Eyes In Greek Quotes & Sayings

After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian, the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world, - a world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness, - an American, a Negro ... two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder.
The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife, - this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. — W.E.B. Du Bois

Griffin's eyes capture mine. He holds my face in his hands. "You. Belong. With. Me. — Amanda Bouchet

I have a pullout couch, and I could sleep in the living room. You can have the bedroom."
"I'm sorry. No." Mel put her hand on his chest, her eyes sparkling. "I have to draw the line there. I should at least get sex out of this deal or this really would be a tragedy. — Lisa Kessler

In my dealing with my child, my Latin and Greek, my accomplishments and my money stead me nothing; but as much soul as I have avails. If I am wilful, he sets his will against mine, one for one, and leaves me, if I please, the degradation of beating him by my superiority of strength. But if I renounce my will, and act for the soul, setting that up as umpire between us two, out of his young eyes looks the same soul; he reveres and loves with me. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

He's barely finished himself inside me when my release hits. My thighs tense. The breath stalls in my lungs, and then I kick back my head and let out the loudest, throatiest, and most breathless moan in the history of all history, going boneless in a blissful rush.
"Gods, I missed you," Griffin rasps, holding me as I throb around him.
The high-impact tremors fade into sweet, lingering aftershocks. I look up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. My lips part, but no words come out. Even the drag of frosty air over my kiss-swollen lips is almost too sensual to bear.
Griffin quirks a dark eyebrow, looking smug. "That was easy."
I grin, falling in love with him all over again. "Then do it again. — Amanda Bouchet

She began to whisper something in my ear. It's the strangest thing about poetry - you can tell it's poetry, even if you don't speak the language. You can hear Homer's Greek without understanding a word, and you still know it's poetry. I've heard Polish poetry, and Inuit poetry, and I knew what it was without knowing. Her whisper was like that. I didn't know the language, but her words washed through me, perfect, and in my mind's eye I saw towers of glass and diamond; and people with eyes of the palest green; and, unstoppable, beneath every syllable, I could feel the relentless advance of the ocean. — Neil Gaiman

In those days it was possible for a Greek to flee from an over-abundant reality as though it were but the tricky scheming off the imagination-and to flee, not like Plato into the land of eternal ideas, into the workshop off the world-creator, feasting one's eyes on the unblemished unbreakable archetypes, but into the rigor mortis off the coldest emptiest concept off all, the concept of being. — Friedrich Nietzsche

Eyes open, Ileana," he growled. "I want you to see who's in you. Who gives you what you need. — Setta Jay

The pain in my heart was worse than anything I ever imagined. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could feel was the void of her absence growing stronger inside me, and the panic of not ever seeing her eyes open again struck me like an iron whip. — Nely Cab

It takes years to marry completely two hearts, even of the most loving and well-assorted. A happy wedlock is a long falling in love. Men and women marry fractionally, now a small and then a larger fraction ... Such a long and sweet fruit needs a long summer to ripen in and a long winter to season in. But real and happy marriage is one of those things so handsome that if the sun were, as the Greek poets fabled it, a god, he might stop the world and hold it still now and then to feast his eyes on such a spectacle. — Theodore Parker

Only Merlin and her guards ever woke her in the mornings, and her guards only shouted to her through the doors.
Britt picked her head off her pillow. "Merlin?"
Merlin, once again standing out in the hallway, hissed through the door."You're still in bed."
"Yeah, so?"
"It is indecent for you to allow a man into your bedchambers when you are still in bed!"
Britt rolled her eyes and sat up. "What did you want?"
"Get up. We're going to mass."
"No, we're not. You might be, but I'm not."
"Oh yes you are, you little heathen."
"It's boring. The pastor only talks in Greek or Hebrew or whatever that language is."
"He's the archbishop, and he conducts the service in Latin."
"Mmm, yeah that," Britt said, falling back into her bed with a thump.
"Do not lie back down you unschooled foundling!"
"Too late," Britt said. "If you want me to go to mass you're going to have to drag me out of here. How indecent would that be? — K.M. Shea

One such monster lived around 600 B.C. and was the slave of a Greek nobleman named Iadmon who lived on Samos. This unfortunate was a hunchback described as having "an enormous head with slit eyes, a long, misshaped countenance, a large mouth and bowed legs." A servant girl meeting him asked in horror, "Are you a baboon?" Because he was cut off from humanity by his revolting appearance, this monster made friends with animals. He told numerous short tales with animal heroes illustrating the weaknesses of people. His stories were so biting and his looks so disgusting that he was finally killed by a mob. His name was Aesop. — Daniel P. Mannix

He beat back the Greeks and reclaimed Rome for our people. Indeed, he was the one who destroyed the Macedonian threat and who single-handedly annihilated the greatest Greek general who had ever lived. Kyrian of Thrace." Real hatred gleamed in his eyes, but she wasn't sure who it was meant for. His grandfather or Kyrian.
"You mean Kyrian Hunter?" she asked. "The guy with the minivan who lives a few blocks over?"
Valerius's eyes sparked at that. "He's driving a minivan?" There was no mistaking the humor in his tone. — Sherrilyn Kenyon

He lifted her chin so she was looking directly in his eyes. "I have every faith that whatever you take on in your life, you'll do it with passion and determination, and I know you'll succeed."
And then before she could make any sort of reply, he dipped his chin and placed his lips on hers. — Barbara DeLeo

Nuns go by as quiet as lust, and drunken men with sober eyes sing in the lobby of the Greek hotel. — Toni Morrison

My wife, my Mary, goes to her sleep the way you would close the door of a closet. So many times I have watched her with envy. Her lovely body squirms a moment as though she fitted herself into a cocoon. She sighs once and at the end of it her eyes close and her lips, untroubled, fall into that wise and remote smile of the Ancient Greek gods. She smiles all night in her sleep, her breath purrs in her throat, not a snore, a kitten's purr ... She loves to sleep and sleep welcomes her. — John Steinbeck

As a demigod - Fen cleared his throat - "I am flush with power. My power can be transformed into the kind of energy you need to feed." As he spoke, his eyes sparked with something feral that sent shivers racing down my spine. "It can happen from touch, kissing, but the greatest source is during the act of..."
Ohmygodsinheaven.
"Sex? Are you referring to sex?"...
"My power becomes concentrated for... a very brief moment. It's all about the transfer of energy from one body to another." He looked wildly uncomfortable. "All who live in Asgard know this already. I've never had to explain it to someone."
His semen packs a punch? — Amanda Carlson

Hunter walked out of the waves, and without any pretense, he wrapped her in his arms. She looked up at him, her eyes searing his.

He bent his head lower, his voice a raspy whisper. "I've never met anyone like you. — Lisa Kessler

In those days you could identify a person's nationality by smell. Lying on her back with eyes closed, Desdemona could detect the telltale oniony aroma of a Hungarian woman on her right, and the raw-meat smell of an Armenian on her left. (And they, in turn, could peg Desdemona as a Hellene by her aroma of garlic and yogurt.) — Jeffrey Eugenides

Among others, yes. There were some Egyptian gods worshipped there too." Lourds grinned. "One of the most interesting pieces is the Stoivadeion, the temple dedicated to Dionysus, the Greek god of wine. It's a giant phallus." The two soldiers in the front of the boat totally lost it and started laughing hysterically. Even Fitrat laughed, and he wiped his eyes. "Who would do such a thing?" "It was erected - if I may be so bold - " The soldiers howled with glee. " - by an ancient Greek grammarian named Carystius. Sadly, this phallus is practically all that remains of his works. Even that is broken." "Broken?" The young soldier in the front seat turned around again. He had changed to speaking English. "Yes. In half." "So now it's half-cocked? Is that how you say this in your slang?" The soldier laughed and pounded his thigh with a fist. "Yes." Lourds covered his face with his hat and wanted to throw himself overboard. — Charles Brokaw

CHILDHOOD I That idol, black eyes and yellow mop, without parents or court, nobler than Mexican and Flemish fables; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs over beaches called by the shipless waves, names ferociously Greek, Slav, Celt. At the border of the forest - dream flowers tinkle, flash, and flare, - the girl with orange lips, knees crossed in the clear flood that gushes from the fields, nakedness shaded, traversed, dressed by rainbow, flora, sea. Ladies who stroll on terraces adjacent to the sea; baby girls and giantesses, superb blacks in the verdigris moss, jewels upright on the rich ground of groves and little thawed gardens, - young mothers and big sisters with eyes full of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses tyrannical of costume and carriage, little foreign misses and young ladies gently unhappy. What boredom, the hour of the "dear body" and "dear heart." II — Arthur Rimbaud

My head feels like it's in an oven, this bra is too tight, and I don't think I can spend another hour watching you stroke your chest as if it were the eighth wonder." He slowly opened his coat, a look of mischief in his eyes. "Would you like to touch it yourself? You might discover how magnificent it is - like placing your hands on a Greek god or anointing them with holy water." I — Dannika Dark

everyday life - a series of incidents, some of which make an impression, while most are forgotten. Your consciousness is trained to repress. You crave a holiday, two weeks on a Greek island in the summer or, slighter shorter-term, a long weekend on a ferry to Denmark. Drinking, shouting, laughing, homing in on a woman with just the right kind of husky laugh, who has warm eyes and who thinks pointed shoes are absolutely great. But until that happens: days like photographic slides - images which flicker for a few seconds before disappearing, some easier to remember than others, but then those disappear, too. — K.O. Dahl

The associations get only richer and more intense when you realise that the very concept of truth - the cornerstone of philosophy and religion alike, let alone law - also rests heavily on the meaning of waking up. And you don't need a philosopher to appreciate it, because there are clues to its dependency in everyday phrases such as 'waking up to the truth', 'my eyes were opened' and even 'wake up and smell the coffee'. If such phrases hint that waking up and truth are bedfellows of some sort, you need only go back to the ancient Greek for corroboration. There you'll find that the word truth is 'aletheia', from which in English we get the word for 'lethargy'. But see how the Greek word is 'a-letheia' rather than letheia - that is truth is the opposite of lethargy. And what is opposite of lethargy, if not waking up? — Robert Rowland Smith

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.
And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture, - a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope ...
Penelope, who really cried. — Edna St. Vincent Millay

Thomas looked like someone's painting of the forgotten Greek god of body cologne. He had long hair so dark that light itself could not escape it, and even fresh from the shower it was starting to curl. His eyes were the color of thunderclouds, and he never did a single moment of exercise to earn the gratuitous amount of ripple in his musculature. He was wearing jeans and no shirt
his standard household uniform. I once saw him answer the door to speak to a female missionary in the same outfit, and she'd assaulted him in a cloud of forgotten copies of The Watchtower. The tooth marks she left had been interesting. — Jim Butcher

Resonably neat and clean?" Adrienne said incredulously. "that man is flawless from head to toe! He makes David and the Greek gods and Pan seem all out of proportion. He is raw sex in a bottle, uncorked. And somebody should cork it! He's -accck! Bah!" Adrienne spluttered and stuttered as she belatedly realised her words. Lydia was laughing so hard tears misted her eyes. — Karen Marie Moning

Literature offers us a different way of seeing things. The reading of literature opens our eyes, offering us new perspectives on things that we can evaluate and adopt. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. . . . In reading great literature, I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see.[94] — Alister E. McGrath

The man who is contented to be only himself, and therefore less a self, is in prison. My own eyes are not enough for me, I will see through those of others. Reality, even seen through the eyes of many, is not enough. I will see what others have invented. Even the eyes of all humanity are not enough. I regret that the brutes connot write books. Very gladly would I learn what face things present to a mouse or a bee; more gladly still would I perceive the olfactory world charged with all the information and emotion it carries for a dog. Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality ... in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like the night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad of eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do. — C.S. Lewis

What's put that secret smile on your face?" Phillip asked, a teasing light in his eyes. "Don't tell me Henry was actually pleasant company." "He was," Emma allowed. "Very knowledgeable." Julian said, "What did you do out there all that time - that's what I'd like to know." He leaned back in his chair and watched her face with a knowing smirk. "Lizzie said the two of you were alone out there for quite some time." "Oh?" Phillip asked, clearly surprised. "And what did you find to talk about with our laconic Henry?" "Greek mythology, mostly," Emma said casually, wanting to end any romance rumors before they might begin. "I found it very interesting." "You would," Rowan muttered. — Julie Klassen

Christ is to the souls of men what the sun is to the world. He is the center and source of all spiritual light, warmth, life, health, growth, beauty, and fertility. Like the sun, He shines for the common benefit of all mankind
for high and for low, for rich and for poor, for Jew and for Greek. Like the sun, He is free to all. All may look at Him, and drink health out of His light. If millions of mankind were mad enough to dwell in caves underground, or to bandage their eyes, their darkness would be their own fault, and not the fault of the sun. So, likewise, if millions of men and women love spiritual "darkness rather than light," the blame must be laid on their blind hearts, and not on Christ. "Their foolish hearts are darkened." (John 3:19; Romans 1:21.) But whether men will see or not, Christ is the true sun, and the light of the world. There is no light for sinners except in the Lord Jesus. — J.C. Ryle

A slave was, in Greek or Roman eyes, absolutely limited as to the consideration anyone (even a god) could show for him. Even if freed, he would always be treated as a social, civic, and spiritual inferior. A runaway had no right to any consideration at all. Deploying Christian ideas against Greco-Roman culture, Paul joyfully mocks the notion that any person placing himself in the hands of God can be limited or degraded in any way that matters. The letter must represent the most fun anyone ever had writing while incarcerated. The letter to Philemon may be the most explicit demonstration of how, more than anyone else, Paul created the Western individual human being, unconditionally precious to God and therefore entitled to the consideration of other human beings. — Sarah Ruden

About five meters ahead, Nico was swinging his black sword with one hand, holding the scepter of Diocletian aloft with the other. He kept shouting orders at the legionnaires, but they paid him no attention.
Of course not, Frank thought. He's Greek.
[ ... ]
Jason's face was already beaded with sweat. He kept shouting in Latin: "Form ranks!" But the dead legionnaires wouldn't listen to him, either.
[ ... ]
"Make way!" Frank shouted. To his surprise, the dead legionnaires parted for him. The closest ones turned and stared at him with blank eyes, as if waiting for further orders.
"Oh, great ... " Frank mumbled. — Rick Riordan

The account in the gospel of John says three times that Jesus was angry. One of the words used is the Greek term for "furious indignation" - the word used by Aeschylus to describe war horses rearing up on their hind legs, snorting through their nostrils, and charging into battle. This was the reaction of Jesus of Nazareth when face to face with a loved one's death. The world that God created good and beautiful and whole was now broken and in ruins. In moments Jesus was going to do something, but his first response was outrage - instinctive, blazing outrage. Clearly, death was even worse in his eyes than in ours. — Os Guinness

Lull me to sleep, ye winds, whose fitful sound
Seems from some faint Aeolian harp-string caught;
Seal up the hundred wakeful eyes of thought
As Hermes with his lyre in sleep profound
The hundred wakeful eyes of Argus bound;
For I am weary, and am overwrought
With too much toil, with too much care distraught,
And with the iron crown of anguish crowned.
Lay thy soft hand upon my brow and cheek,
O peaceful Sleep! until from pain released
I breathe again uninterrupted breath!
Ah, with what subtile meaning did the Greek
Call thee the lesser mystery at the feast
Whereof the greater mystery is death! — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow