Suave Man Quotes

And then the man reminded Max, with a serious but suave and practiced air, that freedom was a debt that could be repaid only by purchasing the freedom of others.

Detective, have you ever considered the fact that violence is the recourse of the uncivilised man?” Skulduggery looked back. “I’m sophisticated, charming, suave and debonair, Professor. But I have never claimed to be civilised.

The fact of the matter is that young men lack skill and experience and are very likely to approach a girl as though she were a sack of wheat. It is the old man—suave, debonair, maturely charming—who knows exactly what to do and how to do it, and is therefore better at it.

Don't let strangers touch you." And yet it is seldom strangers, I learned long before I was a teenager, who do you harm. It is always the ones closest to us: the suave chauffeur, the skilled photographer, the kind music teacher, the good friend's sober and dignified husband, the pious man of God. They are the ones your parents trust, whom they don't want to believe anything against.

Gavin turned us to face Josh, a satisfied grin springing up when he noticed the condition of Josh’s clothes. “Thanks for the last-minute invitation, man.” Josh chuckled, patting Gavin on the shoulder. “Shall I do the honors, Mr. Suave?” “Sure thing, Frodo Baggins. By the way, I hear the Shire has impeccable dinner parties this time of year.” The corners of Gavin’s lips twitched and his eyebrows shot up as he gestured to a food stain of some sort near the collar of Josh’s white shirt. Josh’s chin shot down to follow Gavin’s amusement and he quickly tried to wipe away the crumbs. “Yeah, well … you know how we hobbits like to eat.

I was to grow used to hearing, around New York, the annoying way in which people would say: 'Edward Said, such a suave and articulate and witty man,' with the unspoken suffix 'for a Palestinian.' It irritated him, too, naturally enough, but in my private opinion it strengthened him in his determination to be an ambassador or spokesman for those who lived in camps or under occupation (or both). He almost overdid the ambassadorial aspect if you ask me, being always just too faultlessly dressed and spiffily turned out. Fools often contrasted this attention to his tenue with his membership of the Palestine National Council, the then-parliament-in-exile of the people without a land. In fact, his taking part in this rather shambolic assembly was a kind of noblesse oblige: an assurance to his landsmen (and also to himself) that he had not allowed and never would allow himself to forget their plight. The downside of this noblesse was only to strike me much later on.

was in his mid-thirties, with the easy confidence that comes from either inherited wealth or early success, a completely different man to the one I had met in Euston. Could it be that he changed his persona depending on the client he found himself with, that the richer and more established they were, the more suave and self-confident he became?

De Profundis Oh, is it, then, Utopian To hope that I may meet a man Who'll not relate, in accents suave, The tales of girls he used to have?

Sin rolled his eyes and sucked chocolate off his thumb, gesturing towards the unlit cigarette that had been sitting on the table for the better part of the last hour. "Cojelo suave, boss man, it's not even lit. We all know you're in charge, no need to start waving your dick around." The comment earned him a mildly startled look and the irritated expression cracked slightly. Carhart shook his head, hazel eyes moving to Boyd's face again. "Who told him how to speak that way?" "Not me," Boyd said, giving him an innocent look. "Likely he learned it at the night club." "I love how you people act like I never knew how to swear before going on that assignment," Sin said mildly, feeling rather insulted by the idea. What did Carhart think he was? An impressionable child? "I'll have you know I was quite fluent at it before.

My first impression of him was that he was free spirited, clever, funny. That proved to be completely inaccurate. We left the party together and walked around for hours, lied to each other about our happy lives, ate pizza at midnight, took the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and watched the sun rise. I gave him my phone number at the dorm. By the time he finally called me, two weeks later, I’d become obsessed with him. He kept me on a long, tight leash for months—expensive meals, the occasional opera or ballet. He took my virginity at a ski lodge in Vermont on Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t a pleasurable experience, but I trusted he knew more about sex than I did, so when he rolled off and said, “That was amazing,” I believed him. He was thirty-three, worked for Fuji Bank at the World Trade Center, wore tailored suits, sent cars to pick me up at my dorm, then the sorority house sophomore year, wined and dined me, and asked for head with no shame in the back of cabs he charged to the company account. I took this as proof of his masculine value. My “sisters” all agreed; he was “suave.” And I was impressed by how much he liked talking about his emotions, something I’d never seen a man do. “My mom’s a pothead now, and that’s why I have this deep sadness.” He took frequent trips to Tokyo for work and to San Francisco to visit his twin sister. I suspected she discouraged him from dating me.

—I’ll pay you your dues, father, when you cease turning the house of God into a pollingbooth. —A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to give to his priest. —They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they took a fool’s advice they would confine their attention to religion. —It is religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the people. —We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to our Maker and not to hear election addresses. —It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct their flocks. —And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus. —Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is wrong.

Shostakovich read in a shaky voice before breaking off a short way through, leaving a “suave radio baritone” to finish his speech, and decided to expose the sham. Jumping to his feet, Nabokov loudly asked if the composer supported the recent Soviet vilification of his great compatriot Igor Stravinsky. Shostakovich worshipped Stravinsky as a composer, if not always as a man, but he was forced to parrot the official line. To Nabokov, this was proof enough that Shostakovich was “not a free man, but an obedient tool of his government.

She had an ability to love that went beyond my ability to grasp the slightest concept of what love was.

The voice was suave, pleasant, well modulated and expressive. The restless eyes were so black that it was hard to detect expression in them, but his voice more than made up for it. Here was no man who talked in a conversational monotone, but one whose every word seemed alive with expression. His motions as he moved about straightening up the room were graceful, well-timed and effective.

She took one look at me and fireworks shot out of her ears. I think she hates me. At least, she’s still mad. But it could mean she still cares,” he added hopefully. “If I knew where to run into her again, I could try my persuasive charm on her without crowding her. I might’ve tried something like that the first time around. Like being at the officers’ club every time I thought she’d be there, till she got so sick of me shadowing her, she gave in.” Luke laughed. “Suave,” he said. “Think I should throw myself on her mercy? Nah,” he answered for himself. “From what I saw, she doesn’t have a lot of mercy in her right now. Besides, humility really isn’t my strong suit.” Luke laughed at him. “And, God forbid, we manly Riordans always play our best cards.” “You know what I mean. What woman wants a man who grovels? Did you grovel? When you and Shelby—?” “I hate to burst your bubble, pal, but I said I’d do anything that would make her happy. I know—it’s hard for you to imagine your tough big brother caving like that, but when I got down to it, I was doomed without her. She’s the breath in me.” Then he grinned. “But she doesn’t make me grovel anymore. She lets me pretend to be the big man.” “Swell,” Sean said, a long way from understanding all the rules for this game.

Stuart muttered, “Why don’t you say something?” Connell wanted to, but his lips felt like they were frozen shut. He’d never been all that suave around pretty girls. And not only was this girl pretty, but she had enough spunk to knock a man off his feet—literally. Stuart jabbed his ribs with his bony elbow. “At least go over to her.” Connell couldn’t make his feet work either. Lily stepped into the street and headed in the direction of the next closest tavern. “You big chicken,” Stuart said under his breath.

He cleared his throat roughly. “I’m not gentle,” he said, tossing the words away as if they pained him. Jessica had no idea where that had come from, but she had the feeling he was comparing himself to Kendrick’s suave ways. She looped her arms around his neck. “You are,” she said, “the most gentle, passionate man I’ve ever met.” He didn’t move. “Have you met many?” “No. Would it matter if I had?” “It would matter only in that I will be dead several hundred years before they are born and I cannot find them and geld them.” “You’re very chivalrous.” “I’m spoiling you,” he mumbled.

—Levántate. Tengo tres cosas para ti. Es lo justo. Me puse en pie y Auri me tendió una cosa envuelta en un trozo de tela. Era una vela gruesa que olía a lavanda. —¿Qué hay dentro? —pregunté. —Sueños felices. Los he puesto ahí para ti. Di vueltas a la vela en mis manos, y una sospecha empezó a formarse en mi mente. —¿La has hecho tú misma? Auri asintió con la cabeza y sonrió feliz. —Sí. Soy tremendamente lista. Me guardé la vela con cuidado en uno de los bolsillos de la capa. —Gracias, Auri. —Ahora —dijo ella poniéndose seria— cierra los ojos y agáchate para que pueda darte tu segundo regalo. Cerré los ojos, desconcertado, y me doblé por la cintura preguntándome si también me habría hecho un sombrero. Noté las manos de Auri a ambos lados de mi cara, y entonces me dio un beso suave y delicado en la frente. Abrí los ojos, sorprendido. Pero Auri ya se había apartado varios pasos, y, nerviosa, se cogía las manos detrás de la espalda. No se me ocurrió nada que decir. Auri dio un paso adelante. —Eres especial para mí —dijo con seriedad y con gesto grave—. Quiero que sepas que siempre cuidaré de ti. —Estiró un brazo, vacilante, y me secó las mejillas—. No, nada de eso esta noche. »Este es tu tercer regalo. Si te van mal las cosas, puedes quedarte conmigo en la Subrealidad. Es un sitio agradable, y allí estarás a salvo. —Gracias, Auri —dije en cuanto pude—. Tú también eres especial para mí. —Claro —dijo ella con naturalidad—. Soy adorable como la luna.

RECRUITMENT Ripley Residence 2107 Mockingbird Road Vienna, Virginia January 16 1530 hours “Hello, Ben,” said the man in my living room. “My name is Alexander Hale. I work for the CIA.” And just like that, my life became interesting. It hadn’t been, up till then. Not by a long shot. That day had been a prime example: day 4,583, seven months into the twelfth year of my mundane existence. I had dragged myself out of bed, eaten breakfast, gone to middle school, been bored in class, stared at girls I was too embarrassed to approach, had lunch, slogged through gym, fallen asleep in math, been harassed by Dirk the Jerk, taken the bus home . . . And found a man in a tuxedo sitting on the couch. I didn’t doubt he was a spy for a second. Alexander Hale looked exactly like I’d always imagined a spy would. A tiny bit older, perhaps—he seemed about fifty—but still suave and debonair. He had a small scar on his chin—from a bullet, I guessed, or maybe something more exotic, like a crossbow. There was something very James Bond about him; I could imagine he’d been in a car chase on the way over and taken out the bad guys without breaking a sweat. My parents weren’t home. They never were when I got back from school. Alexander had obviously “let himself in.” The photo album from our family vacation to Virginia Beach sat open on the

I exhaled with a smile. The man was too suave for his own good. Knowing what three-syllable word to say in times like this was his superpower.

Clarke? Are you all right?” It’s Damian’s voice. I’d recognize it anywhere even though it’s currently muffled by the door. I try to answer but can’t get my voice to work. “Baby? I’m coming in.” The door swings open. He’s looking as good as he did last night but wearing a different suit today. He’s so handsome and sexy and suave that I suddenly have no idea what I’m even doing with the man. I don’t belong with him.

But now the streets were not like the streets she knew. They were so silent: and so empty. On the doorsteps, little groups of milk bottles huddled with their dirty white collars, waiting for the roundsman to collect them next morning and take them off to be washed and spruced up and sent out on duty again… In the areas, the dustbins spilled forth unsightly contents, relentless reminders of man’s mortality: now and again the air still gave a tiny sigh, and a whiff of decay was borne away upon the breeze. The plane trees rustled, whispering a message from the dustbins: ‘All is rottenness, all is death…’, the high street lamps cast shadows in angled walls that seemed as black and bottomless as eternity. A couple reeling home late from a party were swallowed up by a dark doorway: already the glow and the rapture were fading—tomorrow there would be sick headaches and queasy tummies… Beauty vanishes—beauty passes…Only the cats were heedless and unafraid, darting across the patchwork shadows of the streets on plush-cushioned, soundless paws. What threat had death and decay and nothingness?—to a sleek, suave gentleman with nine lives before him and every one packed with adventure that had nothing to do with death—on the contrary!

It is true that, if the affections or aptness of the children be extraordinary, then it is good not to cross it; but generally the precept” of the Pythagoreans “is good, Optimum lege suave et facile illud faciet consuetudo,”—choose the best; custom will make it pleasant and easy.35 For “custom is the principal magistrate of man’s life.”36

He wasn't a good talker under the best of circumstances. If she needed someone killed, he was her man, but trying to sound suave and sophisticated was far beyond any ability he had.

A gondola carrying two men dressed in fine embroidered doublets and wide-brimmed velvet hats pulled alongside the girls as they approached. “Good evening, ladies,” one of the men said. His friend stood up just far enough to attempt a suave bow. Their gondola teetered back and forth, nearly spilling them into the canal. Their gondolier swore at them, and the two men began to laugh. “I trust we’ll see you at the party.” The first man smiled broadly. Arabella quickly produced an ivory fan, fluttering her eyelashes as she fanned herself. Seraphina smiled back at the men, waving coyly with one hand. Flavia giggled and hollered out something Agnese would have declared unbecoming of a lady.

The two boys did quite a lot of cycling, playing cycle polo in a field not far from Cooldrinagh, just as their father had done earlier in a team run by a man called Wisdom Healy.110 The scene in Beckett’s novel Dream of Fair to Middling Women, where the two brothers go off on their bicycles to the sea, recalls a poignant memory of his childhood: That was in the blue-eyed days when they rode down to the sea on bicycles, Father in the van, his handsome head standing up out of the great ruff of the family towel, John in the centre, lean and gracefully seated, Bel behind, his feet speeding round in the smallest gear ever constructed. They were the Great Bear, the Big Bear and the Little Bear; aliter sic, the Big, Little and Small Bears … Many was the priest coming back safe from his bathe that they passed, his towel folded suavely, like a waiter’s serviette, across his arm. The superlative Bear would then discharge the celebrated broadside: B-P! B-P! B-P! and twist round with his handsome face wreathed in smiles in the saddle to make sure that the sally had not been in vain. It had never been known to be in vain.111

A certain magistrate told somebody whom he was examining in court that he or she "should always be polite to the police." I do not know whether the magistrate noticed the circumstance, but the word "polite" and the word "police" have the same origin and meaning. Politeness means the atmosphere and ritual of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. The policeman means the representative and guardian of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. Yet it may be doubted whether the two ideas are commonly connected in the mind. It is probable that we often hear of politeness without thinking of a policeman; it is even possible that our eyes often alight upon a policeman without our thoughts instantly flying to the subject of politeness. Yet the idea of the sacred city is not only the link of them both, it is the only serious justification and the only serious corrective of them both. If politeness means too often a mere frippery, it is because it has not enough to do with serious patriotism and public dignity; if policemen are coarse or casual, it is because they are not sufficiently convinced that they are the servants of the beautiful city and the agents of sweetness and light. Politeness is not really a frippery. Politeness is not really even a thing merely suave and deprecating. Politeness is an armed guard, stern and splendid and vigilant, watching over all the ways of men; in other words, politeness is a policeman. A policeman is not merely a heavy man with a truncheon: a policeman is a machine for the smoothing and sweetening of the accidents of everyday existence. In other words, a policeman is politeness; a veiled image of politeness—sometimes impenetrably veiled. But my point is here that by losing the original idea of the city, which is the force and youth of both the words, both the things actually degenerate. Our politeness loses all manliness because we forget that politeness is only the Greek for patriotism. Our policemen lose all delicacy because we forget that a policeman is only the Greek for something civilised. A policeman should often have the functions of a knight-errant. A policeman should always have the elegance of a knight-errant.

His eyes were light, light brown like the dark honey that came at the end of the summer when the sumac and serious bushes bloomed. His eyebrows were heavy and expressive but didn't overwhelm his face. His mouth kept pulling to one side in that smile... there was something a little fake about it, but also something a little endearing. Like he was trying very hard to be suave and mysterious. And didn't realize how obvious it was.

Suave, edgy, witty, flippant, sophisticated to a ‘T’, poised, cool gaze, that purring voice, waltzing stylishly in that sharp suit and Tag Heuer watch to match, citing Plutarch like the fine man he is, Hans Gruber is every girl’s dream BadBoy (minus the sociopathic undertones) with a dark sense of humor to crown it all. Swoon.

Firth and Stone came to relieve us, something I always looked forward to. I loved Firth. “Karish, my beautiful, my one, my only,” she crowed, as she always did. Karish, who had risen to his feet as the ladies entered, scooped up Firth’s hand. As he always did. “Claire, my lovely,” he said in a voice as smooth as sanded wood. “It is a treasure to see you, as always.” “You liar,” she retorted. “You’re such a tease.” That was a little blunter than usual. Fun to see Karish gape like a fish, though. “I never am,” he protested. “Sure you are, lad. All heat and promises and just when you get a girl all worked up you slither out of it.” Karish blushed. I cackled. Stone smirked. Granted, I wouldn’t want a man as old as Firth drooling all over me, but Karish asked for it. He was something of a slut and wore the reputation almost proudly. From what I understood, Firth was a slut, too, and she’d had many more years to practise it. She knew how to make the elegant, confident, suave Lord Shintaro Karish blush in a way no one else could, and it delighted me every time I saw it. He should have learned to back off by then. On the other hand, he might have forgotten after all that time spent away from High Scape. For certain he beat a hasty retreat out of there, taking me with him. “Rrrrr,” Karish growled, once I closed the door behind us. “You have too much fun with her.” Hey, it wasn’t my fault. He’d started it the year before by oozing all over Firth when they met. “I have nothing to do with it.” “No, you just sit back and laugh.” He sounded almost bitter about it. “Poor boy.” My feigned sympathy couldn’t have sounded more false. “Can dish it out but you can’t take it.” He appeared scandalized. “I never behave like that.” He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder at the Stall. “No, you’re a little more subtle, but give it time.” He huffed. “I will never act that way.” “All right.” We’d wait and see. When his looks began to fade a little. In twenty years or so. “Brat.” He took my hand, and we trudged through the snow back towards the city