His Little Hands Quotes & Sayings

I look up after the last chord and smile. I tell Antony Barellan to shove it up his arse, and I see Dad clapping his hands off. I give him a little wave to show him that it's okay to be happy. I give him a little smile to show him what it looks like. — Cath Crowley

My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste. — Yann Martel

I will not let you lose your family. I won't let it happen to you." Eve's hands circled his big, tense neck.
He shook his head and let out a defeated breath. "I'm so sorry, Eve. I can't even ... Well, now I guess I can imagine what I did to you - just a little."
Her words had hurt him, knocked him down. That's not what she'd intended. She would have to lay it out.
"Beckett, I'll save you from that fate because I love you. I love you." She let her hands slip to his chest.
His heart. His beautiful heart, surrounded by thorns, guns, and pain. — Debra Anastasia

Not fair? Oh, I'm sorry I get this lovely laptop computing device when all you get is the ability to walk, control your hands, and know you'll survive until your eighteenth birthday." Then the kid was going, "Uh, I didn't mean ... " But Tad wasn't done yet. While the whole class watched in horror, he put his hands through the metal support braces on the arms of his wheelchair and forced himself to stand up. Then he took a shaky little step to the side, gestured toward the chair, and said, "Why don't you take a turn with the laptop? You can even have my seat. — Jordan Sonnenblick

Cupping his face in her hands, she looked into eyes that had seen thousands of sunrises before she was even a glimmer in the scheme of the universe. "But you have an advantage," she whispered. "You're a little bit human now. — Nalini Singh

Before he left Rome, Marcus had been in a fair way to becoming a charioteer, in Cradoc's sense of the word, and now desire woke in him, not to possess this team, for he was not one of those who much be able to say "Mine" before they can truly enjoy a thing, but to have them out and harnessed; to feel the vibrating chariot floor under him, and the spread reins quick with life in his hands, and these lovely, fiery little creatures in the traces, his will and theirs at one. — Rosemary Sutcliff

There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman - the white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away, and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles - the work of a shell.
The child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries - something between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey - a startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child was a deaf mute.
Then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the wreck. — Ambrose Bierce

I think everyone in the neighborhood knows how much you like my ass! Now let go of me! He chuckled at that little accusation, knowing that she was probably right. Over the past couple of months he may have had a problem with keeping his hands to himself when they were outside taking care of the yard or taking Toby for a walk. It was all her fault of course. — R.L. Mathewson

Silly little plastic belt, made for a skinny pinny; it could barely tie around her. She managed, though - a tiny white bow. Waiting, she folded her hands and realized how every single time she went by this hospital, the same two thoughts occurred to her: that she'd been born here and that her father's body had been brought here after his suicide. She'd been through some things, but never mind. She straightened her back. Other people had been through things, too. — Elizabeth Strout

So, Belle, what's new today?"
Dad," I said, grasping his hands and looking directly into his eyes. "I'm in the deepest love that has ever occurred in the history of the world."
Gosh, Belle. When someone asks you 'What's new?' the correct answer is 'Not much'. Besides, isn't it a little soon to cut yourself off from the rest of your peers, depending on a boyfriend to satisfy your social needs as opposed to making friends? Imagine what would happen if something forced that boy to leave! I'm imagining pages and pages would happen - with nothing but the names of the months on them. — The Harvard Lampoon

And when we diverge, it will be impossible for the expendables and the ship's computers on all the ships to know which version of Ram Odin to obey," said Ram. "Therefore I order you and all the other expendables to immediately kill every copy of Ram except me."
"I'm so sorry," said the expendable. "One of the versions of Ram Odin did not include the word 'immediately,' and therefore his order was complete a fraction of a second before all the others. He is the real Ram Odin."
Ram gave a little half smile. "How ironic. By specifying that you should act at once-"
The expendable reached out with both hands, gave Ram's head a twist, and broke his neck. The sentence remained unfinished, but that did not matter, since the person saying it was not the real Ram Odin. — Orson Scott Card

Sitting on the ground, she looked up at her best friend. "Danke," she said. "Thank you."
Rudy bowed. "My pleasure." He tried for a little more. "No point asking if I get a kiss for that, I guess?"
"For bringing my shoes, which you left behind?"
"Fair enough." He held up his hands and continued speaking as they walked on, and Liesel made a concerted effort to ignore him. She only heard the last part. "Probably wouldn't want to kiss you anyway
not if your breath's anything like your shoes."
"You disgust me," she informed him, and she hoped he couldn't see the escaped beginnings of a smile that had fallen from her mouth. — Markus Zusak

They were sitting on the couch chatting politely with me, not touching, or so it seemed, except that I happened to glance down and I saw that their hands were lying next to each other on the couch, and that Nick was caressing Alice's little finger with his own. I remember being shocked by a feeling of pure envy. I wanted to be Alice, young and lovely, feeling the secret caress of a handsome boy's fingertip. — Liane Moriarty

Think about it. We are fed in the Eucharist, by our mothers when we are infants, by our parents as children, by friends at dinner parties, by a lover when we feast on one another's bodies ... and on occasion, on one another's souls. Don't you want me to feed you? You don't want to feast on my body, but at least feast on my cake.
Gabriel chuckled. When Julia didn't answer, he turned his full attention to his dessert. She scowled. If he thought this disgusting display of food porn was going to get her attention and maybe make her a little hot and bothered until she was putty in his hands ...
... he was right. — Sylvain Reynard

[On Sitting Bull:] The contents of his pockets were often emptied into the hands of small, ragged little boys, nor could he understand how so much wealth should go brushing by, unmindful of the poor. — Annie Oakley

I used to go and do some sitting in with Robert Nighthawk when he were playing at the 708 Club in Chicago. He was a tremendous slideman. I never saw him do anything other than play the slide. I never just saw him just use his hand. He always used a slide. He had a little-bitty drummer we called "Shorty". He was about that high [hand gesture]. And he was his drummer. That's all he had was a slide guitar and a drummer. — Junior Wells

There were some very good books in the backseat of the little Volkswagen; good books were the best protection from evil that Pepe had actually held in his hands - you could not hold faith in Jesus in your hands, not in quite the same way you could hold good books. — John Irving

All right," Jake said, clapping his hands. "Which one of you little punks is gonna teach me how to play Chutes and Ladders? — Emmy Laybourne

Love is essential for happiness, but the person who loves so deeply that his or her happiness is placed entirely in the hands of another, resembles the little lamb who crept into the den of the nice, gentle little wolf and begged to be permitted to lie down and go to sleep, or the canary — Napoleon Hill

His hands lifted and slid over my tear-soaked cheeks, holding me almost tenderly. He looked troubled. There was no other word for it. "I don't know what it is you do to me."
I do something to him?
His voice continued, a dark little whisper rushing over my lips. "But I'm not going to fight it anymore. — Sophie Jordan

Arturo Vega: I always thought the ONLY way to really conquer evil is to make love to it. My favourite dream is always the one where I face the devil. I'm in the nude and the devil appears, and he is a beautiful blue. He looks like a mannequin, he looks like a robot. He doesn't have any clothes on, of course, and he's blue and shiny. I keep hearing voices that say, "It's him! It's him!" And I go, "Okay."
So he comes and faces me and I look at him and he's a little taller than me, not much taller, but a little taller, and I say, "I like you." And he says, "I like you too." But he starts beating me up, RA RA RA RA, and I'm down on the floor - and then all of the sudden, he turns into a little baby, like a baby, just a few months old, and then I fuck him, ha ha ha ha. And while I'm fucking him, he's moving his hands, he's moving them like a helpless baby.
So I always thought that to conquer evil, you have to make love to it. You have to understand it. — Legs McNeil

Thank God! He went down in front of the bar on the tiled floor. BANG! The fat bastard, he shattered both knees with the weight of him. My hands were in just a little bit of pain, but I was driven on to keep punching his fat head in by the gratifying squeals I was eliciting from him and, broken hands or not, with the coup de grace ... I knocked him out. — Stephen Richards

I whispered into his ear, "Erik ... "
There was no response from him.
"Erik." My voice was a little bit firmer.
I pushed at his shoulders making sure that my hands were well away from his re-opened wound. He weighed more than I did. I couldn't get out from under him. God, I'm stuck inside of him ... like a dog.
"Erik."
I tried to wriggle out from under him. I grew hard. I stilled horrified as my body took pleasure in this situation. I tried to shift his leg over. I thrust into him. Oh ... I thrust again. I was hovering around the panic state but lust was driving all thoughts out of my mind. The more I struggled to free myself ... I fucked him.
I screwed an unconscious man. What kind of man was I? I couldn't stop. The thwap, thwap sound of me burying my full length inside him hammered at my head.
Don't do this ... don't do ... nnnngghgghhh. I came deep within him. — Derekica Snake

Let them say what they want," Kuni said. He admired the pamphlets and laughed. "I look pretty good as a girl, though I think they are suggesting I lose a few pounds. I have to send some of these to Jia; she could probably use the laugh as I imagine the baby - may the Twins protect the child - is making her life very stressful." "What is wrong with you?" Mata Zyndu roared and tore the pamphlet in his hands into pieces. He smashed the table in front of him; then, for good measure, smashed the table in front of Kuni as well. He stomped and ground the broken pieces of wood into even smaller pieces against the stone floor. But his rage was not assuaged. Not even a little bit. He paced back and forth in front of Kuni, kicking the wooden splinters every which way. Servants scattered to distant corners of the room, away from the barrage. "What is so bad about being compared to women?" Kuni said. "Half the world is made of women." Mata — Ken Liu

At that moment, Ronin stepped back into the living room, clothed, thank God. Well, mostly. Kneeling on the floor before him, Devin watched him fascinated as he fastened the buttons of his plaid flannel shirt, thankfully covering that fucking beautiful chest. He left the top two buttons at his neck open. Frozen, she stared as his hands slipped down to tuck the shirt into his jeans before he fastened the fly and buckled his belt. Her fingers itched as she imagined the warmth and hardness of his hips, the deep contour of muscle low on his stomach.

Ooooohhhhh! — Sibylla Matilde

I would not have taken you on. Jack's hands were clenched tightly in his lap, working against each other, sweating. Officious little prick, officious little prick, officious - — Stephen King

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand. — Alexander Pope

Jace set what he was holding down on the windowsill and reached out to her. She came to lean against him, and his hand slid up under her t-shirt and rested caressingly, possessively, on the small of her back. He bent to kiss her, gently at first, but the gentleness went quickly and soon she was pressed up against the glass of the window, his hands at the hem of her shirt - his shirt
"Jace." She moved a little bit away. "I'm pretty sure people down there in the street can see us."
"We could ... " He gestured toward the bed. "Move ... over there."
She grinned. "You said that like it took you a while to come up with the idea."
When he spoke, his voice was muffled against her neck. "What can I say, you make my thought processes slow down. Now I know what it's like to be a normal person."
"How ... is it?" The things he was doing with his hands under the t-shirt were distracting.
"Terrible. I'm already way behind on my quota of witty comments for the day. — Cassandra Clare

I couldn't find any straw to step upon, so I stepped upon more men. The resentment increased, so did my forward movement. I lost my footing and sat down with sharp abruptness. Unfortunately, it was on a man's head. The next moment he had risen on his hands and knees in wrath, and I was flying through the air. What goes up must come down, and I came down on another man's head.
What happened after that is very vague in my memory. It was like going through a threshing-machine. I was bandied about from one end of the car to the other. Those eighty-four hoboes winnowed me out till what little was lift of me, by some miracle, found a bit of straw to rest upon — Jack London

But what does he want my heart for?" the little queen asked.
"He just wants to own it," replied the sea lion. "That is enough. He wants to look on its beauty and know that his hands alone can touch it. — Antonia Michaelis

He didn't mind it in the beginning, this slowness. It left him alone with himself while he fished and listened to the call of the herons, and taught Anthony to row a boat and to play baseball and soccer, while Anthony read to him from his children's books as Alexander held the fishing line. The soul was repairing itself little by little. And it was on Bethel Island, with his mother and father twenty-four hours by his side, watching over him, talking to him, playing with him, that Anthony stopped waking up with nightmares in the middle of the night and settled down to silence inside himself. And it was on Bethel Island that Alexander stopped needing ice cold baths at three in the morning - the hot sudsy dimly lit baths with her soapy hands and soapy body in the late evening sufficing. — Paullina Simons

They live beyond the quick ghetto. In hovels. In the shantytown.' He smiled. 'And every night, after the sun's descended, they can crawl safely out from their shacks and shuffle into the town. Stick-figures in rags, leaning against the walls. Exhausted and starving, hands outstretched. Begging.' His voice was soft and vicious. 'Begging for the quick to take pity on them. And every so often one of us will acquiesce, and out of pity and contempt, embarrassed by our soft philanthropy, we'll stand in the eaves of a building and offer up our wrists. And you and your kind will open them, all frantic with hunger and fawning with gratitude, and take a few eager swigs, till we decide you've had enough and take back our hands while you weep and beg for more, and maybe spew because you've gone without a hit so long your stomach can't handle what it craves, and we leave you lying in the dirt, blissed by your little fix. — China Mieville

Why?" asked her companion. "Why do you love him when you ought not to?"
Edna, with a motion or two, dragged herself on her knees before Mademoiselle Reisz, who took the glowing face between her two hands.
"Why? Because his hair is brown and grows away from his temples; because he opens and shuts his eyes, and his nose is a little out of drawing; because he has two lips and a square chin, and a little finger which he can't straighten from having played baseball too energetically in his youth. Because - "
"Because you do, in short," laughed Mademoiselle. — Kate Chopin

She wanted to give that terrified man in the uncool sweater the confidence to share his own bare ugly truth. She wanted to let him know that at least one person here today understood all the mistakes he'd made along the way: the times he'd hit back, the times he'd stayed when he should have left, the times he'd given her another chance, the times he'd deliberately antagonized her, the times he'd let his children see things they shouldn't see. She wanted to tell him that she knew all the perfect little lies he'd told himself for all those years, because she'd told herself the same lies. She wanted to enfold his trembling hands between her own and say, I understand. — Liane Moriarty

And I'm not too great at that sort of comforting thing, especially when my hands are cold and the bed is warm. I carried him softly through the broken street, with one salty eye and a heavy, deathly heart. With him I tried a little harder. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw him hip-deep in some icy water chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next door neighbour. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry. — Markus Zusak

If you are proud of your descent from virtuous ancestors, how empty their virtue will leave your hands if you yourself are not virtuous. How little pride your ancestors will have in you in this world and the next if you do no good! All men are children of Adam whom Allah created by His own Hands, giving him paradise for a dwelling place and letting His angels bow down before him. But how little is the advantage from this since all the vices dwell in mankind and all the wicked impious people are among their number. — Ibn Hazm

Thee's a good man, Roland of Gilead." He considered this, then slowly shook his head. "All my life I've had the fastest hands, but at being good I was always a little too slow." She — Stephen King

My next important discovery: Children of Hermes cannot rap. At all.
Bless his conniving little heart, Cecil Markowitz tried his best, but he kept throwing off my rhythm with his spastic clapping and terrible air mic noises. After a few trial runs, I demoted him to dancer. His job would be to shimmy back and forth and wave his hands, which he did with the enthusiasm of a tent-revival preacher.
The others managed to keep up. They still looked like half-plucked, highly combustible chickens, but they bopped with the proper amount of soul. — Rick Riordan

His gaze narrowed and she could see his
hands twitching again like he'd love nothing more than to throttle her. She was beginning to think it was an affliction of his. Did he go around wanting to choke the life out of everyone or was she special in that regard?
"I'm afraid 'tis an urge that is entirely original to you," the laird barked.
She clamped her mouth shut and closed
her eyes. Mother Serenity had vowed one day Mairin would regret her propensity to blurt out her least little thought. Today just might be that day. — Maya Banks

He'll always make time to talk to you if you call, but it becomes quickly clear in the course of the conversation that spare time is something Zugibe has very little of. He'll be halfway through an explanation of the formula used to determine the pull of the body on each of Christ's hands when his voice will wander away from the telephone for a minute and then he'll come back and say, Excuse me. A nine year old body. Father beat her to death. Where were we? — Mary Roach

Did you dream of me?" he asked.
"Yes," she admitted grudgingly. She had. She'd dreamed of his hands caressing her, of his mouth devouring her.
His lush lips inched into a surprised but pleased smile.
"You were naked," she told him.
His grin spread; his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
"And tied up ... "
He arched his eye brows in smug expectation. "I did not know the idea of bondage would please you."
"Oh, I love the idea of typing you up." She paused dramatically. "Just like in my dream, you'll be secured to an ant-hill and the little things will eat you alive. — Gena Showalter

Almost Easter


Shaking bone meal
from my bare hands
into the rose bed
where only one bush grows,
I feel as if I'm scattering
my father's ashes
all over again.

This month marks
the seventh year
my father has lain
in my garden,
his ashes in my hands
still as palpable
as bone meal or thorns.

Easter Sunday,
I will hide an egg
behind his ear.
Jesus will call down to him
to get up and play.
He won't.
But the rose bush
that is turning green,
this rose will sink its roots
a little deeper in the earth
and in a few months
drop its petals
like so many red tears.

- Felicia Mitchell — Felicia Mitchell

You can deny it. But I have been with you, in every way that matters. As you have been with me. We've shared our thoughts and our food, bound each other's wounds, slept close when the warmth of our bodies was all we had left to share. Your tears have fallen on my face, and my blood has been on your hands. You've carried me when I was dead, and I carried you when I did not even recognize you. You've breathed my breath for me, sheltered me inside your own body. So, yes, Fitz, in every way that matters, I've been with you. We've shared the stuff of our beings. Just as a captain does with her liveship. Just as a dragon does with his Elderling. We've been together in so many ways that we have mingled. So close have we been that when you made love to your Molly, she begat our child. Yours. Mine. Molly's. A little Buck girl with a wild streak of White in her. Oh, gods. Such — Robin Hobb

He suddenly felt dismayed at how little he had seen of her the last two years; he had so few opportunities to press her hands in his to stop them from trembling. — Milan Kundera

He changed his final wad up at the train station. Which was a sad place now. There were homeless people and disturbed people hanging around. There were furtive men with swivel eyes, their hands thrust deep in capacious pockets. There was spray-can graffiti on the walls. Nothing compared to the South Bronx or inner-city Detroit or South-Central LA. But unusual for Germany. Reunification had been a strain. Economically, and socially. And mentally. He had watched it. Like living a comfortable life in a nice little house with your family. And then a whole bunch of relatives moves in. From someplace where they don't really know how to use a knife and fork. Ignorant and stunted people. But German like you. As if a brother had been taken away at birth and locked in a closet. Then in his mid-forties he comes stumbling out again, pale and hunched and blinking. A tough situation to manage. He — Lee Child

Tristan's decline was steady and sure after that.
Every tragedy, every harship, seemed to suck him just a little bit deaper into the grip of his own personal hell.
It felt like every slip up, every relapse, was pulling us down, until the weight of all our failures was dragging us under.
At first we were drowning together, but my will to survive was too strong to let that continue forever.
My hold on him became weaker and weaker, and eventually, every finger broken, my hands opened, and I let him go.
No one could say I didn't fight for him. No one could say I didn't lose. — R.K. Lilley

Have you ever watched a baby learning to walk? He totters, arms stretched out to balance himself. He wobbles - and falls, perhaps bumps his nose. Then he puts the palms of his little hands flat on the floor, hikes his rear end up, looks around to see if anybody is watching him. If nobody is, usually he doesn't bother to cry, just precariously balances himself - and tries again. Well, the baby can teach us. What you've undertaken ... isn't a state of perfection to be arrived at all of the sudden. It's a WALK, and a walk isn't static but ever-changing. We Friends say that all discouragement is from an evil source and can only end in more evil. Wallowing in self-condemnation or feeling sorry for yourself is worse than falling on your face in the first place ... So thee is human. — Catherine Marshall

As he gave a sleepy, growling groan, that hand disappeared under the sheet. Arizona's lips parted, and her heartbeat tripped up. She cleared her throat. "Spencer?" Freezing, without moving any other body part, he opened his eyes and met her gaze. She frowned at him. He didn't look super-startled, and he said nothing. He just started at her. With his hand still under there. "Yeah ... " Semi-satisfied with his frozen reaction, she nodded at his lap. "You weren't going for a little tug, were you? Because as your spectator, I'd just as soon not see it." -Arizona and Spencer — Lori Foster

Slowly, Joaquin leaned in, drawn closer to her against his will. Pursing his lips, he breathed warm air across her cheeks, like animals do when they learn each other's scent, learn to trust. "Easy now," he whispered in between the soft puffs of air. "Let go of the fear."
"I can't," she said, in a little broken voice that clenched at his heart.
"Yes you can." Joaquin let his lips touch her skin, the merest hint of a contact. She made a tiny sound of alarm, a cross between a sob and a cry. He brushed his mouth against hers. A shudder shook her body, but she pressed into him, seeking his shelter. Keeping his hands braced to the timber, he deepened the kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, bolder now.
Her hands rose between them and fisted into his shirt. — Tatiana March

He stepped closer with an intense, thoughtful look on his face. "We shouldn't do this."
Her heart gave a hard thud.
"You probably can't kiss." Another step closer. "What does the doctor say?"
"We never kissed," she deadpanned. "Dr. Pratt and I are not interested in each other that way."
The sound of his deep laughter broke the tension between them. He moved a little closer still.
"Dr. Pratt says intimacy is all right, unless the other person is sick." She couldn't believe she just said that. Why not put a neon sign on her forehead? DESPERATE FOR SEX.
"This isn't going to work." He leaned his forehead against hers, the skin-to-skin contact jolting. "This isn't the right time for either of us." His hands slid up her arms. "I shouldn't kiss you," he said.
And then he did.
Holy heaven. — Dana Marton

Ashamed, shrugging a little, and then shivering, he took his bags and went out. The cold of the air seemed to lift him bodily. The moon was in the sky.
On the slope he began to run, he could not help it. Just as he reached the road, where his car seemed to sit in the moonlight like a boat, his heart began to give off tremendous explosions like a rifle, bang bang bang.
He sank in fright onto the road, his bags falling about him. He felt as if all this had happened before. He covered his heart with both hands to keep anyone from hearing the noise it made.
But nobody heard it.
(Death of a Traveling Salesman — Eudora Welty

There's a tap on the door then. We all exchange looks, Tommy Falk's as uncertain as the rest of ours. No one moves, so I finally wipe my hands off on my pants, go to the door, and open it a crack. Sean stands on the other side, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other holding a loaf of bread. I wasn't prepared for it to be Sean, so my stomach does a neat little trick that feels like either hunger or escaping. — Maggie Stiefvater

One stood behind me and ran her hands down my chest, her breasts rubbing against my back. The next stood in front of me holding onto my shirt and pulling me close to her as she ground into me seductively. The third danced slowly and seductively with the second girl, giving the girl-on-girl effect. I knew I was going to burst at any moment, so I had to close my eyes and take repeated deep breaths to calm down.
"What's the matter Aid-man, you feeling a little frustrated?" Dixon boasted from under his lap dancer.
"Shut up Dixon." Though I didn't really want him to shut up, his teasing was distracting me pretty well. "I'm going to kill you for this."
"Oh no little man!" He laughed loudly. "Thank your future wife! That one is on her!" he howled. — Sadie Grubor

O gouvernment francais, I think it was not very clever of You to put this terrible doll in La Ferte; for when Governments are found dead there is always a little doll on top of them, pulling and tweaking with his little hands to get back at the microscopic knife which sticks firmly in the quiet meat of their hearts. — E. E. Cummings

Why are we bringing him along, again?" Will inquired, of the world in general as well as his sister.
Cecily put her hands on her hips. "Why are you bringing Tessa?"
"Because Tessa and I are going to be married," Will said, and Tessa smiled; the way that Will's little sister could ruffle his feathers like no one else was still amusing to her.
"Well, Gabriel and I might well be married," Cecily said. "Someday."
Gabriel made a choking noise, and turned an alarming shade of purple.
Will threw up his hands. "You can't be married Cecily! You're only fifteen! When I get married, I'll be eighteen! An adult!"
Cecily did not look impressed. "We may have a long engagement," she said. "But I cannot see why you are counseling me to marry a man my parents have never met."
Will sputtered. "I am not counseling you to marry a man your parents have never met!"
"Then we are in agreement. Gabriel must meet Mam and Dad. — Cassandra Clare

A jewelry box? Ballerinas? She'd been such an active girl that any jewelry she'd been given would have been lost or broken right away. It was Faye Marie who'd loved-
"My sister," she gasped, then louder. "My sister!" She clasped her hands together in a pleading gesture. "My lord, I beg pardon of you, but you're mistaken. I believe you gifted that treasure box to my older sister, Faye Marie. She's the one who loved ballerinas. I was obsessed with-"
"Pegasus." The old justice's eyes melted from cold to kindness. "It was a trick question. I'd forgotten your birthday was so close to mine, and shared my spice cake out of pure guilt." His lined face wrinkled as he smiled with a fond memory. "You were a kind little soul, unspoiled for a girl raised in such wealth. You forgave me instantly and informed me that spice cake was, indeed, your favorite present ever received. — Kerrigan Byrne

From Wishful Thinking...Sydney's first siting of her soon to be love interest, "as I gazed across the fire the hairs on the back of my neck began to tickle and stand on end. I watched as he gripped his beer bottle with a strong, sun tanned hand. My eyes followed up his arm and even through the flames I could see strong muscles rippling beneath the thin t-shirt he was wearing. As my eyes continued up, I saw a strong jaw, big smile, deep brown eyes, and short dark brown hair, which looked freshly cut. Not too short though, just enough to put your hands through and tug a little. — S.P. Wilcox

The world is going under, I thought, and this notion so little surprised me, it seemed as though I had been waiting a long time for just that to happen. But now, from amid the burning and collapsing city, I saw a boy come toward me. His hands were buried in his pockets and he hopped and skipped from one leg to another, resilient and light-hearted. Then he stopped and emitted an ingenious whistle
our signal from grade school days, and the boy was my friend who had shot himself when he was a student. Immediately I too became, like him, a boy of twelve, and the burning city and the distant thunder and the blustering storm of howling voices from all corners of the world sounded wondrously exquisite to our newly awakened ears. Now everything was good, and the dark nightmare in which I had lived for so many despairing years was gone forever. — Hermann Hesse

He was a horrid-looking fellow. Fat as a pig he was, and his face was the colour of cottage cheese. His collar was unbuttoned and his silk tie was spotted with egg stain. His stomach stuck out like a sagging pillow and his little thin legs fell away under it to end in torn felt slippers. He was all bristly blond jowls, tiny puffy hands and long blond curly hair, like some monstrous baby swelled to man size. — Brian Moore

Dale's face is older. Just a little. Around the eyes and mouth. The skin of his neck. The back of his hands. Maybe not, he thinks, turning on the faucet, letting the water grow warm then hot.
He begins shaving his lubricated chin and cheeks. Chrysalis hibernation slows things down, but it doesn't stop them, not all together, and he finds himself to currently resemble something between a derelict and a college student, neither one ringing particularly desirable in his present mood. — David Edward Wagner

Lord Emsworth was a man with little of the aggressor in his spiritual make-up. He believed in living and letting live. Except for his sister Constance, his secretary Lavender Briggs, the Duke of Dunstable and his younger son Frederick, now fortunately residing in America, few things were able to ruffle him. Placid is the word that springs to the lips. But the Church Lads had pierced his armour, and he found resentment growing within him like some shrub that has been treated with a patent fertilizer. He brooded bleakly on the injuries he had suffered at the hands of these juvenile delinquents. The — P.G. Wodehouse

You're the one getting ready to bolt, Jesper. You just want me to run with you so you don't have to feel so bad about it. For all your love of a fight, you're always the first to talk about running for cover."
"I made a mistake. I let my bad get the best of my good, but for Saints' sake, Kaz, how long are you going to make me pay for a little forgiveness? [...] How many times have I had your back in a fight? How many times have I gotten it right? Doesn't that count for anything?" Jesper threw up his hands. "I can't win with you. No one can. — Leigh Bardugo

I picked up the butter-soft suede shirt and slacks and held them toward Martucci, but he bent over, grabbing at his stomach, and made it into the dark little cubicle in time to vomit into the toilet. He ran the small trickle of water in the sink over his hands, dabbed water on his face, then blotted himself on the rough paper towels. Within the next five minutes, he was dressed and deposited in the rear seat of my car between Haley and Finn. Vito, who had scared the living hell out of the hustler before giving him a kick in the ass out the hotel's side door, sat next to me as I drove. Vito was breathing heavily; it was the only sound in the car. — Dorothy Uhnak

We had pale yellow tile in our bathroom rimmed with thin tiles of white. I'd dumped Tack's old, mismatched towels and added new, thick emerald green ones. They were hanging on the towel rack.
My eyes moved.
My moisturizer and toner bottles were the deep hued color of moss. My toothbrush was bright pink, Tack's was electric blue. There was a little bowl by the tap where I tossed my jewelry when I was washing my hands or preparing for bed. It was ceramic painted in glossy sunshine yellow and grass green. My eyes went to the mirror. My undies were cherry red lace.
I grinned at myself in the mirror.
I lived in color, every day, and my life was vibrant.
I rubbed in moisturizer hoping our baby got his or her Dad's sapphire blue eyes.
But I'd settle if they were my green. — Kristen Ashley

They forget that those tiny little hands in the manger, those tiny little hands embraced by Simeon, those hands were made so that nails might be driven through them. Those baby feet, not yet able to walk, they were made to walk up Golgotha to be nailed to the cross. The head of baby Jesus was made so that someday wicked men would press down a crown of thorns into it, drawing his precious blood. This baby's soft tummy would someday be violently ripped open by a spear. So many forget that the manger leads to the cross. Jesus was born to die and when we speak about that, we find rejection by so many. When we speak about why he had to die, when we speak about our sin and the wrath of God, people turn off and tune out. When you see the Messiah in the big picture of our salvation, he is a divisive figure. He divides people into two groups: unbelievers and believers. It was that way in his day and still is today. — Anonymous

The door jerked open and he glowered at her. "What do you want?"
"Hey! Why are you mad at me? I just want to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk," he said, pushing the door closed.
With inexplicable courage, she put her booted food in it's path. "Then maybe you can listen."
"No!" he bellowed.
"You're not going to scare me!" she shouted at him.
Then he roared like a wild animal. He bared his teeth, his eyes lit like there were gold flames in them, and the sound that came out of him was otherworldly.
She jumped back, her eyes as wide as hubcaps. "Okay," she said, putting up her hands, palms toward him. "Maybe you do scare me. A little."
-Ian and Marcie — Robyn Carr

. . . what I told Malory happened next is that when he looked over at her then it was like he'd been waiting a hundred years to see her, and this crazy ass Ledfeather girl all the way from Standing Rock, she looked off after the elk and then back at Doby through her hair, like she'd maybe been waiting for him too, but was scared a little, wanted to be sure, so Doby opened his mouth and said her name across the backseat of Junior's cab, Claire, like a flower opening in his mouth, and she held her lips together and nodded thank you to him, yes, thank you, and then swallowed what was in her throat and just let the sides of their hands touch together again some like it didn't really matter.
But it did. — Stephen Graham Jones

I should like,' said the child, 'to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,' said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, 'that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together. — Charles Dickens

My thoughts drift to Brittany. I've tried to forget Brittany will be going with someone else to the Halloween dance. I heard she was going with her old boyfriend. I try to push out of my mind the fact that another guy will have his hands on her.
Her date will kiss her tonight, I'm sure of it. Who wouldn't want to kiss those sweet, soft, frosted lips?
I'm going to work tonight until I have to leave for the deal. Because if I was home alone, I'd go nuts thinking about everything.
My grip on the riveter in my hand loosens and it drops smack in the middle of my forehead. I don't get pissed off at myself, I blame Brittany. And by eight o'clock I'm as angry as anything with my little chem partner, whether it's warranted or not. — Simone Elkeles

Life in God should be a daring adventure of love - a continuous journey of putting aside our securities to enter more profoundly into the uncharted depths of God. Too often, however, we settle for mediocrity. We follow the rules and practices of prayer but we are unwilling or, for various reasons, unable to give ourselves totally to God. To settle on the plain of mediocrity is really to settle for something less than God that leaves the heart restless and unfulfilled. A story from the desert fathers reminds us that giving oneself wholly to God can make a difference: Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, "Abba, as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?" Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, "If you will, you can become all flame."15 — Ilia Delio

Apparently she was beyond words so she pushed the card into his hands. He looked down. Blinked. Blinked again before stumbling back into a chair. Did he just wet himself? Ah, who cared? He was holding four tickets to the Yankees vs. Red Sox at Yankee Stadium for this Friday and they were without a doubt the best seats in the stadium.
His eyes shifted from Haley to the tickets and back again before he made a split second decision and made a run for it. He didn't make it five feet before his little grasshopper tackled him to the ground and ripped the card from his hands.
He spit grass out of his mouth. "Fine. You can come with me I guess," he said, earning a knee to the ribs. — R.L. Mathewson

The haggard aspect of the little old man was wonderfully suited to the place; he might have groped among old churches and tombs and deserted houses and gathered all the spoils with his own hands. There was nothing in the whole collection but was in keeping with himself nothing that looked older or more worn than he. — Charles Dickens

I think about him all the time," she said. "It's awful. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before."
"You mean Simon?"
"Scrawny little mundane bastard," she said, and took her hands off Jordan's chest. "Except he isn't. Scrawny, anymore. Or a mundane. And I like spending time with him. He makes me laugh. And I like the way he smiles. You know, one side of his mouth goes up before the other one - Well, you live with him. You must have noticed."
"Not really," said Jordan.
"I miss him when he's not around," Isabelle confessed. — Cassandra Clare

I get back in the Continental and continue down the road to the cafe. Then I pull in and there's Larry Johnson's '57 Ford pickup in the parking lot. As I enter the little cafe, I see Larry and Briggs in the corner, drinking some coffee and having a late breakfast. I go right over and sit down with them. We don't say much. David says something about Kirby getting a job at one of the studios. Kirby is very good with his hands and can fix anything, plus he has a very friendly personality. We are happy for him. Larry has to make a call and gets up, heading for the pay phone in the corner. He has us get him another coffee when the waitress comes back. Briggs looks at me and asks what I've been doing. — Neil Young

Today the average inhabitant of the western hemisphere knows a little of everything. He has the newspaper on his breakfast table and wireless within reach. For the evening there is the film, cards, or a meeting to complete a day spent in the office or factory where nothing that is essential has been learnt. With slight variation this picture of a low cultural average holds good over the entire range from factory-hand of clerk to manager or director. Only the personal will to culture, in whatever field and however pursued raises modern man above this level. — Johan Huizinga

Beside us lies a fair-headed recruit in utter terror. He has buried his face in his hands, his helmet has fallen off. I fish hold of it and try to put it back on his head. He looks up, pushes the helmet off and like a child creeps under my arm, his head close to my breast. The little shoulders heave. Shoulders just like Kemmerich's. I let him be. — Erich Maria Remarque

No wonder everyone is keen to put their feet up and let Fate look after them. It's rather like your granddad. Or a very hands-on organised person, sort of your own personal PA.
Only in my experience Fate is no such thing, and the same goes for his little brother, Destiny. Quite frankly they've made a real mess of things where I'm concerned. So from now on they can bugger off and stop meddling. I'm taking charge of my own life, and when it comes to love, Fate can mind its own bloody business. — Alexandra Potter

Then one day Chip showed up with the back of his pickup truck just loaded with old metal letters he'd found at a flea market--big, oddly shaped letters taken from various old signs. They were mismatched and rusty and dented--and I loved them. We tacked them up on the front of the shop, spelling out the name that would come to mean so much: Magnolia. The letters were uneven and looked a little handmade and ragged, but it seemed to work. I loved this sign because Chip designed it and made it with his own two hands. It came together in such an imperfectly perfect way, and I hoped people would get it.

To this day that sign is one of my proudest accomplishments. I'm no Joanna Gaines, but I certainly see things differently and love design in my own unique way. That first sign really reflected that for me. I would glow when I would hear a customer come in the shop and say, "I saw the sign and just had to stop in. — Joanna Gaines

As he turned away I had the feeling he had washed his hands of me. Was I not the kind of little boy he wanted to have? — William Maxwell

And the sound of your heart," he continued. "It's the most significant sound in my world. I'm so attuned to it now, I swear I could pick it out from miles away. But neither of these things matter. This," he said, taking my face in his hands. "You. That's what I'm keeping. You'll always be my Bella, you'll just be a little more durable. — Stephenie Meyer

Zuckerman shook his head. "You guys are funnier than the Three Stooges without Curly. Anyway, it's a helluva campaign. Esme is running it for me. Male and female lines. Not only have we got Crispin, but Esme's landed the numero uno female golfer in the world." "Linda Coldren?" Myron asked. "Whoa!" Norm clapped his hands once. "The Hebrew hoopster knows his golf! By the way, Myron, what kind of name is Bolitar for a member of the tribe?" "It's a long story," Myron said. "Good, I wasn't interested anyway. I was just being polite. Where was I?" Zuckerman threw one leg over the other, leaned back, smiled, looked about. A ruddy-faced man at a neighboring table glared. "Hi, there," Norm said with a little wave. "Looking good." The — Harlan Coben

Any man who leads the regular and temperate life, not swerving from it in the least degree where his nourishment is concerned, can be but little affected by other disorders or incidental mishaps. Whereas, on the other hand, I truly conclude that disorderly habits of living are those which are fatal. — Luigi Cornaro

Germany no longer feels bound by the Locarno Treaty. In the interest of the primitive rights of its people to the security of their frontier and the safeguarding of their defence, the German Government has re-established, as from today, the absolute and unrestricted sovereignty of the Reich in the demilitarized zone!" Now the six hundred deputies, personal appointees all of Hitler, little men with big bodies and bulging necks and cropped hair and pouched bellies and brown uniforms and heavy boots, little men of clay in his fine hands, leap to their feet like automatons, their right arms upstretched in the Nazi salute, and scream Heils, the first two or three wildly, the next twenty-five in unison, like a college yell. Hitler raises his hand for silence. It comes slowly. Slowly the automatons sit down. Hitler now has them in his claws. He appears to sense it. He says in a deep, resonant voice: "Men of the German Reichstag!" The silence is utter. — William L. Shirer

[Olive's] left foot was bleeding through a wide swath of bandages onto the tarp it was resting on. The bowl next to her was full of blood.
Olive looked a little pale. "I don't think I should move," she said.
"What are you doing?" Roger shut the door behind him and stood with his back to it.
"I decided I might try to eat my toes," Olive said, closing her eyes. "But now that I've started, I don't think I should move."
Roger pushed himself off the wall and knelt down next to her. He unbuckled her silver belt and reached with it under her dress. He looped the belt around the top of her leg and tightened it. His hands were not shaking.
"Sit on the loose end," he said, pushing it under her. "I hope that works."
"You brought flowers," she said, blinking.
"Olive," he said. "You cut off your toes."
She looked down at the bowl. "Are they still toes?" she asked. — Amelia Gray

I wasn't sure, but I thought it kind of suited me. With the right shoes and everything." I displayed the new blue pumps. "I wanted to look, you know, pretty."
Yves gaped. I felt a little bit sorry for him. "Um ... Phee, I don't know what to say."
I let my bright expression dim. "You ... you think I look horrible in it?" My voice rose in a convincing squeak of distress.
He put his hands on my soulders. "No, you look great. You always look great, no matter what you're wearing."
Zed laughed. "Ouch. Wrong thing to say. — Joss Stirling

I was overcome with happiness, love, and tenderness ... Right after he was washed, I studied him with my hands: his downy little head, his little nose, everything on the tiny body. — Andrea Bocelli

And at last he began prancing up and down and rubbing his hands, and humming and murmuring, and putting his fist to his mouth blew a march on it as on a trumpet, and even uttered aloud a few encouraging words and nicknames addressed to himself, such as "bulldog" and "little cockerel. — Nikolai Gogol

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" - one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. — Martin Luther King Jr.

vellum, and blotted it. "Why not just shred it since you've won?" Chloe asked, a little miffed that the bet would linger on. "We want to destroy them - or reveal them - all at the same time." He took Chloe's hands in his and faced her. "We were gambling with the most important of our possessions: our hearts. — Nancy Herkness

He finds his way up the side of my neck, biting me just a little, moving lightly back and forth, like he's searching for a special spot. When he finds it, I make small sound I've never heard myself make before, like a gasp. He traces his tongue in slow circles around that spot. I realise my hands are just lying in my lap, doing nothing. I concentrate on lifting my arm and reaching for his face, but he catches my hand and holds it tightly at the wrist. His lips leave the spot and find their way back to my mouth, which is waiting, hoping for his return. He plants a gentle kiss on my lower lip and then whispers in my ear, I just got lucky, Rose. — Louise Rozett

It's funny, you know, they're always telling me to be a man, take it like a man, act like a man, like they're afraid if they don't keep reminding me I'll grow up to be a centaur or a dining room table, like they know, somehow, that I'm not a man, like it's a spell they can cast, if they say it enough I'll be tricked into being a man forever."
... "Yes." Tamburlaine nodded. "They always say: be a lady, speak like a lady, behave like a little lady, that's not very ladylike, is it, dear?"
"Well, I won't be a man, or take anything like one or act like one!" The troll inside him rubbed his hands gleefully, crackling with anticipation.
"Come on, then ... Don't let's be men, or ladies either. Don't let's act like them or behave like them or speak like them! — Catherynne M Valente

Bast brightened at the opportunity. Straightening up in his chair he looked thoughtful for a moment then said. "She had perfect ears." He made a delicate gesture with his hands. "Perfect little ears, like they were carved out of ... something." Chronicler laughed, then looked slightly taken aback, as if he'd surprised himself. "Her ears?" he asked as if he couldn't be sure if he had heard correctly. "You know how hard it is to find a pretty girl with the right sort of ears," Bast said matter-of-factly. Chronicler laughed again, seeming to find it easier the second time. "No," he said. "No, I'm sure I don't." Bast gave the story collector a deeply pitying look. "Well then, you'll just have to take my word for it. They were exceptionally fine. — Patrick Rothfuss

Alec put his hands up. "Okay, stop." The four vampires stared at him. "Horses? As in equine, My Little Pony, clippety-clop fucking horses? — N.R. Walker

I came to feel a tenderness for them all. This was something new to me. It gave me a curious pleasure to touch them, to help them in and out of the chair, to shave their weather-toughened old faces. They had known hard use, nearly all of them. You could tell it by the way they held themselves and moved. Most of all you could tell it by their hands, which were shaped by wear and often by the twists and swellings of arthritis. They had used their hands forgetfully, as hooks and pliers and hammers, and in every kind of weather. The backs of their hands showed a network of little scars where they had been cut, nicked, thornstuck, pinched, punctured, scraped, and burned. Their faces told that they had suffered things they did not talk about.Every one of them had a good knife in his pocket, sharp, the blades whetted narrow and concave, the horn of the handle worn smooth. — Wendell Berry

Think about what it is you're after."
"Understanding," she said slowly.
"Good," Bill said. "What else?"
A nervous energy was coursing through her, as if she was on the brink of something important. "I want to find out why Daniel and I were cursed. And I want to break that curse.I want to stop love from killing me so that we can finally be together-for real."
"Whoa,whoa,whoa." Bill started waving his hands like a man stranded on the side of a dark road. "Let's not get crazy. This is a very long-standing damnation you're up againat here. You and Daniel,it's like ... I don't know, you can't just snap your pretty little fingers and break out of that. You gotta start out small. — Lauren Kate

Amos clapped his hands. "Khufu!"
I thought he'd sneezed, because Khufu is a weird name, but then a little dude about three feet tall with gold fur and a purple shirt came clambering down the stairs. It took me a second to realize it was a baboon wearing an L.A. Lakers jersey. — Rick Riordan

If we are willing to concede the President dictatorial authority where we happen to agree with him, as liberals have tended to do over the years, we will have little chance of tying his hands when we do not ... You will see why many of us in the Congress understand how Dr. Frankenstein must have felt when his creation ran amok. — George McGovern

Every gift comes with a price." I frowned, and he grinned. "A kiss."
"Absolutely not!" But my blood raced, and I had to clench my hands in the grass to keep from touching him. "Don't you think it puts me at a disadvantage to not be able to see all this?"
"I'm one of the High Fae - we don't give anything without gaining something from it."
To my own surprise, I said, "Fine."
He blinked, probably expecting me to have fought a little harder. I hid my smile and sat up so that I faced him, our knees touching as we knelt in the grass.
"What about your part of the bargain?"
"What?"
He leaned closer, his smile turning wicked. "What about my kiss?"
I grabbed his fingers. "Here," I said, and slammed my mouth against the back of his hand. "There's your kiss. — Sarah J. Maas

She dropped to the stool before the little looking glass, rested her head on her hands and stared at herself. "He's in love with me," she said. "He's mad for me. I spend all my time bringing him close and holding him off. When he dances with me I can feel his hardness like a codpiece. He's desperate to have me. — Philippa Gregory

Then all of a sudden he'd taken two giant steps towards me, and before I knew it, had taken my face into his hands and the rest of me into the darkness of his wings and we were kissing each other in my little bedroom, in my little house, in my little town, while the mountains soared into the sky. — Jocelyn Davies