S L Gray Quotes

From his inside jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright gray and raw, full of emotion. "Anastasia Steele, I love you. I want to love, cherish and protect you for the rest of my life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me".

I am tired of people saying that poor character is the only reason people do wrong things. Actually, circumstances cause people to act a certain way. It's from those circumstances that a person's attitude is affected followed by weakening of character. Not the reverse. If we had no faults of our own, we should not take so much pleasure in noticing those in others and judging their lives as either black or white, good or bad. We all live our lives in shades of gray.

I was waiting for you," he says softly, his eyes dark gray and luminous. "That's... that's such a lovely thing to say." "It's true. I didn't know it at the time." He smiles his shy smile. "I'm glad you waited." "You are worth waiting for, Mrs. Grey.

No. No!” he says. “I . . .” He looks wildly around the room. For inspiration? For divine intervention? I don’t know. “You can’t go. Ana, I love you!” “I love you, too, Christian, it’s just—” “No . . . no!” he says in desperation and puts both hands on his head. “Christian . . .” “No,” he breathes, his eyes wide with panic, and suddenly he drops to his knees in front of me, head bowed, long-fingered hands spread out on his thighs. He takes a deep breath and doesn’t move. What? “Christian, what are you doing?” He continues to stare down, not looking at me. “Christian! What are you doing?” My voice is high-pitched. He doesn’t move. “Christian, look at me!” I command in panic. His head sweeps up without hesitation, and he regards me passively with his cool gray gaze—he’s almost serene . . . expectant. Holy Fuck . . . Christian. The submissive.

No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home.

[Ana] “You’re a sadist?” “I’m a Dominant.” His eyes are a scorching gray, intense. “What does that mean?” I whisper. “It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.” I frown at him as I try to assimilate this idea. “Why would I do that?” “To please me,” he whispers as he cocks his head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile. Please him! He wants me to please him! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christian Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want him to be damned delighted with me. It’s a revelation.

I have late night conversations with the moon; he tells me about the sun, and I tell him about you.

He does, and his eyes shoot to mine, wide and gray, alive with wonder and joy. His lip part in disbelief. The word YES flashes on and off on the key ring. "Happy birthday", I whispered.

How can i eat now? I'm going to Seattle by helicopter with Christian Gray..And he wants to bite my lip..

What do you think it means if someone has a tattoo of Thanatos’s symbol?” “Nothing probably, since a lot of us have tattoos of various symbols.” “You don’t.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. His eyes turned from gray to silver in a heartbeat. I imagined he was remembering how I would know if he had a tattoo hidden somewhere.

You may marry Miss Grey for her fifteen pounds but you will always be my Willoughby. My nightmare. My sorrow. My past. My mistake. My regret. My love.

November is usually such a disagreeable month...as if the year had suddenly found out that she was growing old and could do nothing but weep and fret over it. This year is growing old gracefully...just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with gray hair and wrinkles. We've had lovely days and delicious twilights.

The last time we were in there you left me," he says quietly. "I will shy away from anything that could make you leave me again. I was devastated whe you left. I explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I've told you how I feel about you." His gray eyes are wide and intense with his sincerity.

Well, the good guys really weren't typical. They really weren't the good guys at all, but if I discovered anything, there was no such thing as white and black. There was a lot of gray in the middle.

If I wore any color other than black, tan, or gray, I looked like an asylum escapee.

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet. Age: five thousand three hundred days. Profession: none, or "starlet" Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? Why are you hiding, darling? (I Talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling). Where are you riding, Dolores Haze? What make is the magic carpet? Is a Cream Cougar the present craze? And where are you parked, my car pet? Who is your hero, Dolores Haze? Still one of those blue-capped star-men? Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays, And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen! Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts! Are you still dancin', darlin'? (Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts, And I, in my corner, snarlin'). Happy, happy is gnarled McFate Touring the States with a child wife, Plowing his Molly in every State Among the protected wild life. My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair, And never closed when I kissed her. Know an old perfume called Soliel Vert? Are you from Paris, mister? L'autre soir un air froid d'opera m'alita; Son fele -- bien fol est qui s'y fie! Il neige, le decor s'ecroule, Lolita! Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie? Dying, dying, Lolita Haze, Of hate and remorse, I'm dying. And again my hairy fist I raise, And again I hear you crying. Officer, officer, there they go-- In the rain, where that lighted store is! And her socks are white, and I love her so, And her name is Haze, Dolores. Officer, officer, there they are-- Dolores Haze and her lover! Whip out your gun and follow that car. Now tumble out and take cover. Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Her dream-gray gaze never flinches. Ninety pounds is all she weighs With a height of sixty inches. My car is limping, Dolores Haze, And the last long lap is the hardest, And I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust.

Between the radiant white of a clear conscience and the coal black of a conscience sullied by sin lie many shades of gray--where most of us live our lives. Not perfect but not beyond redemption.

Walter's eyes were very wonderful. All the joy and sorrow and laughter and loyalty and aspirations of many generations lying under the sod looked out of their dark-gray depths.

And so a pattern develops: wake, work cry. sleep. I can't even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright and bright all haunt me. And the music... so much music-I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.

I was waiting for you, he says softly, his eyes dark gray and luminous.

Gilbert stretched himself out on the ferns beside the Bubble and looked approvingly at Anne. If Gilbert had been asked to describe his ideal woman the description would have answered point for point to Anne, even to those seven tiny freckles whose obnoxious presence still continued to vex her soul. Gilbert was as yet little more than a boy; but a boy has his dreams as have others, and in Gilbert's future there was always a girl with big, limpid gray eyes, and a face as fine and delicate as a flower.

Thea! I was looking for you." It was Eric's voice. Warm, eager-everything that Thea wasn't. She turned to see green eyes flecked with dancing gray and an astonishing smile. A smile that drew her in, changing the world. Maybe everything was going to be all right, after all.

It was muddy from all the rain. A few gray wooden houses on both sides and one old, tired store lined the road. Two dark mangy stray dogs, shivering in the damp cold, wandered the street and a few crows sat in the dead trees, waiting for who knew what.

Seeing him on his knees in front of me, feeling his mouth on me, it's so unexpected and hot. My hands stay in his hair, pulling gently as I try to quiet my too loud breathing. He gazes up at me through impossibly long lashes, his eyes scorching smoky gray.

A gray leather couch was against the wall. Above it was a giant framed photo of One Direction.

Yes, red-to give warmth to that milk-white skin and those shining gray-green eyes of yours. Golden hair wouldn't suit you at all Queen Anne-My Queen Anne-queen of my heart and life and home.

It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.

This is not a story for the faint of heart; this is the story of one woman's very real struggle through a world against her, the people who hurt her, her real life demons and the people who showed her that every gray sky, no matter how dark, has a sun waiting to break through.

Sweetheart, I remember every second from the first moment I laid eyes on you and I’ve been trying to get my world upright ever since.

I loved weather, all weather, not just the good kind. I loved balmy days, fearsome storms, blizzards, and spring showers. And the colors! Everyday brought something to be admired: the soft feathery patterns of cirrus clouds, the deep, dark grays of thunderheads, the lacy gold and peach of the early morning sunrise. The sky and its moods called to me.

His eyes are gray oceans of loss and hurt and pain.

I cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call Kansas." "That is because you have no brains," answered the girl. "No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home." The Scarecrow sighed. "Of course I cannot understand it," he said. "If your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in beautiful places, and then Kansas would have no people at all. It is fortunate for Kansas that you have brains.

WITHIN THESE WALLS, he became my solace, my sanctuary, and my strength. Like a white knight, he saved me from a life of gray and showed me a world full of color.

I think that's the hardest part about mistakes: Sometimes the consequences aren't physical. Sometimes they simply chip away at the essence of who you are.

We’re going to rectify the situation right now.” “What do you mean? What situation?” “Your situation. Ana, I’m going to make love to you, now.” “Oh.” The floor has fallen away. I’m a situation. I’m holding my breath. “That’s if you want to, I mean, I don’t want to push my luck.” “I thought you didn’t make love. I thought you fucked hard.” I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. He gives me a wicked grin, the effects of which travel all the way down there. “I can make an exception, or maybe combine the two, we’ll see. I really want to make love to you. Please, come to bed with me. I want our arrangement to work, but you re­ally need to have some idea what you’re getting yourself into. We can start your training tonight – with the basics. This doesn’t mean I’ve come over all hearts and flowers, it’s a means to an end, but one that I want, and hopefully you do too.” His gray gaze is intense

I have learned to love me, and now I am free to love everyone else.

Welcome to Four Paths. Nobody would stay here if they had a choice.

Sinners who were led astray, Wandered through the woods one day, Stumbled right into the Gray, Never to return. Hear the lies our gods will tell, The prison the Four wove so well, But listen to us when we say, Branches and stones, daggers and bones, Will meet their judgement day.

The euphoria of new love consumed me. I couldn't eat, could hardly sleep, and my stomach was in a perpetual state of nervous excitement.

Three little words. My world stands still, tilts, then spins on a new axis; and I savor the moment, gazing into his sincere, beautiful gray eyes.

Sometimes I felt connections begging to be made, sometimes I cursed myself for not having ten percent more gray matter, sometimes the report carbons just made me think of Lee.

Sometimes people wear indifference because it's easier than facing the truth.

Don’t,” he murmurs, then kisses me lightly. “Why don’t you like to be touched?” I whisper, staring up into soft gray eyes. “Because I’m fifty shades of fucked up, Anastasia.

No matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful. There is no place like home." The

A child of about eleven, garbed in a very short, very tight, very ugly dress of yellowish-gray wincey. She wore a faded brown sailor hat and beneath the hat, extending down her back, were two braids of very thick, decidedly red hair. Her face was small, white and thin, also much freckled; her mouth was large and so were her eyes, which looked green in some lights and moods and gray in others.

Destarte! How musical! What does it mean?" "You can't say it except in Mescalero. It means Morning, but that isn't what it means, either. Indian words are more than just that. They also mean the feel and the sound of the name. It means like Crack of Dawn, the first bronze light that makes the buttes stand out against the gray desert. It means the first sound you hear of a brook curling over some rocks-some trout jumping and a beaver crooning. It means the sound a stallion makes when he whistles at some mares just as the first puff of wind kicks up at daybreak. "It means like you get up in the first light and you and her go out of the wickiup, where it smells smoky and private and just you and her, and kind of safe with just the two of you there, and you stand outside and smell the first bite of the wind coming down from the high divide and promising the first snowfall. Well, you just can't say what it means in English. Anyway, that was her name. Destarte.

Everything was bleak and gray, the lake dull and lusterless under a thin layer of ice. From so far and so high, it looked like a fogged mirror, and I imagined God reaching down to smear the glass clean with his sleeve.

Three Meatloaf Haikus Oh yucky meatloaf sitting under the hot lights so gray and gristly. Nothing tastes worse than you, not cauliflower or even lima beans. And what is that weird thing sticking out--a whisker? hair? a rubber band?

The storms in life don't make you any less perfect; they make you beautiful and full of character

The planet's tyrant, dotard Death, had held his gray mirror before them for a moment and shown them the image of things to come.

I hope you never waste a moment of your life afraid to change it.

Curled up on one of her pillows a gray fluff of kitten yawned, showing its pink tongue, tucked its head under again, and went back to sleep.

Beauty fades, hair turns gray. Some people are lost before their time. But in the end, we don't remember them for how they looked. We remember how they made us feel.

wondering how my savior had somehow become a morally gray man with no boundaries and a distinct lack of understanding how an actual courtship worked.

Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose.

The world of Katherine Kavanagh is very clear, very black and white. Not the intangible, mysterious, vague hues of gray that color my world. Welcome to my world.

Mrs. Grey, if a job's worth doing, it's worth doing well. Lift your hips." His eyes glow summer storm gray.

Prayer is not about changing your situation, although sometimes God grants those requests. It's about changing your heart.

If we are sons and daughters of a mighty God, why do we live our life as orphans?

I was my own worst enemy, analyzing and re-analyzing everything around me, but when I ran, I felt invincible.

When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.

God wants you to have so much more. He wants you to have a supernatural love, one that sustains when both of you give up. You can’t have that with someone who lacks faith. It’s just not possible.

The truth is, we do not have addiction problems. We have misdirected worship. I’m convinced every human being is in recovery and being weaned from some form of addiction because of idolatry. Your addiction or mine may not have us eating out of trash cans, but our sin habit is hurting and diminishing God’s glory in our lives.

He came to me in pieces, like a painting in the works. His gray-blue eyes were the first to pop out from behind the fog of fear. They were sapphire and silver swirled together, the color of a moonstone. Next was his straight nose and symmetrical lips, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds. He was pungently masculine and intimidating in his looks, but that was not what made me recognize him immediately. It was what rolled off of him in dangerous quantities, the menace and the ruggedness. He was a dark knight made of coarse material. Cruel in his silence and punishing in his confidence.

I’m going home to an old country farmhouse, once green, rather faded now, set among leafless apple orchards. There is a brook below and a December fir wood beyond, where I’ve heard harps swept by the fingers of rain and wind. There is a pond nearby that will be gray and brooding now. There will be two oldish ladies in the house, one tall and thin, one short and fat; and there will be two twins, one a perfect model, the other what Mrs. Lynde calls a ‘holy terror.’ There will be a little room upstairs over the porch, where old dreams hang thick, and a big, fat, glorious feather bed which will almost seem the height of luxury after a boardinghouse mattress. How do you like my picture, Phil?" "It seems a very dull one," said Phil, with a grimace. "Oh, but I’ve left out the transforming thing," said Anne softly. "There’ll be love there, Phil—faithful, tender love, such as I’ll never find anywhere else in the world—love that’s waiting for me. That makes my picture a masterpiece, doesn’t it, even if the colors are not very brilliant?" Phil silently got up, tossed her box of chocolates away, went up to Anne, and put her arms about her. "Anne, I wish I was like you," she said soberly.

was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.

She wanted a world where girls did not need to grow a spine of steel just to survive. Where they could be as soft and silly as they wanted. Where they could walk into a room full of new people and see endless possibilities instead of potential threats.

I started to detest my tears; coming and going at will; never caring if the moment was appropriate.

quand elle est en grande toilette, on dirait l'édition de luxe d'un mauvais roman français.

Un homme peut être heureux avec n'importe quelle femme, à condition de ne pas l'aimer.

She wore the gray Alexander Wang dress I’d bought for her birthday—it took me forever to find a cheap knock-off that’d make her rich friends laugh at her behind her back

è questo uno dei grandi segreti della vita: curar l'anima con i sensi e i sensi con l'anima.

Just promise to remember me when you find yourself in all the places that I will never be.

The cyclone had set the house down gently, very gently – for a cyclone—in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty. There were lovely patches of green sward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious fruits. Banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes. A little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.

Lord, I pray she knows Your unfailing love and how to find refuge in the shadow of your wings. I pray she knows you delight in her and that in Your light, she will see the true light…”       12.

I gabbed Ivy's arm. "Look. Ivy. Something just moved - by that tombstone." We both stared into the gray light. "Oh, noooo," I moaned. I watched, trembling in horror as someone climbed out of a grave.

Spring is singing in my blood today, and the lure of April is abroad on the air. I'm seeing visions and dreaming dreams, Pris. That's because the wind is from the west. I do love the west wind. It sings of hope and gladness, doesn't it? When the east wind blows I always think of sorrowful rain on the eaves and sad waves on a gray shore. When I get old I shall have rheumatism when the wind is east." "And

I don’t care how fast and how far you run, I’ll run faster and farther. I’m not letting you go. Ever,” I say, between brushes of my mouth on hers. “Run to me, Livvy, not away. I can’t live without you again.

I hadn't thought you such a faithless coward. You are a princess of the Summer Throne, wedded Queen of the Craig, and my wife. You swore an oath, before a priest and your father's court, to accept my counsel and my care. You swore to offer me all the fruits of your life. And now, you would deny me that which you swore to offer? Do you have so little honor?" The accusation stole the silver from her eyes, leaving them pure, plain gray filled with shock and dismay. "I...No! Of course not! I'm no oathbreaker." "Then come to your bath. Accept my care, as you swore you would. Offer me the fruits of your life, that I may dine once more on peace instead of war.

directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had

reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad

There had been no snow up to this time, but as Diana crossed the old log bridge on her homeward way the white flakes were beginning to flutter down over the fields and woods, russet and gray in their dreamless sleep. Soon the far-away slopes and hills were dim and wraith-like through their gauzy scarfing, as if pale autumn had flung a misty bridal veil over her hair and was waiting for her wintry bridegroom.

I met him at the airport. He wore a long dark-gray pea coat, charcoal slacks, a cashmere sweater, and his usual scowl. He was standing outside, the freezing New York weather staining his cheekbones a dark shade of pink while he puffed on a blunt. On the sidewalk of the airport.

The lesson of a love that should display itself easily in spoken word and open look was one Marilla could never learn. But she had learned to love this slim, gray-eyed girl with an affection all the deeper and stronger from its very undemonstrativeness. Her love made her afraid of being unduly indulgent, indeed. She had an uneasy feeling that it was rather sinful to set one's heart so intensely on any human creature as she had set hers on Anne, and perhaps she performed a sort of unconscious penance for this by being stricter and more critical than if the girl had been less dear to her.

Preacher walks away and stands for a spell staring out the cell window with his long, skinny hands folded behind him. Ben looks at those hands and shivers. What kind of a man would have his fingers tattooed that way? he thinks. The fingers of the right hand, each one with a blue letter beneath the gray, evil skin—L—O—V—E. And the fingers of the left hand done the same way only now the letters spell out H—A—T—E. What kind of a man? What kind of a preacher?

Avery, I found this picture the other day after our talk and knew I had to get it for you. I know sometimes you wonder why I feel the way I do about you, when you are still learning to love yourself. You said you were flawed and damaged, but, my love, we all are. The storms in your life don’t make you less than perfect; they make you beautiful and full of character, with the ability to use all you’ve learned to impact the rest of the world. I’ve been wishing for months there was a way you could see yourself through my eyes. Well, here it is. This is how I see you, and the rain has only made you more breathtaking. All my love, Parker

Harry, spuse Basil Hallward, privindu-l drept în față, fiecare portret care este pictat cu simțire este un portret al artistului, nu al modelului. Modelul nu este decât un accident, o oportunitate. Nu el este cel dezvăluit de către pictor, ci mai degrabă pictorul este cel care, pe pânza pictată, se dezvăluie pe sine însuși.

Le seul charme du passé, c'est qu'il est le passé. Mais les femmes ne savent jamais quand le rideau est tombé. Elles veulent toujours un sixième acte. C'est quand l'intérêt de la pièce est épuisé qu'elles demandent le plus fort qu'on la prolonge. Si on les écoutait, toute comédie aurait un dénouement tragique, et toute tragédie s'achèverait en farce.

Reera did not keep them in misery more than a few seconds, for she touched each one with her right hand and instantly the fishes were transformed into three tall and slender young women, with fine, intelligent faces and clothed in handsome, clinging gowns. The one who had been a goldfish had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes and was exceedingly fair of skin; the one who had been a bronzefish had dark brown hair and clear gray eyes and her complexion matched these lovely features. The one who had been a silverfish had snow-white hair of the finest texture and deep brown eyes. The hair contrasted exquisitely with her pink cheeks and ruby-red lips, nor did it make her look a day older than her two companions.

Les bonnes résolutions ne sont que d'inutiles efforts pour contrarier les lois scientifiques. Elles ont leur source dans notre vanité. Leur résultat est absolument nil. Elles nous donnent, de temps à autre, quelques-unes de ces riches et stériles émotions qui ne sont pas sans charme pour les âmes faibles. Voilà tout ce qu'on peut dire en leur faveur. Ce sont des chèques tirés sur une banque où l'on n'a pas de compte ouvert.

IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT. In her attic bedroom Margaret Murry, wrapped in an old patchwork quilt, sat on the foot of her bed and watched the trees tossing in the frenzied lashing of the wind. Behind the trees clouds scudded frantically across the sky. Every few moments the moon ripped through them, creating wraithlike shadows that raced along the ground. The house shook. Wrapped in her quilt, Meg shook. ... The window rattled madly in the wind, and she pulled the quilt close about her. Curled up on one of her pillows, a gray f luff of kitten yawned, showing its pink tongue, tucked its head under again, and went back to sleep.

The drug dealer, the ducking and diving political leader, the wife beater, the chronically “crabby” boss, the “hot shot” junior executive, the unfaithful husband, the company “yes man,” the indifferent graduate school adviser, the “holier than thou” minister, the gang member, the father who can never find the time to attend his daughter’s school programs, the coach who ridicules his star athletes, the therapist who unconsciously attacks his clients’ “shining” and seeks a kind of gray normalcy for them, the yuppie—all these men have something in common. They are all boys pretending to be men. They got that way honestly, because nobody showed them what a mature man is like. Their kind of “manhood” is a pretense to manhood that goes largely undetected as such by most of us. We are continually mistaking this man’s controlling, threatening, and hostile behaviors for strength. In reality, he is showing an underlying extreme vulnerability and weakness, the vulnerability of the wounded boy.

It was a painting of a wolf pack prowling toward the front of the canvas. All five wolves were highly detailed. Each different from the next. At the center a large wide black wolf with blue eyes showed its fangs. To his right, a tall lean gray and brown wolf that was built for speed. Next to him, a tan and white wolf that had a more playful look on its face. To the left of the black wolf was a gray one, tall, majestic, certain. Next to him was another dark gray wolf with haunted eyes. It was the best painting I’d ever done.

Dans son commerce avec l'homme, le Destin n'arrête jamais ses comptes. Il y a des moments, nous disent les psychologues, où l'amour du péché, de ce que le monde apelle le péché, s'empare de l'être à tel point que chaque fibre du corps, chaque cellule du cerveau, semble la proie d'inexorables impulsions. Hommes et femmes, alors, perdant tout libre arbitre. Ils se meuvent vers leur but fatal, comme se meuvent des automates. Toutes faculté de choisir leur est enlevées. Leur conscience est morte, ou sinon, juste assez vivante pour donner de l'attrait à la rébellion, du charme à la désobéissance. Car tout péché, les théologiens ne se lassent pas de nous le rappeler, est péché de désobéissance. Quand le superbe Esprit du mal, l'Étoile du matin, tomba du ciel, ce fut sous l'étendard de la révolte.

Une fatalité s'attache à toute supériorité de l'esprit ou du corps, cette même fatalité qu'on voit, à travers l'histoire, s'élancer sur les pas mal assurés des rois. Mieux vaut ne pas différer de ses compagnons. Les laiderons et les sots ont la meilleure part en ce monde. Ils peuvent s'asseoir à l'aise et bayer au spectacle. S'ils ignorent le triomphe, en revanche, l'épreuve de la défaite leur est épargnée. Ils vivent, comme nous devrions vivre tous, tranquilles, insouciants, impassibles. Ils ne causent la ruine de personne et personne ne renverse leur fortune.

L'intelligence est, par sa nature, une sorte d'hypertrophie ; elle détruit fatalement l'harmonie d'un visage. Dès qu'une personne se met à penser, elle devient tout nez, tout front, ou je ne sais quoi d'horrible. Regardez les hommes éminents dans n'importe quelle branche du savoir. Ils sont tous parfaitement hideux. Excepté, bien entendu, les gens d'Église. Mais c'est que les gens d'Église ne pensent point. Un évèque répète, à quatre-vingts ans, les paroles qu'il a apprises quand il en avait vingt ; la conséquence naturelle en est qu'il conserve toujours un aspect absolument délicieux.

SATURDAY AT THE STORE is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and John and Patrick—the two other part-timers—and I are besieged by customers. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mrs. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the register discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalog numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I make sure the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up … and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christian Grey, who’s standing at the counter, staring at me. Heart failure. “Miss Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” His gaze is unwavering and intense. Holy crap. What the hell is he doing here, looking all outdoorsy with his tousled hair and in his cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice. “Mr. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips and his eyes are alight with humor, as if he’s enjoying some private joke. “I was in the area,” he says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Steele.” His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel … or something.

Le culte des sens a été souvent décrié, et à juste titre : un instinct naturel inspire aux hommes la terreur de passions et de sensations qui leur semblent plus fortes qu'eux-mêmes, et qu'ils ont conscience de partager avec les formes inférieures du monde organique. Mais Dorian Gray estimait que la vraie nature des sens n'avait jamais été bien comprise, qu'ils avaient gardé leur animalité sauvage uniquement parce qu'on avait voulu les soumettre par la famine ou les tuer à force de souffrance, au lieu de chercher à en faire les éléments d'une spiritualité nouvelle, ayant pour trait dominant une sûre divination de la beauté. Quand il considérait la marche de l'homme à travers l'Histoire, il était poursuivi par une impression d'irréparable dommage. Que de choses on avait sacrifiées, et combien vainement ! Des privations sauvages, obstinées, des formes monstrueuses de martyre et d'immolation de soi, nées de la peur, avaient abouti à une dégradation plus épouvantable que la dégradation tout imaginaire qu'avaient voulu fuir de pauvres ignorants : la Nature, dans sa merveilleuse ironie, avait amené les anachorètes à vivre dans le désert, mêlés aux animaux sauvages ; aux ermites, elle avait donné pour compagnons les bêtes des champs.

Who’s Josie?” Alex asked, confused. “Uh . . .” I looked over at Deacon. “You want to do the honors? I know how much you love awkward conversations.” A wide smile broke out across his face. “Of course, especially when I’m not the center of the awkwardness.” Luke snorted. “So!” Deacon clapped his hands together as he faced Alex and Aiden. “Did you guys happen to notice a certain girl out on the quad when you did your magic doorway thing?” Aiden glanced at Alex. She raised a shoulder. “There were a lot of people out there that I hadn’t seen before.” She paused. “I noticed Boobs, though.” I slowly shook my head. “Um, that’s not who I’m talking about. Anyway,” Deacon said, his gray eyes light. “She’s pretty tall. Well, taller than you and everyone is practically taller than you, Alex. Has long blondish-brown hair. Kind of weird hair.” “Awesome hair,” Luke added. Alexander frowned silently. “She does. It’s like an array of colors. One moment it looks completely blonde. The next it’s long brown and then it changes again. It’s very cool,” Deacon continued, and I had to agree with him on that. “And when you see her, you’re going to think, wow, this girl looks familiar. You won’t be able to put a finger on it at first, but it’s going to nag at you and then, when it hits you, you’ll—” “Deacon,” Aiden warned. “Who is Josie?” His brother pouted for a second and then sighed. “Fine. She’s a demigod. Like, a born demigod. Powers unlocked and all, and she’s super-cool and really nice.” His gaze slid over to where I stood and his expression turned sly. “Isn’t that right, Seth?” I eyed him. “Right.” “You’re forgetting the best part.” Solos walked past the couch, sending me a long look. “Which god she came from.” Aiden seemed to get what wasn’t being said first. His eyes closed as he rubbed his fingers along his brow. “Gods.” “What?” Alex looked at him and then at me. “Whose kid is she?” “Apollo’s,” Deacon answered, his smile going up a notch when Alex’s gaze flew to him. “Yep. Josie is Apollo’s daughter.” Her mouth dropped open. “And that kind of makes you and her cousins? I guess?” Luke frowned. “I don’t know what exactly, but it does make you two related. Somehow. I don’t know how, but she does have some of your mannerisms. It gets really weird sometimes.

build it had to be carried by wagon many miles. There were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds. Uncle Henry and Aunt Em had a big bed in one corner, and Dorothy a little bed in another corner. There was no garret at all, and no cellar--except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path. It was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole. When Dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side. Not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions. The sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it. Even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere. Once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else. When Aunt Em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife. The sun and wind had changed her, too. They had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also. She was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now. When Dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, Aunt Em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever Dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at. Uncle Henry never laughed. He worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was. He was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke. It was Toto that made Dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings. Toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose. Toto played all day long, and Dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly. Today, however, they were not playing. Uncle Henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual. Dorothy stood in the door with Toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too. Aunt Em was washing the