Pavement Princess Quotes
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Aw, boss.” The redcap who was spit on smiled at me and licked his fangs. “Can’t we chew on the princess, just a little?”
One-Eyed Jack slapped the offending faery upside the head without looking at him. “Idiot,” he snapped. “I have no desire to pick your frozen guts off the pavement. Now move, you stupid lot. Before I lose my temper.
Julie Kagawa (The Iron Queen (The Iron Fey, #3))
Where is Galen?" She had many questions to ask the king, and it surprised her a little that this should be the first one to pop out of her mouth. Still, it was just as urgent as any of the others. "What have you done to him?"
"Nothing." The king spread his weirdly elongated hands in an innocent gesture. "The gardener's boy is in perfect health. For the present."
"And then he'll fall off a horse, or slip on the wet pavement? So that you don't need to get your hands dirty?" Rose sneered at him.
He smiled his cold smile. "Keeping one's hands clean – maintaining one's innocence. Is that not the human way?
Jessica Day George (Princess of the Midnight Ball (The Princesses of Westfalin Trilogy, #1))
The magazine Fantasio, where Irène took her first steps as a writer, wondered, with its habitual misogyny, “how a woman could have written a book in which there is not a single trivial remark, no softness, not an adjective too many,” delivering her sentences on the page “like a steam-hammer on the pavements.”39 Princesse Bibesco’s Les Quatre Portraits, which was published at the same time, but also the other new books written by women disappeared from the shelves within six months. Irène Némirovsky knew only too well why this was: “Young Frenchwomen have not usually had the human experiences that circumstances … have allowed me to acquire: the world of Jewish high finance with all the dramas, the bankruptcies and the catastrophes that occur daily, the journeys, revolution …”40
Olivier Philipponnat (The Life of Irene Nemirovsky: 1903-1942)
Shall I get drunk or cut myself a piece of cake,
a pasty Syrian with a few words of English
or the Turk who says she is a princess--she dances
apparently by levitation? Or Marcelle, Parisienne
always preoccupied with her dull dead lover:
she has all the photographs and his letters
tied in a bundle and stamped Decede in mauve ink.
All this takes place in a stink of jasmin.
But there are the streets dedicated to sleep
stenches and the sour smells, the sour cries
do not disturb their application to slumber
all day, scattered on the pavement like rags
afflicted with fatalism and hashish. The women
offering their children brown-paper breasts
dry and twisted, elongated like the skull,
Holbein's signature. But his stained white town
is something in accordance with mundane conventions-
Marcelle drops her Gallic airs and tragedy
suddenly shrieks in Arabic about the fare
with the cabman, links herself so
with the somnambulists and legless beggars:
it is all one, all as you have heard.
But by a day's travelling you reach a new world
the vegetation is of iron
dead tanks, gun barrels split like celery
the metal brambles have no flowers or berries
and there are all sorts of manure, you can imagine
the dead themselves, their boots, clothes and possessions
clinging to the ground, a man with no head
has a packet of chocolate and a souvenir of Tripoli.