly dark brown extensions underneath, one feather.” The 2003 vibe—culturally, socially, politically, spiritually—was very “energy drink commercial directed by Mark McGrath, and not Mark McGrath in his prime, either.” Millions of Americans were forced to mourn Mr. Rogers while wearing a hot-pink corduroy train conductor’s hat. Never again! Bad Boys II is a 2003 movie.

One question.” I managed to gather the two words as his struggling breath entangled in my hair. “This isn’t fair. There is so much I want to know.” He laced his fingers into mine as he dipped his head down to my ear. “I want to know how you like your coffee, and what your favorite song is. I want to know what annoys you, and the worst thing you’ve ever done. I want to know your greatest fear, and whether or not you talk in your sleep. If you prefer chocolate over vanilla, and if you cried watching The Notebook … if you’ve ever seen The Notebook, or like movies at all. What gives you the greatest high, and what can take all the pain away …” Ollie drew in a deep breath, and at the same time, my heart skipped in my chest. “But what I need to know is … are you willing to open yourself up to me so I can find out?” “Is that your question?” I stammered, lost in all his words. “Yes.” He exhaled. “That’s my final question.” Turning to face him, his eyes filled with hope and wonder, but his absent smile expected the inescapable truth. We both knew there wasn’t anything inside me to open up, an empty shell. So, what exactly did I have to lose? And, so, it was there, in the middle of the romance section of the maze-like library at Dolor University outside of Guildford in the United Kingdom where I decided I was willing to show him I was nothing more than a hollow soul. “I will only disappoint you.” “I doubt it.” “And I’m difficult,” I warned. “Good.” Ollie grinned. “I wasn’t expecting anything less, Mia. I’m only asking you to knock down a wall. Not even a wall—fuck, carve me out a door. I only want to know you.” He grabbed my hand, and a calmness washed over me. I didn’t have the tools to destroy a wall, let alone carve out a door. The barriers had endured ten years. Tough and sturdy and placed for a reason. Each one had a purpose, and even though I’d forgotten why they stood there in the first place, I was scared what would happen if I started carving out holes. The walls became my friends—they were safe. But I nodded, anyway, because the small glimmer of hope in his eyes spread like an infection. “And to clarify, no, I’ve never seen The Notebook, and I don’t plan on it, either.” Ollie threw his head back and a raspy laugh echoed in our maze. A laugh I had quickly grown to adore.

I wanted everyone to know that real love isn't always as simple as it seems in movies. I wanted people to know that real love is harder than anything else in life. To endure hurdles that life throws at real love… it’s nearly impossible to overcome it all, but if you make it… it is worth it.

Remember the first time you ever came? Tell the truth. You were dreading it." His brown eyes laughed warmly. "What wasn't to dread? A godforsaken island in the middle of the Atlantic-" "It's only eleven miles out." "Same difference. If it didn't have a hospital, it wasn't on my radar screen." "You thought there'd be dirt roads and nothing to do." He gave a wry chuckle. Between lobstering, clamming, and sailing, then movie nights at the church and mornings at the cafe, not to mention dinners at home, in town, or at the homes of friends, Nicole had kept him busy. "You loved it," she dared. "I did," he admitted. "It was perfect. A world away.

Significant others are like airplane Wi-Fi.” I bit my lips and looked at Paloma expectantly. “You don’t need airplane Wi-Fi. You can read a book. Talk to people. Draw. But airplane Wi-Fi can be fun—you can watch a movie. Be on your phone. But if you’re going to have Wi-Fi, it has to be consistent. Because if it’s spotty, if it just stops and starts and freezes in the middle of binge- watching Parks and Rec, that’s maddening. It’s crazy-making. Better no airplane Wi-Fi than bad airplane Wi-Fi.

The dream of Strong Artificial Intelligence—and more specifically the growing interest in the idea that a computer can become conscious and have first-person subjective experiences—has led to a cultural shift. Prophets like Kurzweil believe that we are much closer to cyberconsciousness and superintelligence than most observers acknowledge, while skeptics argue that current AI systems are still extremely primitive and that hopes of conscious machines are pipedreams. Who is right? This book does not attempt to address this question, but points out some philosophical problems and asks some philosophical questions about machine consciousness. One fundamental problem is that we do not understand human consciousness. Many in science and artificial intelligence assume that human consciousness is based on information or computations. Several writers have tried to tackle this assumption, most notably the British physicist Roger Penrose, whose controversial theory suggests that consciousness is based upon noncomputable quantum states in some of the tiniest structures in the brain, called microtubules. Other, perhaps less esoteric thinkers, like Duke’s Miguel Nicolelis and Harvard’s Leonid Perlovsky, are beginning to challenge the idea that the brain is computable. These scientists lead their fields in man-machine interfacing and computer science. The assumption of a computable brain allows artificial intelligence researchers to believe they will create artificial minds. However, despite assuming that the brain is a computational system—what philosopher Riccardo Manzotti calls “the computational stance”—neuroscience is still discovering that human consciousness is nothing like we think it is. For me this is where LSD enters the picture. It turns out that human consciousness is likely itself a form of hallucination. As I have said, it is a very useful hallucination, but a hallucination nonetheless. LSD and psychedelics may help reveal our normal everyday experience for the hallucination that it is. This insight has been argued about for centuries in philosophy in various forms. Immanuel Kant may have been first to articulate it in modern form when he called our perception of the world “synthetic.” The fundamental idea is that we do not have direct knowledge of the external world. This idea will be repeated often in this book, and you will have to get used to it. We only have knowledge of our brain’s creation of that world for us. In other words, what we see, hear, and subsequently think are like movies that our brain plays for us after the fact. These movies are based on perceptions that come into our senses from the external world, but they are still fictions of our brain’s creation. In fact, you might put the disclaimer “based on a true story” in front of each experience you have. I do not wish to imply that I believe in the homunculus argument—what philosopher Daniel Dennett describes as the “Cartesian Theater”—the hypothetical place in the mind where the self becomes aware of the world. I only wish to employ the metaphor to illustrate the idea that there is no direct relationship between the external world and your perception of it.

I planned to spend the day vegging out and watching some good action movies when Aunt Jeanie had to ruin my plans as usual. Just when I had gotten comfortable in my beanbag chair with a bag of Twizzlers, she burst into the bedroom without even knocking. "Aunt Jeanie, I'd appreciate it if you would at least knock," I told her as sweetly as possible. "Bex, this is my house. When you get your own house and pay the mortgage, you can make the rules." I sighed and focused on the television, hoping she would go away, but she wouldn't. "So, have you decided on a service project?" "Yes, but Mrs. Armstrong denied it," I answered. I thought my cupcake idea was great. Cupcakes make people happy and wasn't that the point? "Good. This afternoon some of the girls are going down to the soup kitchen to make bagged lunches for the women and children's shelter. Be ready in a little bit." I loved the way she asked whether or not I'd actually like to do it. "All right.

The best. I thought men like you only existed in fairy tales, books, and movies, but here you are,” I said, placing a kiss on his chest over his heart. “You’re kind, genuine, you speak from the heart, and you love with everything you have, and somehow you want to share that love with me. I am the luckiest man on this planet. So, on the days when things look bleak, and humanity has let you down again, know that I’ll be here to show you that this life is worth living and there is always sunshine waiting to brighten your world after those dark clouds pass.” “Josh,

Family. The word echoed in my mind, and I felt my canines retract. The bloodlust nipped at my heels, begging me to succumb, to let my beast off the chain. Family. The word was like a pulse, reminding me that this wasn’t me. Each beat of my heart was for her, and remembering that she existed brought me back from the edge of madness. Family. This time the word was wrapped in the sound of my sister’s laughter, and with it came the memory. Gabby shook her head, laughing at me as I tried and failed to land a piece of popcorn in her mouth. “You have terrible aim for a superbeing.” She giggled as she threw a handful at me. I kicked my foot out, hitting her softly on the leg. “Hey, I’m the trained killer here!” She burst out laughing. “Please! You cried at the end of The Locket.” “That was a sad movie. It had a sad ending. You just pick terrible movies.

You deserve a perfect kiss, Kitten. Movie style. Fireworks. Music in the background. Romance. You deserve it all, Catherine Bouvier. And I intend to give it to you. And then I'm going to fuck you, Kitten, and you're going to see stars.

While timing was only part of the issue with Doris Day, it would be a key reason why, from the mid-1950s onward, good people were unable to appear in good musicals. An original like Never Steal Anything Small was unsuccessful on every level—and heinous in its waste of Jimmy Cagney’s talent—while skillful adaptations like Silk Stockings and Bells Are Ringing flopped resoundingly. As fewer opportunities arose, they were sometimes attended by the questionable notion that dubbing solves all problems. This is why Rossano Brazzi and Sidney Poitier could look great, in South Pacific and Porgy and Bess, and sound ostensibly like the opera singers who were doing the actual vocalizing. While dubbing had been present from the very beginning, it achieved some kind of pinnacle from the mid-fifties to the late sixties. Hiring nonsinging names like Deborah Kerr and Rosalind Russell and Natalie Wood and Audrey Hepburn, even nonsinging non-names like Richard Beymer, was viewed as a form of insurance, conviction be damned.8 Casting for name recognition instead of experience has long been part of the film equation, and it cuts both ways. It may, for example, have seemed more astute than desperate to put Lee Marvin and Clint Eastwood into Paint Your Wagon, despite the equivocal results. Nicole Kidman in Moulin Rouge! was far less a musical player than a photogenic, aurally enhanced artifact, and many people left Mamma Mia! wondering if Pierce Brosnan’s execrable singing was intended as a deliberate joke. In contrast with these are the film people who take the plunge with surprising ease.

First of all, remember that happiness is in the little things: it’s Thanksgiving with your family, it’s reading your favourite book on a park bench whilst enjoying the summer sun, it’s listening to a song that you’ve always loved even though you’ve heard it a million times, it’s the practice basketball game with your father, the coffee with your best friend, and the movie with the one you love. Happiness comes from the small things we do every day. Don’t take them for granted.

You know, I always thought it seemed so unfair,” he began, “how movie stars and top athletes pulled down those huge salaries. Or how CEOs and corporate founders could marshal such gigantic earnings. No offense,” he added hastily. She graciously nodded and gestured for him to go on. “But people who were doing such great work, such noble work—like schoolteachers—never got paid what they’re worth. It always seemed arbitrary. But what you’re saying is, it’s not just a question of their value. It’s a question of impact.” Nicole and Pindar exchanged brief exultant glances, delighted at how quickly Joe had grasped this Law. “Exactly,” exclaimed Nicole. “And there are two amazing things about this. First, it means that you get to determine your level of compensation—it’s under your control. If you want more success, find a way to serve more people. It’s that simple.” Joe thought that over for a moment, then nodded. “And the other amazing thing?” “It also means there are no limitations on what you can earn, because you can always find more people to serve.

This isn’t fair. There is so much I want to know.” He laced his fingers into mine as he dipped his head down to my ear. “I want to know how you like your coffee, and what your favorite song is. I want to know what annoys you, and the worst thing you’ve ever done. I want to know your greatest fear, and whether or not you talk in your sleep. If you prefer chocolate over vanilla, and if you cried watching The Notebook…if you’ve ever seen The Notebook, or like movies at all. What gives you the greatest high, and what can take all the pain away…” Ollie drew in a deep breath, and at the same time, my heart skipped in my chest. “But what I need to know is…are you willing to open yourself up to me so I can find out?

My father refused to watch movies with me because I could always call out who the killer was or predict the ending

You deserve a perfect first kiss, Kitten. Movie style. Fireworks. Music in the background. Romance.” Surprise dances in her eyes, but she doesn’t speak. “You deserve it all, Catherine Bouvier. And I intend to give it to you.” “See, you are capable of being swoon-worthy without ruining it,” she says as a smile plays on her plump red lips. I lean in close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear and sending shivers rippling through her. “And then I’m going to fuck you, Kitten, and you’re going to see stars.

And unless I’m remembering it wrong, mermaids don’t sing and sirens don’t swim.” “Ariel sang in The Little Mermaid,” Corey said. Sam came over to join us. “Do I even want to know why you remember her name?” “Mermaids and sirens weren’t on the list,” Daniel said. “Maya’s point is that Hayley, Nicole, and Serena shared common characteristics, which probably means they’re the same type, and it has something to do with singing and swimming.” “And being pretty,” Hayley said. “That’s not a superpower,” Sam muttered. Hayley turned to her. “No? How many times have you gotten into movies for free because you’re a tough warrior chick?

Maya’s point is that Hayley, Nicole, and Serena shared common characteristics, which probably means they’re the same type, and it has something to do with singing and swimming.” “And being pretty,” Hayley said. “That’s not a superpower,” Sam muttered. Hayley turned to her. “No? How many times have you gotten into movies for free because you’re a tough warrior chick?” “What about me?” Corey said. “What’s my superpower?” Silence fell. “Oh, come on. I’m good at a lot of stuff. Right?” More silence. “You’re cute,” Hayley said. “Well, cute enough.” “Fun to be around,” I offered. “So I’m…a clown?” “At least you’re a cute clown,” Hayley said. “Not a scary one.” “You’re a good fighter,” Daniel said. “And you’re a good drinker,” Hayley added. “You can hold your liquor better than anyone I know.” “Uh-huh,” Corey said. “So Maya will grow up to be an amazing healer who can change into a killer cat. Daniel and Sam will roam the country hunting criminals and demons. Hayley and Nicole will divide their time between recording platinum albums and winning gold medals in swimming. And me? I’ll be the cute, funny guy sitting at the bar, hoping for a good brawl to break out.” “In other words, exactly where you were already headed,” Hayley said. We all laughed at that, even Corey. We had to. For now, this was the best way to deal with it. Tease. Poke fun. As if we were comparing Halloween costumes. Look, I’m a superhero. Yeah? Well, so am I. “I’m sure you have powers,” I said. “You’re just a late bloomer.” “Thanks…I think.

Maya’s point is that Hayley, Nicole, and Serena shared common characteristics, which probably means they’re the same type, and it has something to do with singing and swimming.” “And being pretty,” Hayley said. “That’s not a superpower,” Sam muttered. Hayley turned to her. “No? How many times have you gotten into movies for free because you’re a tough warrior chick?” “What about me?” Corey said. “What’s my superpower?” Silence fell. “Oh, come on. I’m good at a lot of stuff. Right?” More silence.

Maya’s point is that Hayley, Nicole, and Serena shared common characteristics, which probably means they’re the same type, and it has something to do with singing and swimming.” “And being pretty,” Hayley said. “That’s not a superpower,” Sam muttered. Hayley turned to her. “No? How many times have you gotten into movies for free because you’re a tough warrior chick?” “What about me?” Corey said. “What’s my superpower?” Silence fell. “Oh, come on. I’m good at a lot of stuff. Right?” More silence. “You’re cute,” Hayley said. “Well, cute enough.” “Fun to be around,” I offered. “So I’m…a clown?

James settled down to the film. He got a shock when he noticed Nicole and Junior had their arms around each other and an even bigger one a minute later when they started snogging. They were all over each other. Nicole’s leg was up in the air and James kept getting kicked. He got up and moved down two seats so he was sitting on the opposite side of April, away from any flailing limbs. “They’re getting on well,” April grinned. She grinned for a long time. James watched half a minute of the film and she was still grinning at him. He realized the girls had planned an ambush. Nicole already knew Junior fancied her because he’d asked her out before. James felt like he’d been hooked on a line and reeled in, but he checked April out and realized that as traps go, it wasn’t a bad one. April was decent-looking, with long brown hair and fit legs. James slid his hand under the armrest and put it on top of April’s. She twisted in her seat, so she could rest her head on James’s shoulder. James turned around, breathed April’s smell and kissed her on the cheek while she grabbed a few of his Maltesers. They stayed that way for a couple of minutes, until April moved away and blew chocolate breath over him. “So,” she whispered. “Are you gonna snog me or what?” James figured, “What the hell, it’s my birthday.” They snogged for ten minutes, breaking up when the movie got near the end and turned into a big car chase and punch-up that was actually worth watching.

Secret societies…like the Skulls or the Free Masons?" "What do you know about them?" he asked, feeling me out. "Limited. I've seen a couple of movies with Johnny Depp and Paul Walker a while back. They're societies that have high influence over things like the American and foreign governments.

I’d be a liar if I said I did not still have feelings for the woman who ripped her heart out to save me, her sister, and the world. The one who will risk everything for someone she cares about without ever thinking of herself. The one who likes loud music and overly sweetened treats and shares everything with me. The woman who ties promises to her small finger. The one who pretends she hates happy movies because she doesn’t think she can ever have her own happy ending. The woman who wields and breathes fire on a whim and loves flowers even when she tries to deny it. I have seen the best of you, Dianna, and now I have seen the worst. I am not leaving. You do not scare me.

I wasn’t a cute, petite little thing like every movie or book craves. I was lacking in the breast department, but made up for it in my hips. They were the only curvy part of me.