Noir Romance Quotes

What do you intend to do when you wake up? Will you proclaim the truth or continue to hide behind your façade?

My friend and business partner, Gerald Peyton was 12 minutes late to the funeral. I’d reminded him it started at 2 p.m. “Yeah, yeah, Frank,” he said. “I’ll be there. Just be sure you make it.” Well, here I sat on my thumbs, and he was the no-show. He stopped at a bar and got sloshed, I thought.

One after another, deliberate actions focused on Neil. He identified no reason. For fifteen months, he lived in harmony with the church and the community. An assault on him and his character began the past Saturday evening. Someone painted his portrait in blood on the barn wall and contrived evidence to implicate him in the murders.

On many nights I have availed myself of these very gentlemen, in the adjoining room. Each time, I wondered if you might arrive and see me, as I took my pleasure, allowing their hands to explore my body. There is no part of me that has not been kissed and enjoyed. I opened myself in welcome, encouraging my suitors to bury themselves deep and hard, to obliterate all reserve and find the heart of me.” Mademoiselle Noire - The Gentlemen's Club

Gerald and Chet left town for the Peyton family reunion held this August below Tappahannock on the Northern Neck. Gerald invited me to go along, but I thanked my best friend and business partner. Shutting down things was bad for our bottom line. So, I stayed put and minded the office.

you and I are black and white—a film noir, filled with gestures, poignant and tender

Among my greatest loves is the act of being pinned and invaded – not by one, or two or three, but by many, one after the other. What it is to lose yourself among many, so that your identity exists only as ‘woman’: a goddess of flesh and desire. No names, no promises, no social niceties, no conversational conventions: only lust and fulfillment.” Mademoiselle Noire - in The Gentlemen's Club

In near panic, I craned my neck to gaze over the cabin’s roofline a bursting fireball.

Every single minute of the day I want to kiss you. The fact that I’ve been able to mostly hold myself back is a miracle. You have no idea how hard I’ve had to work to resist you. And yeah, I’ve been making up excuses, but it’s not because I’m scared to be with you. It’s because I’m scared to fall for you and then lose you.

There is enough conformity in the world Lord MacCaulay. I doubt that mine, or lack of it, will send the planet from its axis. Meanwhile, my heart does not soar for the riches you set before me. Perhaps one day, I may feel differently. For now, I wish to taste that which most women do not.” Mademoiselle Noire - The Gentlemen's Club

Guns' aka Luke Gunner had a record as long as my cock. Believe me, it was impressive." ~Lloyd Ledbetter

Just the night before, a puma’s howl had set a chill at my spine and, man, life didn’t get any richer than that.

We’re not together anymore. Don’t forget it. There is a pause before he responds. Hard to forget that. The gaping hole in my chest that was left when u ripped my heart out kind of reminds me every time I breathe.

Shouldering the duffel bag with the Marine Corps bulldog, Old Man knocked Jan's photo off the bed table. He turned to stone staring down at the photo. His face then splintered into hurt. Tears seeped into his eyes. He grappled for the nearest bedpost and slumped forward on extended arms. His shoulders jerked and head sagged a little while his heart broke. Old Man cried the mute cry of men of his generation.

When you love someone it feels like their blood runs through your veins, their breath fills your lungs, their heart makes yours beat, and without them everything stops.” “Fuck. That sounds tragic.” Tell me about it. “It is.” I bend to kiss him again, this time on the forehead. “But it’s worth it.

Did the new lamp work?” I asked. She smiled with a pleased nod. “Viola. Let there be light.

Frank, have you seen today’s obits?” Gerald asked. “Never look at them,” I replied. “I only read the comics, sports, and horoscopes.” “Can’t you see I’m being serious?” “Who bit the dust, then?

My feet crunched over dry hickory leaves. Wood rangers had stapled up Smokey Bear (“Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires!”) signs along the state roads. One cigarette butt flicked out a passing car window and there’d be real hell to pay.

He was a scoundrel and a saint and a survivor. A tangled Celtic knot of thorns and roses. Ragged and sincere. It moved her deeply. Like a forgotten melody that suddenly struck a vibrant chord inside her heart. He was almost irresistible.

Oblivion is bliss. It makes one feel at peace. But not quite. Not quite. My brain is at peace. But my heart isn't. It longs for its other half. The half that comprises the whole. The half that matches its beat. The half that makes it throb. The half that makes it strong to overcome anything. Even oblivion.

I let my gaze travel out the picture window. Unlike at my old doublewide trailer perched on the fringe of a played out quarry, here I owned a real yard with real grass that screamed for mowing each Monday a.m. I sat at the kitchen table, cooling off from just having finished this week's job. Yes, here in 2005, I was a full-fledged suburbanite, but I'd been called worse.

Since she had arrived for her stay at the artists’ colony called Les Beaux Arts at the Chateau DeRoche, she’d noticed something different about the owner, Antoine Chevalier. And not just the way his eyes bore into hers, shooting shivers through her and making it difficult to breathe. His quiet nature, his preference for seclusion for days at a time, and his still, composed temperament belied an intensity within. Noir eyes that rarely blinked spoke of haunted depth and smoldering passion.

Literature is the extant body of written art. All novels belong to it. The value judgement concealed in distinguishing one novel as literature and another as genre vanishes with the distinction. Every readable novel can give true pleasure. Every novel read by choice is read because it gives true pleasure. Literature consists of many genres, including mystery, science fiction, fantasy, naturalism, realism, magical realism, graphic, erotic, experimental, psychological, social, political, historical, bildungsroman, romance, western, army life, young adult, thriller, etc., etc…. and the proliferating cross-species and subgenres such as erotic Regency, noir police procedural, or historical thriller with zombies. Some of these categories are descriptive, some are maintained largely as marketing devices. Some are old, some new, some ephemeral. Genres exist, forms and types and kinds of fiction exist and need to be understood: but no genre is inherently, categorically superior or inferior. (Hypothesis on Literature vs. Genre)

Mad, you must see me mad; your opinion is awash to me as long as I am crazed by love. I welcome this folly that you give to me with great estate. Thief? Rascal? I did what others did and what others had me do and we are all doomed, but I do not regret for one instant the coming of events of this most splendid night. You should have seen how carefully I proceeded and how I found love in the most dreadful of streets, during my most mourning of states and on the most propitious of nights. Play samartian to the fool, champion to the underdog. So to speak, I am a hubris acolyte of love.

Dashiel’s jacket slid off his shoulders to land on the floor as he headed straight to the kitchen, fumbled in the cabinet for a glass and poured sake into it until the liquid spilt over the brim onto the counter. His hand shook as he picked up the glass, spilling more of the sake to trickle between his knuckles as he brought it to his lips. A single droplet sloshed onto his tongue. The sweet nectar of oblivion. The harbinger of a fog rolling in to sweep away the pain in favor of blissful stupor— —he hurled the glass across the room. It shattered on impact with the far sturdier window glass, and a hundred tiny shards joined the sake in decorating the floor.

-Tu est amoureux, prononce-t-elle. -Hein? -Tu as beau jouer les machos, tu est amoureux de moi. What? -T'as fumé, qu'est-ce que tu racontes? -Malgré les dangers, tu restes toujours près de moi.J'essaie de te décourager, et tu ne pars pas.C'est une belle définition de l'amour. -Euh non, c'est une définition de merde. Elle tourne sur elle-même, me tire la langue, toute fière. -Tu peux me dire ce que tu voudras.Je le sais, maintenant.J'en suis convaincue. -Et? -Et ça fait du bien. Je n'ai pas le temps de lui dire qu'elle est complètement folle, et qu'est-ce que c'est cette manière de prétendre que je suis amoureux, et elle se prend pour qui, et de toute façon c'est quoi l'amour, et si ça se trouve je vais me barrer demain et elle l'aura cherché, quand elle se glisse dans mes bras pour m'embrasser. Bon, d'accord, je suis peut-être amoureux.

Quand Marco passait, tous les jeunes hommes Se penchaient pour voir ses yeux, des Sodomes Où les feux d'Amour brûlaient sans pitié Ta pauvre cahute, ô froide Amitié; Tout autour dansaient des parfums mystiques Où l'âme, en pleurant, s'anéantissait. Sur ses cheveux roux un charme glissait; Sa robe rendait d'étranges musiques Quand Marco passait. Quand Marco chantait, ses mains, sur l'ivoire, Évoquaient souvent la profondeur noire Des airs primitifs que nul n'a redits, Et sa voix montait dans les paradis De la symphonie immense des rêves, Et l'enthousiasme alors transportait Vers des cieux connus quiconque écoutait Ce timbre d'argent qui vibrait sans trèves, Quand Marco chantait. Quand Marco pleurait, ses terribles larmes Défiaient l'éclat des plus belles armes; Ses lèvres de sang fonçaient leur carmin Et son désespoir n'avait rien d'humain; Pareil au foyer que l'huile exaspère, Son courroux croissait, rouge, et l'on aurait Dit d'une lionne à l'âpre forêt Communiquant sa terrible colère, Quand Marco pleurait. Quand Marco dansait, sa jupe moirée Allait et venait comme une marée, Et, tel qu'un bambou flexible, son flanc Se tordait, faisant saillir son sein blanc; Un éclair partait. Sa jambe de marbre, Emphatiquement cynique, haussait Ses mates splendeurs, et cela faisait Le bruit du vent de la nuit dans un arbre, Quand Marco dansait. Quand Marco dormait, oh! quels parfums d'ambre Et de chair mêlés opprimaient la chambre! Sous les draps la ligne exquise du dos Ondulait, et dans l'ombre des rideaux L'haleine montait, rhythmique et légère; Un sommeil heureux et calme fermait Ses yeux, et ce doux mystère charmait Les vagues objets parmi l'étagère, Quand Marco dormait. Mais quand elle aimait, des flots de luxure Débordaient, ainsi que d'une blessure Sort un sang vermeil qui fume et qui bout, De ce corps cruel que son crime absout: Le torrent rompait les digues de l'âme, Noyait la pensée, et bouleversait Tout sur son passage, et rebondissait Souple et dévorant comme de la flamme, Et puis se glaçait.

Nights like this,” someone had told him, not so long ago, “feel like the world’s waiting for something.” He was sure, in hindsight, that on that night on a back step with a shared bottle of grocery store Pinot Noir, the girl beside him had wanted the two of them to be that something special.

Her teeth clattered together like banging cymbals. Her fingernails glowed white, and her heart stuttered over two beats. “Input. It. Now.” “Done!” Let go, Nika. All you have to do is let go. She focused on her fingers, which seemed to be glued to the conduit, and directed every conscious process to willing them apart millimeter by— —she flew backward across the room and slammed into what remained of a wall.

No more lip from you. Otherwise there might be a misunderstanding.” Kika eyed the door. She considered making an escape. “Oh…I forgot to mention something. It’s terribly stormy outside tonight,” said Mitch, with an ominously sweet smile. “It’s raining bullets.

Their encounter had formed a strange chemical bond. Mitch, a hardened ruffian, had opened up the prison of his soul to her. And Kika, who led a bitterly puritanical existence, had started to make love to him on her sofa.

Running is easy… but doesn’t dull the pain” she whispered with a sigh and touched the spot where her heart was. “I realized that trying to heal scars on one’s own can make them greater and that’s why I came back.

If any city was a study in noir et blanc—be it black-and-white photography, film, or literature—Paris was it. The French versions of all three techniques were born during the Age of Romanticism. So was the concept of the daredevil avenger-antihero of the noir crime novel genre, the so-called polar, a Parisian specialty I learned to love.

Some mistakes require a price before freedom..."- The Penance (Book 2 of 'The Catalyst' trilogy)

I stood in front of the black dress, staring it down. I felt like it had taken an aggressive stance against me instead of merely hanging limply from the hanger. It was like a scene from a film noir. One of us wasn’t going to make it out alive.

On the wicker coffee table to her right stood a stack of romance novels, a monogrammed YETI tumbler, a bottle of 2004 Pino noir, and an AR-15. It was a whole mood.

Quote taken from Chapter 1: That's the idea. Listen, Frank, this one is different. She's a keeper." He let that part gel in me. "Get your head screwed on straight and move to Richmond. You hate it living in Pelham.

And to think I could be at home cleaning the cat box," Esther Charlemagne said. "Watching for a Peeping Tom is so much better." ~ Chapter 2 The Night Shadow by Cheri Vause

Why did I throw in with him? I suppose we Irish had a mule-headed loyalty baked into our DNA. I could rely on one bedrock truth. Gerald had my back, no matter how lopsided the odds turned. No truer measure of friendship existed to my way of thinking.

Dès l’instant où la porte s’ouvrit, je me tendis. J’eus l’étrange sensation que l’air se modifiait et le silence éloquent de mon visiteur me fit hausser les sourcils. Allons bon, il me faisait la gueule ? — Si tu ne voulais pas me parler en venant ici, va jouer au muet ailleurs. Le ricanement grave qui emplit l’espace me fit sursauter. Je savais à présent que ce n’était pas Rafayel, mais un homme à qui je n’aurais jamais pensé adresser la parole, qui se tenait à quelques pas de moi. — Yphaëlle, tu es toujours aussi aimable quand tu t’adresses à une personne pour la première fois ? Je haussai les sourcils face à cette voix grave qui s’était enroulée autour de mon prénom. — Toujours, répondis-je en me retournant vers lui. Et tu débarques toujours à moitié vêtu dans la chambre d’une inconnue ? Il me fit un sourire malicieux qui creusa des fossettes dont je ne soupçonnais pas l’existence. — Toujours. À la bonne heure, un comique. Je détaillai l’homme, bien plus grand et mieux bâti que Rafayel et dont la peau était légèrement basanée, qui me faisait face et je croisais les bras. Il ne portait que l’ample pantalon en tissu noir qui montrait son appartenance à ma caste, laissant ainsi son ventre plat et bien sculpté à qui voudrait regarder.

It’s so easy it’s scary. Anybody—even you—can veer into a wrong orbit. Mine? Death Row is at the Three Toes Correctional Center, Virginia. But I got a raw deal, and I’ll holler it until my last breath.

She got tipsy on pinot noir and ate too much of her pesto angel hair with blackened chicken-- now, at the door to the room, she's regretting it. She feels nauseous from the wine, and she knows her breath is bad from the garlic. Tom doesn't seem to notice; he's calm and a little giddy and keeps passing a hand over her ass, up under her dress. She wants to feel sexy; but she just can't, not with the thought of her dinner or her certainty that she has pesto in her teeth. Italian places are romantic in theory, but the pasta and the garlic and the rich sauces and filling wines are not conducive to carrying the romance past dinner.

CHAPTER 1: My old car battery, dead as a turd, rode in the trunk of Dreema’s sedan. She’d told me to take it. I felt embarrassed to drive it, but I had no other way to pick up a new car battery.

He expected me to die that night. I didn’t. I will not die now.

You can let go now. Please let go. I will see you in your dreams and I will delight in knowing that a part of your heart, however small, will be yearning for me.

I wished I could have loved you less. Maybe…just maybe, the pain would be more bearable? Would it have been? Would loving you less give me the strength to give you up and let go, when all I ever wanted to do was to clutch you in my heart and take you away from everyone?

Um dos poucos divertimentos intelectuais que ainda restam ao que ainda resta de intelectual na humanidade é a leitura de romances policiais.

An appreciation for diverse forms of artistic expression is not only the beginning of enlightenment, but is also the bedrock of inclusive civilization.

Really? 45 minutes later, I get a single uniform to deal with a potential homicide?" "We're swamped. There was a big shooting at a nearby convenience store. Mugger made off with $500. I'm what they can spare." *Several days later* "I love you.

Amanda esitò. – Maddie? Lei la guardò nella penombra della notte. Il lampione era lontano, la luce ambrata stendeva campiture nitide sui lineamenti tesi dell’amica. I capelli scuri si confondevano con l’ombra. – Andrà tutto bene, te lo prometto – mormorò Amanda e le strinse la mano. Madison annuì, vaga. – Sì. Sarebbe andato tutto bene, si ripeté nella mente. Se lo ripeté di nuovo. E di nuovo. E ancora.

Don't you know? Whatever arrives from the shadows, you must greet as a blessing.

Sometimes I wonder if you’re even fae. Your mindset is so different compared to others. I suspect you are an alien.

Your heart will hurt.

Nell.” I heard Sasha whisper my name from a long way away. He had no need to speak; I could hear his thoughts. “Nell, nobody will ever hurt you again. Ever. I will always be here for you, no matter what. I love you, dearest.” And then we truly were one, and the moon and the stars and the planets were no greater things than we were.

He was wearing a gleaming cream-coloured linen suit, and a Panama hat. The weirdest thing about this was that he was not the most outlandish-looking person in the room by a long way. Not that Little Miss Dresses-Like-Bogart over here has a right to complain

Choquant. Les femmes sont des putains pleines de mauvais sang, et chaque mois elles doivent s’en débarrasser.

Love does many things, but it does not pay the rent or buy the groceries,” I said. “Do you accept old-fashioned cash?” Sonja asked. “Is a crawdad’s ass watertight?” I replied.

Summers, I dig fire breaks and set controlled burns. Winters, I stay with my parents and I work on their dude ranch." "You're a firefighter half the time and a cowboy half the time?" I ask. "You're half the Village people all by yourself." "That'll look good on my resume, " he says.