Redness On Neck Quotes & Sayings

There is a wicked and pervading arrogance loose on the earth, like a rabid beast, an overdog. Does it run, does it slouch, does its name have a number? The beast preaches contempt, for that's what arrogance says: that nothing is real but itself, and the bone and blood of another's being are insubstantial as breath. — Kelly Cherry

As far as I can tell, all cats [can see ghosts.] But they aren't terribly impressed with the fact that we're dead and still present. One rarely gets a reaction from them. — Jim Butcher

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen. — Sylvia Plath

What's aero braking? That's a way to use the gravity and upper atmosphere of Earth to sling shot a ship out either deeper into space, or slow it down to be 'captured' by Earth's gravity. — Buzz Aldrin

Sarcasm isn't at all funny when it's the truth — Colleen Hoover

You told me, girlfriend. Will your boyfriend be jealous we're tossing bitchy banter back and forth? — Lorelei James

The camera was kind to me. But I was never a screen personality like Gable or Flynn. The camera did something with their faces that was special. — Don Ameche

Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your self ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be,
Shall turne to nought and loose that glorious hew:
But onely that is permanent and free
From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine and borne of heavenly seed:
Deriv'd from that fayre Spirit, from whom al true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He onely fayre, and what he fayre hath made,
All other fayre lyke flowres untymely fade. — Edmund Spenser

I added that it was no fun to grow old, but that the compensation for it was that time turned your mental shit-detector into a highly calibrated instrument. — Paul Theroux

The more I learn, the less I know. — Jeffrey Rasley

When she drinks the coffee I made, I look at the redness of her lips and wish I could just stand up, walk over, and kiss them. I want to feel the flesh of them and the softness against my own. I want to breathe in her and with her. I want to be able to put my teeth to her neck and have my fingers touch her back and run them through the lovely, mild yellow color of her hair. — Markus Zusak

Spring
TO what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. — Edna St. Vincent Millay

There was something striking about a single key. It was like a question waiting to be answered, a whole missing a half. Useless on its own, needing something else to be truly defined. — Sarah Dessen

McCabe's Law: Nobody has to do anything. — Charles McCabe

Truth and fiction are so aptly mixed that all seems uniform and of a piece. — Wentworth Dillon, 4th Earl Of Roscommon

Philosophers write for professors; thinkers for writers. — Emile M. Cioran