Unidentified Love Quotes

Grace, did you just sniff my shirt?" He asked, incredulous. “Yep, I did. What of it? And after you leave, I’ll probably lay on your side for a while because the pillow smells like you. I’m ridiculous when I’m in love. We’re talking Hallmark over here.

Hey, if you're going to say what I think you're going to say…wait, are you going to say it?” he asked, smiling down at me. “Yes, yes I think so.” I grinned shyly back. “Well, then I think we should say it at the same time, yes?” he suggested. “Count of three?” I asked. He nodded. “One…” I started. “Two…” he said, eyes twinkling. “Three,” we said together. We both paused, smiling hugely, and then I took a deep breath. “Jack, I love you.” “I know,” he said at the same time. Ass… “Ass!” I said, smacking him on the arm. “That was great!” he laughed.

He always thought that Touie's long illness would somehow prepare him for her death. He always imagined that grief anf guilt, if they followed, would be more clear-edged, more defined, more finite. Instead they seem like weather, like clouds constantly re-forming into new shapes, blown by nameless, unidentifiable winds.

Yeah, she's right here. She's in the shower, in fact…Oh, Jack! I told Grace the funniest joke about the British invading her hoo—Wait, what?…Hold on…Grace, Jack would like you to know that he has seen the pictures and he thinks you were pointing that shrimp at him far too aggressively…No, she isn't acknowledging you. She's now banging her head against the shower tiles…Oops, now she's glaring at me…she's turning off the shower, Jack…she's coming towards me…she's naked, Jack…and angry…she's naked and angry, Jack…you would probably love angry, naked Grace. It's something to see. She's hitting me, Jack…I think she's going to take the phone away from…

Among the gods, there is a dispute as to which one of them originally thought of Christianity; or, as they call it, the Great Leg Pull. Apollo has the best claim, but a sizeable minority support Pluto, ex-God of the Dead, on the grounds that he has a really sick sense of humour. How would it be, suggested the unidentified god, if first we tell them all to love their neighbour, pack in the killing and thieving, and be nice to each other. Then we let them start burning heretics.

She seemed so vulnerable and in her vulnerability there was some exotic kind of beauty that dragged him away from the mundane world to another unidentifiable one. " From "He wrote Lily

It was the same book, every day. The pages of said book were rounded and soft where Young Sam had chewed them, but to one person in this nursery this was the book of books, the greatest story ever told. Vimes didn't need to read it any more. He knew it by heart. It was called Where's My Cow? The unidentified complainant had lost their cow. That was the story, really. Page one started promisingly: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Baa!" It is a sheep! That's not my cow! Then the author began to get to grips with their material: Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Neigh!" It is a horse! That's not my cow! At this point the author had reached an agony of creation and was writing from the racked depths of their soul. Where's my cow? Is that my cow? It goes, "Hruuugh!" It is a hippopotamus! That's not my cow! This was a good evening. Young Sam was already grinning widely and crowing along with the plot. Eventually, the cow would be found. It was that much of a pageturner. Of course, some suspense was lent by the fact that all other animals were presented in some way that could have confused a kitten, who perhaps had been raised in a darkened room. The horse was standing in front of a hatstand, as they so often did, and the hippo was eating at a trough against which was an upturned pitchfork. Seen from the wrong direction, the tableau might look for just one second like a cow ... Young Sam loved it, anyway. It must have been the most cuddled book in the world. Nevertheless, it bothered Vimes, even though he'd got really good at the noises and would go up against any man in his rendition of the "Hruuugh!" But was this a book for a city kid? When would he ever hear these noises? In the city the only sound those animals would make was "sizzle" But the nursery was full of the conspiracy, with baa-lambs and teddy bears and fluffy ducklings everywhere he looked.

The person outside the library probably had nothing to do with the king, Celaena told herself as she walked—still not sprinting—down the hall to her room. There were plenty of strange people in a castle this large, and even though she rarely saw another soul in the library, perhaps some people just . . . wished to go to the library alone. And unidentified. In a court where reading was so out of fashion, perhaps it was merely some courtier trying to hide a passionate love of books from his or her sneering friends. Some animalistic, eerie courtier. Who had caused her amulet to glow.

The difference between a good and a great work of art was down to an almost indistinguishable series of largely unidentifiable factors: the élan of a brushstroke; the juxtaposition of colours; the collisions in a composition and an accidental stroke or two. Like a rolling stone gathering moss, a painting gathered history, comment and appreciation, all adding to its value.

Can’t say my Uttarpara ancestral home isn’t my homeland, I know unidentified bodies, their eyes plucked out, float by in the Ganga. Can’t say my aunt’s Ahiritola isn’t my homeland, I know abducted girls are bound and gagged in Sonagachi nearby. Can’t say my uncle’s at Panihati isn’t my homeland, I know who was killed, and where, in broad daylight. Can’t say my adolescent Konnagar isn’t my homeland, I know who was sent to cut whose throat. Can’t say my youth’s Calcutta isn’t my homeland, I know who threw bombs, set fire on buses, trams. Can’t say West Bengal isn’t my homeland, I’ve the right to be tortured to death in its lock-ups, I’ve the right to starve and have rickets in its tea gardens, I’ve the right to hang myself at its handloom mills, I’ve the right to become bones buried by its party lumpen, I’ve the right to have my mouth taped, silenced, I’ve the right to hear the leaders sprout gibberish, abuse, I’ve the right to a heart attack on its streets blocked by protestors, Can’t say Bengali isn’t my homeland.

It began with a train journey. I always thought something brilliant might happen to me on a train. The transitional state of a long journey has always seemed to me the most romantic and magical of places to find yourself in; marooned in a cozy pod of your own thoughts, suspended in midair, traveling through a wad of silent, blank pages between two chapters. A place where phones dip in and out of consciousness and you're forced to spend time with your thoughts, working out what needs to be reshaped and reordered. I have done big dreaming while sitting on trains. The clearest moments of epiphany or gratitude have hit me when zooming through unidentifiable English countryside, staring out at a golden rapeseed field, considering what I am leaving behind or about to approach.

For the first time she called it sex. With no time or desire to analyze her words, he shook off an unidentifiable hollow sensation forming in his middle.

When I first began writing novels the greatest threat to America and the world appeared to be fundamentalist Islamic terrorists intent on waging a Holy War to establish a Caliphate. So these tended to be my villains. I dutifully took care to explain each time that radicalized Jihadists vowing to wipe all non-Muslims from the face of the Earth and create rivers of blood in the streets didn’t represent the vast majority of peace-loving Muslims. Since there were only small pockets of Jihadists, and over a billion Muslims, nothing could be more obvious. Still, in today’s world, one needed to state this explicitly. But then I began researching the leadership of China, and I was astonished by what I found. I had always thought the country was largely harmless. A promising market for American goods, and a wonderful supplier to American consumers. But the more I researched, the more clear and ominous their endgame became. It wasn’t as if it wasn’t all there to find, in their own words. Still, their reputation within the US tended to be excellent. China was ten times the threat of Russia, yet many Americans thought just the opposite.

He felt a peculiar cleanliness. It was made of pride and of love for this earth, this earth which was his, not theirs. It was the feeling which had moved him through his life, the feeling which some among men know in their youth, then betray, but which he had never betrayed and had carried within him as a battered, attacked, unidentified, but living motor—the feeling which he could now experience in its full, uncontested purity: the sense of his own superlative value and the superlative value of his life. It was the final certainty that his life was his, to be lived with no bondage to evil, and that that bondage had never been necessary. It was the radiant serenity of knowing that he was free of fear, of pain, of guilt.

Tim’s countenance changed from a contemplative glow to a dim scene of a dramatic aftermath; an echo of an unknown song scratched down a chalkboard of an unidentified emotion while scrambled attempts at focus latched on to speculative fragments of logic that accumulated to reach a satisfactory degree of progress to a common ground of comprehensive reasoning.

I felt my worth at that point. A penny. I was a sidewalk toss away — a grimy piece of metal stuck to the bottom of the cup holder, couch cushions, old wallets and under the fridge between a shriveled grape and an unidentified hair — that was me. He saw no value in me, except to use me when he came up short. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck.

Mr. Italia sat belching under a pair of oval-framed photographs of parents hairier, if possible, than himself. His wife was dead, but there was a picture of her, too, in her casket, gazing out at us with an eerie simulacrum of motherly love. Dark-complected Mr. Italia was indeed, with handle-bar mustaches of a size that might have made him topple forward out of his chair were it not for the posture seemingly aimed at correcting the leverage in his favor. He drank beer after thrusting into my hand a bottle of soda pop of marked but unidentifiable flavor, pale yellow in color, and lukewarm.

You see certain people and get the intuition that they are related to you in a way unspecified, important to you for the reasons unidentified. You bet I had received my turn of hunch!

True, names are the welcoming bridges to the significant other’s castle of existence, but they are not necessarily the only way to get in or out of there. There might always be, and usually are, some other routes too buried to be noticed at the first glance. Some other names, nicknames, or appellations most definitely from another time and of another consciousness, unofficial, undocumented, unidentified names, part bygone forever, part eternal, each is like a hidden subway in the labyrinth of love through which the beloved can walk away before the lover has even realized her absence. That is how it is with names, the easiest thing to learn about human beings, yet the most difficult to possess.

It was a tale as old as time. Boy meets girl. Boy purchases girl to protect him. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy prays that girl won’t let him die horribly as he puts his UFO-questing nose where various parties don’t want it to be.

Blond hair was for toddlers with rosy cheeks, not tall, broad-chested men with unidentifiable accents who made Hazel's mouth go dry when they stepped closer to her.

was a tale as old as time. Boy meets girl. Boy purchases girl to protect him. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy prays that girl won’t let him die horribly as he puts his UFO-questing nose where various parties don’t want it to be.

The person outside the library probably had nothing to do with the king, Celaena told herself as she walked—still not sprinting—down the hall to her room. There were plenty of strange people in a castle this large, and even though she rarely saw another soul in the library, perhaps some people just … wished to go to the library alone. And unidentified. In a court where reading was so out of fashion, perhaps it was merely some courtier trying to hide a passionate love of books from his or her sneering friends. Some animalistic, eerie courtier. Who had caused her amulet to glow. Celaena entered her bedroom just as the lunar eclipse was beginning, and groaned. “Of course there’s an eclipse,” she grumbled, turning from the balcony doors and approaching the tapestry along the wall. And even though she didn’t want to, even though she’d hoped to never see Elena again … she needed answers. Maybe the dead queen would laugh at her and tell her it was nothing. Gods above, she hoped Elena would say that. Because if she didn’t …

Another scene from universal myth unfolds -- here powerfully reminiscent of the Underworld quests of Orpheus for Eurydice and of Demeter for Persephone. The ancient Japanese recension of this mysteriously global story is given in the Kojiki and the Nihongi, where we read that Izanagi, mourning for his dead wife, followed after her to the Land of Yomi in an attempt to bring her back to the world of the living: 'Izanagi-no-Mikoto went after Izanami-no-Mikoto and entered the Land of Yomi ... So when from the palace she raised the door and came out to meet him, Izanagi spoke saying; 'My lovely younger sister! The lands that I and thou made are not yet finished making; so come back!' Izanami is honoured by Izanagi's attention and minded to return. But there is one problem. She has already eaten food prepared in the Land of Yomi and this binds her to the place, just as the consumption of a single pomegranate seed binds Persephone to hell in the Greek myth. Is it an accident that ancient Indian myth also contains the same idea? In the Katha Upanishad a human, Nachiketas, succeeds in visiting the underworld realm of Yama, the Hindu god of Death (and, yes, scholars have noted and commented upon the weird resonance between the names and functions of Yama and Yomi). It is precisely to avoid detention in the realm of Yama that Nachiketas is warned: 'Three nights within Yama's mansion stay / But taste not, though a guest, his food.' So there's a common idea here -- in Japan, in Greece, in India -- about not eating food in the Underworld if you want to leave. Such similarities can result from common invention of the same motif -- in other words, coincidence. They can result from the influence of one of the ancient cultures upon the other two, i.e. cultural diffusion. Or they can result from an influence that has somehow percolated down to all three, and perhaps to other cultures, stemming from an as yet unidentified common source.

She discovered a whole square devoted to seafood- squid and sea bass, shrimp, prawns, rock lobsters, octopus, sea cucumbers, and a pallet of unidentifiable slugs and snails, creatures with fluorescent fins and prehistoric shells, things Marguerite was sure Dusty Tyler had never seen in all his life. In Morocco, the women did the shopping, all of them in ivory or black burkhas. Most of them kept their faces covered as well; Candace called these women the "only eyes." They peered at Marguerite (who wore an Hermés scarf over her hair, a gift from one of her customers) and she shivered. Marguerite's favorite place of all was the spice market- dozens of tables covered with pyramids of saffron and turmeric, curry powder and cumin, fenugreek, mustard seed, cardamom, paprika, mace, nutmeg.

Hell, I was pretty sure I still loved her, even though I now hated her also.