Quinn King Quotes

Hail Mary, Forgive me, Blood for blood, hearts beating, come at me, now this is war!

I have to go out,” she said, her words oddly curt and abrupt. “There‟s something I need to do.” “At half eight in the morning?” “I‟ll be back soon,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Don‟t go anywhere.” “Well, damn,” he tried to joke, “there go my plans to visit the King.

Sebastian Grey. The worrds rang like a miserable moan in her head. On the list of men she ought not to be kissing, he had to rank at the top, along with the King, Lord Liverpool, and the chimney sweep.

I desire the King’s sanity as fervently as Your Majesty does.” “I care not for his sanity. I care for his happiness. His soul. Let him be mad if mad is what he needs.

How did we get here? I’ve asked myself that question many times over the past several days. It’s so easy to get caught up in the chaos of our wants, desires, and forgets that there are consequences to each of our choices. I sit with my best warriors realizing the path that we are on and have no idea how to jump off. I ask myself again, how did we get here? I know the answer, but I am not ready to face my own selfishness.

You have half a husband, Charlotte. Half a life. I cannot give you the future you deserve. Not a full me. Not a full marriage. Only half. Half a man. Half a King. Half a life.” “If what we have is half, then we shall make it the very best half. I love you. It is enough.

She not no fool, Lilith tell herself. She not a sleeping princess and Robert Quinn is not no king or prince. He just a man with broad shoulders and black hair who call her lovey and she like that more than her own name. She don’t want the man to deliver her, she just want to climb in the bed and feel he wrap himself around her.

Is a broken king really better than a mad one?

An eternity later, they reached what he thought might be the end, and King Henry waved his turkey leg in the air, loudly proclaiming, “This land shall be mine, henceforth and forevermore!” And indeed, it seemed that all was lost for the poor, sweet shepherdess and her strangely changeable flock. But just then, there was a mighty roar— “Is there a lion?” Richard wondered. —and the unicorn burst onto the scene! “Die!” the unicorn shrieked. “Die! Die! Die!” Richard looked to Iris in confusion. The unicorn had not thus demonstrated an ability to speak. Henry’s scream of terror was so chilling, the woman behind Richard murmured, “This is surprisingly well acted.” Richard stole another look at Iris; her mouth was hanging open as Henry leapt over a cow and ran behind the piano, only to trip over the littlest sheep, who was still licking the piano leg. Henry scrambled for purchase, but the (possibly rabid) unicorn was too fast, and it ran headfirst (and head down) toward the frightened king, plunging its horn into his large, pillowed belly. Someone screamed, and Henry went down, feathers flying. “I don’t think this was in the script,” Iris said in a horrified whisper.

You might be a future queen, but when it comes to the bedroom, I’m your goddamn king. Got it?

Better the slave of a bad master, I’m told, than king of the dead.

You always have to trust that there are good people out there in the world, and even if the bad people have louder mouths, the good people have bigger hearts. And those hearts will outweigh the mouths.

So, to start with, you might be wondering how this chick with a monkey on her back about the size of King Kong is running about staking nasties and whatnot. Well, truth be told, I’ve been stretching the truth like it was a big handful of raspberry-flavored saltwater taffy.

The greatest gift I ever was given was an open heart for the people around me. I loved tenderly, I loved emotionally, and I loved with passion. That love brought me the greatest people in my life, and I know, sitting in my bed, blankets covering my legs, that I will leave this Earth with a legacy. A legacy that doesn’t speak of the work I put into my career, but a legacy in the people I loved.

Penny rolled over, got to her feet, trying to get control of her scattered mind, but Quinn was behind her now and had his powerful arm around her neck. “I will snap your neck, Penny. I swear to God, I will snap your neck. Nothing you can do will stop me.” Penny went limp. “You think the king will let you get away with this, Quinn?” she hissed. “Anyone messes with me, Penny, you or anyone else, and I go on strike. See how well you enjoy life without me and my crews. Without food.

It’s a sailors’ tradition, miss.” O’Shea approached, his thick brogue cutting through Sophia’s confusion. “The Sea King himself comes aboard to have a bit of sport with those crossing the Tropic for the first time, like the new boy there.” He nodded toward Davy, who stood to the side, looking every bit as confused as Sophia but unwilling to own to it. Quinn crossed his massive forearms over his chest, stacking them like logs. “And Triton always collects his tax, of course.” “His tax?” Sophia asked. O’Shea gave her a sly look. “Best be ready with a coin or two, Miss Turner. If you can’t pay his tax, old Triton just might sweep ye down to the depths with him and keep ye there forever.” Quinn chuckled, shooting the Irishman a knowing look. “Knowing old Triton, it wouldn’t be surprising if he did just that.” O’Shea winked at the crewman. “Could hardly blame him.

The joy and power of portraiture is that it freezes us in time. Before the portrait, we were younger. After it has been created we will age or we will rot. Even Marc Quinn's chilled nightmare self-protraits in liquid silicone and blood can only preserve a specific moment in time: they cannot age and die as Quinn does and will. Ask the question, Who are we? and the portraits give us answers of a sort. We came from here, the old ones say. These were our kings and queens, our wise ones and our fools. We walk into the BP exhibition hall and they tell us who we are today: a confluence of artistic styles and approaches, of people we could pass in the streets. We look like this, naked and clothed, they tell us. We are here, in this image, because a painter had something to say. Because we are all interesting. Because we cannot gaze into a mirror without being changed. Because we do not know who we are, but sometimes there is a light caught in someone's eyes, that comes close to giving us the tiniest hint of an answer.

Today, each of you will make a decision,” Caine said. “To go with Sam, or to stay here. I won’t try to stop anyone, and I won’t hold it against anyone.” He placed his hand over his heart. “For those who choose to stay, let me be very clear: I will be in charge. Not as a mayor, but as a king. My word will be law. My decisions will be final.” That caused some murmuring, most of it unhappy. “But I’ll also do everything I can to leave each of you alone. Quinn, if he chooses to stay, can still fish. Albert, if he chooses to stay, will still run his business. Freaks and normals will be treated equally.” He seemed about to add something else but caught himself after a sidelong look at Toto. The silence lengthened and Sam knew it was time for him to speak. In the past he’d always had Astrid at his side for things like this. He was not much of a speaker. And in any case, he didn’t have much to say. “Anyone who goes with me has a vote in how we do stuff. I guess I’ll be more or less in charge, but we’ll probably choose some other people, create a council like . . . Well, hopefully better than we had before. And, um . . .” He was tempted to laugh at his own pitiful performance. “Look, people, if you want someone, some . . . king, good grief, to tell you what to do, stay here. If you want to make more of your own decisions, well, come with me.” He hadn’t said enough to even cause Toto to comment. “You know which side I’m on, people,” Brianna yelled. “Sam’s been carrying the load since day one.” “It was Caine that saved us,” a voice cried out. “Where was Sam?” The crowd seemed undecided. Caine was beaming confidence, but Sam noticed that his jaw clenched, his smile was forced, and he was worried.

You can't let him get away with this!" Penny shrieked. Caine wasn’t having it. “You stupid witch,” he yelled back. “No one told you to let it go that far!” “He was mine for the day,” Penny hissed. She pressed a rag to her nose, which had started bleeding again. “He tore his own eyes out. What did you think Quinn would do? What do you think Albert will do now?” He bit savagely at his thumb, a nervous habit. “I thought you were the king!” Caine reacted without thinking. He swung a hard backhand at her face. The blow did not connect, but the thought did. Penny flew backward like she’d been hit by a bus. She smacked hard against the wall of the office. The blow stunned her, and Caine was in her face before she could clear her thoughts. Turk came bursting in, his gun leveled. “What’s happening?” “Penny tripped,” Caine said. Penny’s freckled face was white with fury. “Don’t,” Caine warned. He tightened an invisible grip around her head and twisted it back at an impossible angle. Then Caine released her. Penny panted and glared. But no nightmare seized Caine’s mind. “You’d better hope Lana can fix that boy, Penny.” “You’re getting soft.” Penny choked out the words. “Being king isn’t about being a sick creep,” Caine said. “People need someone in charge. People are sheep and they need a big sheepdog telling them what to do and where to go. But it doesn’t work if you start killing the sheep.” “You’re scared of Albert.” Penny followed it with a mocking laugh. “I’m scared of no one,” Caine said. “Least of all you, Penny. You live because I let you live. Remember that. The kids out there?” He waved his hand toward the window, vaguely indicating the population of Perdido Beach. “Those kids out there hate you. You don’t have a single friend. Now get out of here. I don’t want to see you back here in my presence until you’re ready to crawl to me and beg my forgiveness.

Should I be scared?” “I think you should get ready for quite an inquiry, but they’re necessary questions that must be answered if I want to ask you out on a second date.” “What if I don’t want to go on a second date?” “Hmm.” He taps his chin with his fork, ready to dig in the minute the plate arrives at our table. “That’s a good point. All right. If the question arose, would you go on a second date with me?” “Well, now I feel pressured to say yes just so I can hear the inquiry.” “You’re going to have to deal with the pressure, sweet cheeks.” “Fine. Hypothetically, if you were to ask me out on a second date, I would hypothetically, possibly say yes.” “Great.” He bops his own nose with his fork and then sets it down on the table. “Here goes.” He looks serious; both his hands rest palm down on the table and his shoulders stiffen. Looking me dead in the eyes, he asks, “Bobbies and Rebels are in the World Series, what shirt do you wear?” “Bobbies obviously.” He blinks. Sits back. “What?” “Bobbies for life.” “But I’m on the Rebels.” “Yes, but are we dating, are we married? Are we just fooling around? There’s going to have to be a huge commitment on my part in order to put a Rebels shirt on. Sorry.” “We’re dating.” “Eh.” I wave my hand. “Fine. We’re living together.” “Hmm, I don’t know.” I twist a strand of hair in my finger. “Christ, we’re married.” “Ugh.” I wince. “I’m sorry, I just don’t think it will ever happen.” “Not even if we’re married, for fuck’s sake?” he asks, dumbfounded. It’s endearing, especially since he’s pushing his hand through his hair in distress, tousling it. “Do we have kids?” I ask. “Six.” “Six?” Now it’s time for my eyes to pop out of their sockets. “Do you really think I want to birth six children?” “Hell, no.” He shakes his head. “We adopted six kids from all around the world. We’re going to have the most diverse and loving family you’ll ever see.” Adopting six kids, now that’s incredibly sweet. Or mad? No, it’s sweet. In fact, it’s extremely rare to meet a man who not only knows he wants to adopt kids, but is willing to look outside of the US, knowing how much he could offer that child. Good God, this man is a unicorn. “We have the means for it, after all,” he says, continuing. “You’re taking over the city of Chicago, and I’ll be raining home runs on every opposing team. We would be the power couple, the new king and queen of the city. Excuse me, Oprah and Steadman, a new, hip couple is in town. People would wear our faces on their shirts like the royals in England. We’re the next Kate and William, the next Meghan and Harry. People will scream our name and then faint, only for us to give them mouth-to-mouth because even though we’re super famous, we are also humanitarians.” “Wow.” I sit back in my chair. “That’s quite the picture you paint.” I know what my mom will say about him already. Don’t lose him, Dorothy. He’s gold. Gorgeous and selfless. “So . . . with all that said, our six children at your side, would you wear a Rebels shirt?” I take some time to think about it, mulling over the idea of switching to black and red as my team colors. Could I do it? With the way Jason is smiling at me, hope in his eyes, how could I ever deny him that joy—and I say that as if we’ve been married for ten years. “I would wear halfsies. Half Bobbies, half Rebels, and that’s the best I can do.” He lifts his finger to the sky. “I’ll take it.

and for the first time since learning of Krissa's marriage, he began working on a lyric. It was about loss, but not private loss, not loss of a romantic love. This was public loss, the lost innocence of a country at war few believed in, the loss of Roosevelt, Churchill, and Kennedy—of a king young men could believe in. It was about hungering to live with a tradition one could value, about longing to pay heed to customs that one could respect. It was called "My Grandfather's Chocolates." In the last stanza the grandson's regret and bitterness blazed into anger, fury at the generation who squandered their traditions. And as Quinn worked and reworked those lines, he knew that he was coming as close as he could to writing about Krissa.

I’ll be back soon,” she said, hurrying toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere.” “Well, damn,” he tried to joke, “there go my plans to visit the King.

Billowing clouds of smoke stretched across the sky as tendrils of flame consumed buildings from the inside out, like a parasite, with no concern for the longevity of its host. Its fuel was too willing to accept its embrace, and so the fire feasted like a king.

I’m anything but a prince. If you want to address me, you can address me as king . . . or daddy. Never prince.

Let’s get one thing straight right fucking now,” I say, breathing heavily. “You might be a future queen, but when it comes to the bedroom, I’m your goddamn king. Got it?

Now the only problem will be convincing your surly dragon to let you walk in there, unarmed." "I will just have to use my sexy feminine wiles on him," Quinn said batting her eyelashes at him. "Feminine wiles?" Apollo raised a golden brow. "You mean witch pussy?" "Witch pussy," Quinn ageeed with a wicked laugh.

Be careful. okay? I don't want you dying before I can get you naked." "You only want me for my body? rude," Taranis said. "Well, yeah because so far, your personality has sucked," Quinn replied because she never knew when to quit.

And who is going to save me from you? He spanked me instead of politely asking me for information," Quinn said and then added in a huff, "He didn't even have the decency to make me come afterwards. Where I come from, that's just rude

Because we have a big, bossy family that is demanding a party tonight. Now that you are healed, there is no excuse not to have it,"Quinn replied. "I was wrong... I'm feeling poorly. I need to stay in bed to recover. With you on my dick. For medicinal reasons.

He ran a finger over her bicep, and she was about to ask what he was doing when her arm went numb. "Ohhhh, you are going to get the best head of your life for that," she said, her whole body dizzy with relief. Taranis swallowed back a laugh. "You're so delightfully ridiculous, Quinn Fairbrook." "It's part of my appeal. That and my epic tits," she replied, placing her arm under the running tap. Taranis's eyes dropped to her bloody tank top. "They are rather epic." "Thanks. I made them myself.

I am going to appear here and stay here the entire scene.” You could have heard a pin drop. “I . . . am the king of the Gods,” he pronounced in his deep baritone. “I don’t move for anyone. I sit, and people come to me.” I smiled to myself. Of course. His declaration met with an astounded silence. There was no argument for that. They relit the scene, and from then on Josh deferred to Quinn for blocking every scene he was in.

London is an ancient city,' he added. 'She holds bound in her belly the bones of giants and her soul is of old magic. Some wicked thing is abroad with this plague Charlie, all of us feel it. Perhaps something terrible has arisen with the King's return. A long-sleeping demon awoken and now stalking among us.

The English upper classes were regular churchgoers but they allowed children to work for sixteen hours a day in mines and factories. They insisted their wives and daughters were too delicate for work, yet their twelve-year-old maids worked eighty and more hours each week. It was a world that started a revolution

So long as a man appeared to be respectable he could do as he pleased.

Why, so we can look for some little kid who probably doesn’t even know he’s missing?” Again Sam resisted the surge of anger. As mildly as he could he said, “Brother, nobody is making you come.” “You saying I shouldn’t?” Quinn took two quick steps and grabbed Sam’s shoulder. “You saying you want me to leave, brah?” “No, man. You’re my best friend.” “Your only friend.” “Yeah. That’s right,” Sam admitted. “All I’m saying is, who died and made you king?” Quinn asked. “You’re acting like you’re the boss here. How did that happen? How come I’m taking orders from you?” “You’re not taking orders,” Sam said angrily. “I don’t want anyone taking orders from me. If I wanted people taking orders from me, all I had to do was stay in town and start telling people what to do.” In a quieter voice Sam said, “You can be in charge, Quinn.” “I never said I wanted to be in charge,” Quinn huffed. But he was running out of resentment. He shot a dark look at Edilio, a wary look at Astrid. “It’s just weird, brah. Used to be it was you and me, right?” “Yeah,” Sam agreed. In a whining voice Quinn said, “I just want to get our boards and head for the beach. I want everything to go back to how it was.” Then in a startling shout he cried, “Where is everyone? Why haven’t they come for us? Where. Are. My. Parents?

And what about the ace? More powerful than the king and yet sometimes counting as a mere one? Above the king---wouldn't that be a kind of god? But what God is also the lowest of the low?

She has no idea how great this feels. Like I’m on cloud fucking nine and I’m never coming back down. In this moment, I know it won’t be like this with anyone else, because this is Hazel. I’m neither saint nor monk, but it ought to mean something when a woman allows a man inside her body. It’s a privilege.

I want you to remember this: don’t mistake expectations for passion. What you expect from yourself—that’s not passion. That’s your brain communicating to you to keep pushing. Passion is a deep-rooted feeling that you can’t shake off. A strong, uncontrollable emotion you have for a particular thing or particular person.

This isn’t normal, Lilly, for someone of my status to date someone like you.” “Oh my GOD! Who cares! Jesus Christ, Keller. It’s not like we’re living in a time where women’s rights are suppressed and men rule with an iron fist. We’re living in this modern day, with a king and queen who approve. So, your whole excuse of class differences doesn’t check out.

Take a look at this bridge, how weathered and worn it is, and yet, it’s one of the most magnificent things I’ve ever seen. It may have its battle scars, but it’s sturdy, a strong foundation, and that’s something love should be built on.’ She was right. There were scars in our relationship, some battle wounds, but underneath the cosmetic features of our friendship was a sturdy foundation that love could be built on. Love

The King, dear boy. Anything washed up on the beaches of England belongs to the monarch by right. Whales, dolphins, porpoises. If they wash ashore, they’re ‘fishes royal.’ A law that dates back to Saxon times, if I remember rightly.

[…] Although it’s hard to imagine it now, there was a time when horror was nearly unrivaled in popularity with the general reader. In the 1970s and ’80s, local bookstores had whole shelves devoted to it. You couldn’t miss them: they were the ones stocked between Mystery and Fantasy/Sci-Fi, with all the black and red covers, the raised titles dripping blood, and the leering skeletons. Lots and lots of skeletons. These books had notoriously short shelf lives, but because there was such a demand for them—owing largely to the success of books like The Exorcist and writers like Stephen King, Anne Rice, and Peter Straub—it was possible to hack a living if you could turn them out fast enough. A lot of folks tried their hand, and a lot of bad books were published. So many that the market eventually collapsed under its own weight. Among those bad books, though, were some truly great ones written by great writers—writers like Ramsey Campbell, Robert R. McCammon, and Chelsea Quinn Yarbro, to name just three—who delivered lasting contributions to the genre. While it would be nice to think that all the deserving books were saved from being swept away in the vast tide, that just wasn’t the case. [...] Excerpt from ”Introduction” to Michael McDowell’s ”Blackwater: The Complete Saga” (2017, Kindle edition)

I’m here for you, so please don’t attempt to eat me with your lady fangs.

Don’t ever ask someone if they’re upset when they clearly are, because all it’s going to do is bring on the tears.

Do you know that while we were in Germany, I realized that I’ve been so fucking in love with you for as long as I can remember

Even if the bad people have louder mouths, the good people have bigger hearts.

This isn’t a tasting, this is a guzzling. False advertising.

I dry humped my friend, and now things are awkward.

You made me believe that I’d ruined everything we’d built.

Four magical islands surrounded the mainland of Wrenly. Primlox was ruled by the fairies. Hobsgrove was know as the island of wizards. The king's dragons roamed the island of Crestwood, and Burth belonged to the trolls. All the islands were protected by the kingdom of wrenly, but each island was a smaller kingdom unto itself. King Caleb had to work very hard to keep the lands united. Sometimes there was trouble, but for now all was well.

make your way to the Schöner Brunnen. The fountain is a rather large statue wrapped in gold and protected by an impressively built iron fence. But off to the side, in the fence, there are two bronze rings dangling from the iron. Legend has it that it’s good luck to spin the brass rings.

You get one life. Don’t waste it on mindless, tedious fights, hurt feelings, or pride. Celebrate each breath you take. Wake up every morning knowing it’s the start of a new day. A new day where you can accomplish anything. And spend your life loving.

Like Silicon Valley back in the 90s. The nerds were suddenly the kings of the valley. They spent the 70s getting slapped around their towns and the 80s being computer geeks, and by the 90s they were the equivalent of football heroes. Hipsters came out of that. Hipsters were nerds rebelling against nerds. SoCal, Northern California took over your business and gave it out for free on YouTube!!

Sometimes, easy isn’t the option, because you realize it’s the hard that will bring you joy and happiness.

Damian, who do you admire?’ I said, ‘St Roch, sir.’ The others stopped talking. ‘Who does he play for?’ ‘No one, sir. He’s a saint.’ The others went back to football. ‘He caught the plague and hid in the woods so he wouldn’t infect anyone, and a dog came and fed him every day. Then he started to do miraculous cures and people came to see him – hundreds of people – in his hut in the woods. He was so worried about saying the wrong thing to someone that he didn’t say a word for the last ten years of his life.’ ‘ We could do with a few like him in this class. Thank you, Damian.’ ‘ He’s the patron saint of plague, cholera and skin complaints. While alive, he performed many wonders.’ ‘Well, you learn something new.’ He was looking for someone else now, but I was enjoying being excellent. Catherine of Alexandria (4th century) came to mind. ‘They wanted her to marry a king, but she said she was married to Christ. So, they tried to crush her on a big wooden wheel, but it shattered into a thousand splinters – huge sharp splinters – which flew into the crowd, killing and blinding many bystanders.’ ‘ That’s a bit harsh. Collateral damage, eh? Well, thank you, Damian.’ By now everyone had stopped debating players versus managers. They were all listening to me. ‘After that they chopped her head off. Which did kill her, but instead of blood, milk came spurting out of her neck. That was one of her wonders.’ ‘Thank you, Damian.’ ‘She’s the patron saint of nurses, fireworks, wheel-makers and the town of Dunstable (Bedfordshire). The Catherine wheel is named after her. She’s a virgin martyr. There are other great virgin martyrs. For instance, St Sexburga of Ely (670– 700).’ Everyone started laughing. Everyone always laughs at that name. They probably laughed at it in 670– 700 too. ‘Sexburga was Queen of Kent. She had four sisters, who all became saints. They were called—’ Before I could say Ethelburga and Withburga, Mr Quinn said, ‘Damian, I did say thank you.’ He actually said thank you three times. If that doesn’t make me excellent, I don’t know what does. I was also an artistic inspiration, as nearly all the boys painted pictures of the collateral damage at the execution of St Catherine. There were a lot of fatal flying splinters and milk spurting out of necks. Jake painted Wayne Rooney, but he was the only one.

I’ll love you forever and always as well . . . my king.

Everything from the simple “no” to the terrors of ‘the void’ of Sartrean “nothingness” is evoked. These themes and feelings, and key words, echo throughout a particular set of Dylan songs from the sprawling collection collectively known as The Basement Tapes. ‘Nothing Was Delivered’, ‘You Ain’t Goin’ Nowhere’, ‘I’m Not There’, ‘Too Much of Nothing’ and other titles, reflect that nothingness/emptiness is a major, recurring theme in these songs. Similar concerns to King Lear are embedded in many songs: “life is brief”, or ‘Goin To Acapulco’s’, “It’s a wicked life but what the hell/Everybody’s got to eat/And I’m just the same as anyone else/When it comes to scratchin’ for my meat”’ And even in that modern nursery rhyme,32 ‘Quinn The Eskimo (The Mighty Quinn)’ where the titular character, Godot-like, is also not there.33