Sophie Movie Quotes

Love. Not the kind you see in the movies or hear about on the radio. The real kind. The kind that gets beaten down and bloody, yet perseveres. The kind that hopes even when hope seems foolish. The kind that can forgive. The kind that believes in healing. The kind that can sit in silence and feel renewed. The real kind of love. It's rare and we have it...

I wish we could go to the movies." I stared at him. "We're in a creepy dungeon. There's a chance I might die in the next few hours. You are going to die in the next few hours. And if you had one wish, it would be to catch a movie?

We could argue in front of our lockers all dramatically," I said. "That's something I saw a lot at human high schools." He squeezed me in a quick hug. "Yes! Now that sounds like a good time. And then I could come to your house in the middle of the night and play music really loudly under your window until you took me back." I chuckled. "You watch too many movies. Ooh, we could be lab partners!" "Isn't that kind of what we were in Defense?" "Yeah, but in normal high school, there would be more science, less kicking each other in the face." "Nice.

When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it's not, and I need to do it again. (Confessions of a Shopaholic-the movie)

That's a movie quote, right? You know, if you do that with books, people think you're intelligent." Sophie lowered her chin. "If this is your pathetic attempt to seduce me again, you're falling miserably." "I don't seduce woman." Phin shoved back his chair and stood up. "They fall into my open arms." "Clumsy of them.

Me too." I agree fervently. "Every film should definitely have a message." Which is true. I mean... take the Lord of the Rings movies- they've got loads of messages. Like "Don't lose your ring.

You’ve seen the movies. Bad guy always comes back.

He looked like every glossy frat boy in every nerd movie ever made, like every popular town boy who’d ever looked right through her in high school, like every rotten rich kid who’d ever belonged where she hadn’t. My mama warned me about guys like you. He turned to her as if he’d heard her and took off his sunglasses, and she went down the steps to meet him, wiping her sweaty palms on her dust-smeared khaki shorts. “Hi, I’m Sophie Dempsey,” she said, flashing the Dempsey gotta-love-me grin as she held out her hot, grimy hand, and after a moment he took it. His hand was clean and cool and dry, and her heart pounded harder as she looked into his remote, gray eyes. “Hello, Sophie Dempsey,” her worst nightmare said. “Welcome to Temptation.

Vika glared at him for a second, then shoved Sophie back, sending her tumbling into Fitz’s arms. “You okay?” he asked, flashing his movie-star-worthy smile as he steadied her. She was fairly certain her face was on fire as she pulled away and mumbled, “Yeah. Thanks.

For God’s sake. In movies, they fix the note to a dog’s collar and it trots off obediently, no nonsense.

I mean . . . take the Lord of the Rings movies—they’ve got loads of messages. Like “Don’t lose your ring.

It’s hard for me to talk about love,' she said. 'I think movies are the way I do that.

It was funny how bomb and wars looked so thrilling in movies and computer games, when the reality was so heart-stoppingly terrifying.

Living in London is like living in a movie set, from the Dickensian backstreets to the glinting tower blocks to the secret garden squares. You can be anyone you want to be.

This is from a movie, too,” he says. “Do you know it?” I shake my head. “I’ll play it for you next time.” I look up into his face. “How many next times will there be?” “Infinite,” he says.

I’ve seen all those movies, of course. Schindler’s List, The Pianist, Sophie’s Choice. And I’ve watched a few documentaries and read a few books. But you don’t really get a sense of it until you’re actually there, do you? Have you ever been, Mrs F.?’ I said nothing.

as Hume expressed it. The mind is 'a kind of theater, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, re-pass, slide away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations.' Hume pointed out that we have no underlying 'personal identity' beneath or behind these perceptions and feelings which come and go. It is just like the images on a movie screen. They change so rapidly we do not register that the film is made up of single pictures. In reality the pictures are not connected. The film is a collection of instants

If I died this second, I’d want my gravestone to read: Died happy having the movie sex.

Hush, Sophie. You’re beautiful.” It was, mostly, a quote from the movie, and it finished Elijah off. Shutting his eyes, he leaned into Baz’s touch. “Don’t eat my heart, Howl.” “Never,” Baz vowed, sealing the promise with a kiss.

Then, on impulse, I scroll back through my previous Instagram posts, looking at the photos of London cafes, sights, drinks, and smiling faces (mostly strangers). The whole thing is like a feel-good movie, and what's wrong with that? Loads of people use colored filters or whatever on Instagram. Well, my filter is the “this is how I'd like it to be” filter. It's not that I lie. I was in those places, even if I couldn't afford a hot chocolate. It's just I don't dwell on any of the not-so-great stuff in my life, like the commute or the prices or having to keep all my stuff in a hammock. Let alone vanilla-whey-coated eggs and abnoxious lechy flatmates. And the point is, it's something to aspire to, something to hope for. One day my life will match my Instagram posts. One day.

After dinner yesterday, I went to the movies and saw Meryl Streep in Sophie’s Choice. Hitler’s invasion of Poland only figured in the film. In the film, Meryl Streep divorces Dustin Hoffman, but then in a commuter train she meets this civil engineer played by Robert De Niro, and remarries. A pretty all-right movie.

The way I feel about you, Jacinda...I know you feel it, too." He stares at me so starkly, so hungrily that I can only nod. Agree. Of course, I feel it. "I do," I admit. But I don't understand him. Don't get why he should feel this way about me. Why should he want me so much? What do I offer him? Why did he save me that day in the mountains? And why does he pursue me now? When no girl spiked his interest before? "Good," he says. "Then how about a date?" "A date?" I repeat, like I've never heard the word. "Yeah. A real date. Something official. You. Me. Tonight. We're long overdue." His smile deepens, revealing the deep grooves on the sides of his cheeks. "Dinner. Movie. Popcorn." "Yes." The word slips past. For a moment I forget. Forget that I'm not an ordinary girl. That he's not an ordinary boy. For the first time, I understand Tamra. And the appeal of normal. "Yes." It feels good to say it. To pretend. To drink in the sight of him and forget there's an ulterior reason I need to go out with him. A reason that's going to tear us apart forever. Stupid. Did you think you might have a future with him? Mom's right. Time to grow up. He smiles. Then he's gone. Out the door. For a second, I'm confused. Then he's at my door, opening it, helping me out. Together we walk through the parking lot. Side by side. We move only a few feet before he slips his hand around mine. As we near the front of the building, I see several kids hanging out around the flagpole. Tamra with her usual crowd. Brooklyn at the head. I try to tug my hand free. His fingers tighten on mine. I glance at him, see the resolve in his eyes. His hazel eyes glint brightly in the already too hot morning. "Coward." "Oh." The single sound escapes me. Outrage. Indignation. I stop. Turn and face him. Feel something slip, give way, and crumble loose inside me. Set free, it propels me. Standing on my tiptoes, I circle my hand around his neck and pull his face down to mine. Kiss him. Right there in front of the school. Reckless. Stupid. I stake a claim on him like I've got something to prove, like a drake standing before the pride in a bonding ceremony. But then I forget our audience. Forget everything but the dry heat of our lips. My lungs tighten, contract. I feel my skin shimmer, warm as my lungs catch. Crackling heat works its way up my chest. Not the smartest move I've ever made.

He would not say anything at all. Sometimes, over the years, that had happened, his not wanting to talk to her. It didn't mean he was angry. But sometimes, after a movie or a play or the company had gone home, he simply didn't want to talk to her, the kind of woman she was--Sophie--he thought about her, the kind of woman she was--and she was so tangled in his life that the time he had sensed she wanted to go away from him had brought him more suffering than he had conceived it possible for him to feel.

Hey, we should do a Sound of Music night!” “Sure,” I say. “This movie sounds terrible,” Kitty says. “What kind of name is Georg?” We ignore her. Daddy says, “Tonight? I’ll make tacos al pastor!” “I can’t,” I say. “I’m going over to Belleview.” “What about you, Kitty?” Daddy asks. “Sophie’s mom is teaching us how to make latke cakes,” Kitty says. “Did you know that you put applesauce on top of them and it’s delicious?” Daddy’s shoulders slump. “Yes, I did know that. I’m going to have to start booking you guys a month in advance.

I slumped down on the couch with the kids. Coco had been such a big movie last year. What would be the next Pixar hit? Whatever it was, Aunt Linda would never get to know it. Even if it was bigger than Frozen, she'd never know it existed. Any song that come out from this week onward, Aunt Linda would never hear. Not once. Everything she was ever going to know about had already happened. Britney Spears could be voted the new president of the United States, and Aunt Linda would never know. The government might finally admit they have aliens in a warehouse, and Aunt Linda would never know. The world would keep moving, and tragedies would happen, and beautiful things would happen, and we'd invent things and grow and Aunt Linda would never see any of it.

We may have to mask your scent.” He looked at her soberly. “Did Olivia tell you anything about scent marking?” “Scent marking?” Sophie wracked her brain, trying to remember. It seemed vaguely familiar though she couldn’t remember exactly what it involved. Still, how bad could it be? “Oh, uh, sure. Scent marking.” She nodded. “Good. Because in the last extremity, if I hear the sniffers around this cabin, I may have to scent mark you—to mask your scent with my own.” “Can you do that? I mean, is your scent that much stronger than mine, especially when they’re focused on me?” Sylvan looked down at his hands. “Normally it isn’t but right now…ever since the trip we took in the transport tube…” Sophie thought of the warm, spicy scent that seemed to go to her head, the way it made her react to him… “It’s your mating scent, isn’t it?” she asked in a low voice, not daring to look at him. “Yes.” He sounded ashamed. “But why…” She risked a sidelong glance at him. “Why is it coming out now? I, uh, thought it only happened during the claiming period. But you’re not, um, claiming me or anything. I mean, we’re not… you know.” “I know.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand what’s going on either. We haven’t even been dream sharing. Well, that is, I mean…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve had a few dreams of you. But nothing out of the ordinary.” He glanced at her. “Have you…had any strange dreams?” “No.” Sophie shook her head and a look of mingled disappointment and relief passed over his stern features. “I have been, uh, having problems with my art, though,” she admitted in a low voice. “Problems with your art?” He frowned. “What do you mean?” “I paint,” Sophie explained. “You know—with a paintbrush and easel?” She made a painting motion in the air and his eyes widened. “That was what I dreamed. That you were painting a picture of…of me.” Sophie nearly choked. “But I have been! You’re all I’ve been able to paint lately. Even when I try not to, you always sneak in there. It’s so annoying.” Then she realized what she’d said. “Uh, I mean—” “It doesn’t matter.” Sylvan cut her off, shaking his head. “So we have been dream sharing, in a way.” Sophie felt herself go cold all over. “Does…does that mean you’re going to try to…to claim me? The way Baird claimed Liv?” Oh my God, if he does, if he claims me, then he’ll want to bite me! That’s the way his people do it. She had horror-movie visions of being held down under his muscular bulk, held down and pierced multiple times and in multiple ways. God, his teeth in my throat at the same time he’s inside me, filling me, holding me down and biting and thrusting. He’s so big, so strong—I’d never be able to get away. The horror she felt must have showed on her face, because Sylvan’s voice was rough when he spoke. “Don’t worry, Sophia. Even if I wanted to claim you, I couldn’t.” “Oh right.” She felt a small measure of relief. “Your vow.” “My vow,” he agreed. “Sylvan,

I thought making movies would make me more like other people,” said Sophie. “But sometimes I think it just makes me even more like me.” Again

Do not manhandle me. My answer is no. I'm not for sale." "But you don't have any family left," said Nicolas, raising an eyebrow. The next few moments blurred together into one messed-up vision. A fist flying into Nicolas's nose. A loud crack. Blood splattering on Camille's dress. Rémi putting his arm around me. Jane, Phillipa, and Marie racing up to see what the commotion was all about. The clicks of cameras. A nightmare. "This is private property. You're no longer guests of the château. Leave now," said Rémi as Nicolas scrambled up from the ground. "And stay away, far away from my fiancée, or I'll hunt you down." Jane, Marie, and Phillipa flanked my sides, supporting my shaky body. Phillipa hissed to Nicolas. "You're wrong. Sophie has a family. She has all of us. And her dad." I couldn't help but smile. What Phillipa said was true. I had everything. "He broke my nose," said Nicolas, holding his hand up to his face, blood pouring down like a waterfall. "I'm going to press charges against you, all of you, you pieces of merde." "Go ahead," said Rémi. "We may not be as wealthy as you are, but we're not doing so bad. You can try to destroy us, but if you know Sophie as well as I do, you know she fights back. And hard. Believe me. Nothing, not you, not me, will stand in her way. You're the only one with a reputation to lose---and from what I've read, most people think you're the scum of the earth." Camille walked up the steps. "I'm out of here." She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sophie. I should have known. Small dick, small mind." "I do not have a small dick," screamed Nicolas, his face turning red. The guests from the Sunday lunch clasped their hands over their mouths. I felt like I was the star of a B movie. Who were these people? Cartoon characters? "Oh, yes, you have a small penis. The smallest one I've ever seen," said Camille, winking at me. "And you think with it. Now, take me back to Paris so I can get rid of you. That is, unless you want my Instagram to blow up. Don't forget. I have pictures of your cornichon." Nicolas raced after Camille. "You salope, those pictures are private." Camille placed her hands on her skinny hips. "For now," she said. I had to give Camille credit when it was due; she wasn't a brain-dead model, she was fierce.

Heavy Issues (Bowen #2) : chap 9 Chapter Nine Christy paid for her soda and looked around. Tonight was a low-key event, no fund-raising dinner or dance, just good old outdoor-movie night. And thank God for it. Alden was a small town, but boy these people knew how to party. The whole park was packed, but she soon found Sophie at the far end and walked toward her, dropping onto a wooden chair the second she reached her, tired after a long day. She hadn’t had time to properly sit when Rose and her entourage approached them, the beautiful blonde glancing around and then focusing on Christy, disdain oozing from her. “Where did you leave Cole? Or has he gotten tired of you already?” Sophie snorted. “Wouldn’t you wish that.” “He’s filling in for Mike down at the gym—karate lesson. I’m very surprised you aren’t there drooling.” “We weren’t drooling,” Rose retorted. Ah, so they’d been there. What a surprise. “I still can’t believe he’s dating you. Did he lose a bet or something?” she asked, looking toward her friends. Bitch. Christy shrugged and offered her a sweet smile. “What do you want me to say? I just want to fuck the man, but he insists on dating me. Go figure that one.” Rose’s malicious eyes narrowed on her. “Enjoy it while it lasts. You can’t hold on to a man like that. You don’t have what it takes.” And with that parting shot Rose strode away, all long legs and swinging hips. “‘You don’t have what it takes,’” Sophie repeated, mocking Rose’s tone. “And what’s that, Botox and a bad case of sluttiness?

The smile he flashed belonged on a movie screen, and Sophie’s heart did a weird fluttery thing. “Is this you?” he asked, pointing to the picture. Sophie nodded, feeling tongue-tied. He was probably fifteen, and by far the cutest boy she’d ever seen. So why was he talking to her?

You're no one's lady, least of all mine. You're a boring book nerd who serves food out of a truck, for God's sake. You aren't even the best friend in a second-rate movie. You're an extra. A nobody. You were a placeholder, Hailey." Dorian's words rang through her ears.

Uh, there are different kinds of quintessence?” Sophie asked, trying to linger on the part of his explanation that didn’t sound like something straight out of a sci-fi/horror movie.

Guilty’ — I know what that means, but I don’t understand the point of it. And ‘use’ — people say that like it’s so awful, but it’s just when you make something into something else, people do that every day. And ‘material’ — that’s like saying there’s some defined thing you have that you make movies out of, like clay or something, and everything else you leave out. Maybe some people make movies that way, but their movies are shit.

Indica invokes the feeling of bodily highs and love baths, tea and relaxation, and chilled-out nights on the couch. Use an indica when you’re in need of full-body stress relief and wouldn’t mind cuddling up to watch a movie.

I thought making movies would make me more like other people,” said Sophie. “But sometimes I think it just makes me even more like me.

I led Sophie and Boris towards the doors, still in a quandary. For some reason, there had come into my head the numerous scenes from movies in which a character, wishing to make an impressive exit from a room, flings open the wrong door and walks into a cupboard. Although for exactly the opposite reason - I wished us to leave so inconspicuously that when it was discussed afterwards no one would be quite sure at which point we had done so - it was equally crucial I avoided such a calamity. In the end I settled for the door most central in the row simply because it was the most imposing. There were pearl inlays within its deep panels and stone columns flanking each side. And at this moment, in front of each column, there stood a uniformed waiter as rigid as any sentry. A doorway of this status, I reasoned, while it might not necessarily take us directly through to the hotel, was certain to lead somewhere of significance from where we could work out our route, away from the public gaze. Motioning Sophie and Boris to follow, I drifted towards the door and, giving one of the uniformed men a curt nod, as though to say: 'There's no need to stir, I know what I'm doing,' pulled it open. Whereupon, to my horror, the very thing I had most feared occurred: I had opened a broom cupboard and, at that, one which had been filled beyond its capacity. Several household mops came rumbling out and fell with a clatter onto the marble floor, scattering a dark fluffy substance in all directions. Glancing into the cupboard, I saw an untidy heap of buckets, oily rags and aerosol cans. 'Excuse me,' I muttered to the uniformed man nearest me as he hastened to gather up the mops and, with glances now turning accusingly our way, I hurried in the direction of the neighbouring door.

With one person knowing a movie star and not telling the other