Alaoui Dynasty Quotes & Sayings

The revelation of privacy: she can walk down the street and absolutely no one knows who she is. It's possible that no one who didn't grow up in a small place can understand how beautiful this is, how the anonymity of city life feels like freedom. — Emily St. John Mandel

There was a faint, sharp sweetness about her, like the taste of raspberries. She wore fussy and frilly clothes and jingling bracelets with an air of surprised distaste, as if she had been put to sleep by a witch and had awoken to find herself in these trappings. — Rebecca West

I nuzzle up against him, eyes closed, my nose at his throat, drinking in his sexy Christian-and-spiced-musky bodywash fragrance, my head on his shoulder. I let my mind drift, and I allow myself to fantasize that he loves me. Oh, and it's so real, tanglible almost, and a small part of my nasty harpy subconscious acts completely out of character and dares to hope. — E.L. James

My faith in Christ is central to my life. My conversion from a pessimistic atheist lost in a world I didn't understand, to an optimistic believer in a universe created and sustained by a loving God is crucial to me. But following Christ does not mean following His followers. Christ is infinitely more important than Christianity and always will be, no matter what Christianity is, has been, or might become. — Anne Rice

Treat them just the same as anybody else, give them an opportunity to make a living, and to get an education. — Huey Long

Conscious faith is freedom. Emotional faith is slavery. Mechanical faith is foolishness. — G.I. Gurdjieff

The Lord whose oracle is at Delphi neither reveals nor conceals, but gives a sign — Heraclitus

Pro tip," said Hercules. "Don't start a battle by announcing your fatal weakness. — Rick Riordan

The cat, covered in dust and standing on its hind legs, bowed to Margarita. Round its neck it was now wearing a made-up white bow tie on an elastic band, with a pair of ladies' mother-of-pearl binoculars hanging on a cord. It had also gilded its whiskers. — Mikhail Bulgakov