Small And Romantic Quotes & Sayings

A black boy brought Wilson's gin and he sipped it very slowly because he had nothing else to do except to return to his hot and squalid room and read a novel - or a poem. Wilson liked poetry, but he absorbed it secretly, like a drug. The Golden Treasury accompanied him wherever he went, but it was taken at night in small doses - a finger of Longfellow, Macaulay, Mangan: 'Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love ... ' His taste was romantic. For public exhibition he has his Wallace. He wanted passionately to be indistinguishable on the surface from other men: he wore his moustache like a club tie - it was his highest common factor, but his eyes betrayed him - brown dog's eyes, a setter's eyes, pointing mournfully towards Bond Street. — Graham Greene

She pursued his lips,' Zach laughs. 'Another one I misread! Pursued for "pursed." You know. She pursed her lips. So whenever you do that now, reach out and touch my lips to shut me up? I think, she pursued his lips.'

'That's so silly,' smiles Rachel.

'I know that. Now I'm pursuing your lips,' he adds.

When Zach kisses her, Rachel is often aware of the pulse in his lower labial, a small heartbeat there. She is aware of a pulsing and a slight thickening of tissue. How many times has this boy bled from his mouth? How many times. — Emma Richler

Awakened by the oppressive midday heat, Zach opened his eyes to see a small blue and tan lizard doing what looked like push-ups about a foot away from his face. — Pamela Clare

Deputy Grayson?"
He turned to stare down into those soft green eyes, his pulse ratcheting up. "Yes, Miss Smith?"
"Thank you." She touched his arm. "And no matter what happens, I promise I'm not a bad person."
She flung her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek....
Warmth rushed through Nash and tingling spread from where Phoebe's lips had touched his cheek. He raised a hand to the spot and stared at the woman, a frown pulling his brows downward.
He hadn't begun the day with the intent of finding a runaway bride stranded on the side of the road. Scenarios like that were only found in those unrealistic romance novels women liked reading.No. He hadn't asked for a kiss. But now that she'd done it, she couldn't undo it, and he couldn't unfeel it. — Elle James

He was silent a moment; then he said, "I want a drink of water."
She almost laughed aloud, because it was such a mundane request that could have been made of anyone, but then she saw the tension in his jaw and lips and realized that, again, he was checking out his condition, and he wanted her with him. She turned to the small Styrofoam pitcher that was kept full of crushed ice, which she used to keep his lips moist. The ice had melted enough that she was able to pour the glass half full of water. She stuck a straw into it and held it to his lips.
Gingerly he sucked the liquid into his mouth and held it for a moment, as if letting it soak into his membranes. Then, slowly, he swallowed, and after a minute he relaxed. "Thank God," he muttered hoarsely. "My throat still feel swollen. I wasn't sure I could swallow, and I sure as hell didn't want that damned tube back."
Behind Jay, Frank turned a smothered laugh into a cough.
"Anything else?" she asked.
"Yes. Kiss me. — Linda Howard

A cultured society that has fallen away from its religious traditions expects more from art than the aesthetic consciousness and the 'standpoint of art' can deliver. The Romantic desire for a new mythology ... gives the artist and his task in the world the consciousness of a new consecration. He is something like a 'secular saviour' for his creations are expected to achieve on a small scale the propitiation of disaster for which an unsaved world hopes. — Hans-Georg Gadamer

Austin?" she whispered, not sure what to do.
He turned to her and pulled her into his arms. Her mouth opened in surprise and the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. His mouth was warm against here. At first, she was too stunned to react. But after a moment, she put her arms around his neck and lost herself in the kiss.
As the headlights of the sheriff's car washed over them, the golden glow seemed to warm the night because she no longer felt cold. She let out a small helpless moan as Austin deepened the kiss, drawing her even closer.
As the sheriff's card went on past, she felt a pang of regret. Slowly, Austin drew back a little. His gaze locked with hers, and for a moment they stood like that, their quickened warm breaths coming out in white clouds.
"Sorry."
She shook her head. She wasn't sorry. She felt...light-headed, happy, as if helium filled. She thought she might drift off into the night if he let go of her. — B. J. Daniels

She turned on the radio. Christmas music filled the car. She turned it off with a groan.
"It's not going to turn you into an elf if you listen," he promised and liked the smile that played at the corner of her lips, wiggling the small mole that kept drawing his attention.
She glanced at him. "Do you believe in Christmas?"
"I do," he said without hesitation.
"Even after all you've seen and done overseas?"
"Especially because of that... — Dana Marton

What are you all worked up about?" he asked warily.
"This," she spat, motioning to the small space where she sat and he lay, "is what I call taking advantage." Glaring, she looked all flustered and - Lord-don't-put-him-in-more-hot-water-than-he-already-was - sexy with her blond curls bouncing with each word she sputtered. "And you can kindly remove your hand now, too."
He glanced down and blinked. Then, with as much remorse as he could muster, he carefully slid his hand out from underneath her butt. — Jennifer Shirk

....one of those long, romantic novels, six hundred and fifty pages of small print, translated from French or German or Hungarian or something -- because few of the English ones have the exact feeling I mean. And you read one page of it or even one phrase of it, and then you gobble up all the rest and go about in a dream for weeks afterwards, for months afterwards -- perhaps all your life, who knows? -- surrounded by those six hundred and fifty pages, the houses, the streets, the snow, the river, the roses, the girls, the sun, the ladies' dresses and the gentlemen's voices, the old, wicked, hard-hearted women and the old, sad women, the waltz music -- everything. What is not there you put in afterwards, for it is alive, this book, and it grows in your head. 'The house I was living in when I read that book,' you think, or 'This colour reminds me of that book. — Jean Rhys

You realized you were surrounded by love, that you were held by love, and that you'd had too small an imagination about that word, that thing. Romantic love, absolutely. Our notion of love - it just seems a very unevolved and very unenlightened notion. That it's this one person who you will meet. Eve Ensler — Krista Tippett

I don't believe in marriage. I think at worst it's a hostile political act, a way for small-minded men to keep women in the house and out of the way, wrapped up in the guise of tradition and conservative religious nonsense. At best, it's a happy delusion - these two people who truly love each other and have no idea how truly miserable they're about to make each other. But, but, when two people know that, and they decide with eyes wide open to face each other and get married anyway, then I don't think it's conservative or delusional. I think it's radical and courageous and very romantic. — Tina Modotti

She took his finger and placed a small kiss on the end of it. "You're just full of surprises, Taggart." She saw him give her a very pleased male smile.
"Stick around, Darlin', there's more to me than meets your eyes."
"Should I be afraid? — Lindsay McKenna

You found it," she announced.
I smiled, knowing what she meant. She and I'd had conversations since I was a small child about finding true love. She'd fallen deep with my grampa, who I hadn't met, he'd died before I was born in a work accident, but she'd never sought out anyone else. She couldn't imagine her life without him. She'd told me that some people could find love over and over but others found it once and it was so perfect, so 'it' that they'd never look elsewhere, even if they lost it. They'd had such good from it that they were topped up for life. — D.D. Prince

See? Instead of thinking of a way to help my people, all I can think of is the smell of your hair and that small dimple on your cheek when you smile. (Victor) — A.B. Whelan

Marital life cannot be easily represented in art because it is the
small, invisible, quotidian growth of the day-to-day, where
outwardly nothing happens. Romantic love is like a general
who knows how to conquer but not how to govern once the
last shot is fired. Unlike the aesthete, who knows how to 'kill
time' , married people master time without killing it. Marital
time is about the wise use and governance of time, setting
one's hands to the plough of the day-to-day. — John D. Caputo

If you wanted candles and romantic music, then you wouldn't have chosen me."
"Maybe I didn't choose," she dared. "Maybe it just happened. — Megan Duke

Please. Put the gun down and we'll talk. A beautiful woman holding a small cannon plays hell with my concentration. Christovao (Chris) Santos, Sanctuary — Sharon K. Garner

TO BE HOPEFUL in bad times is not just foolishly romantic. It is based on the fact that human history is a history not only of cruelty, but also of compassion, sacrifice, courage, kindness.
What we choose to emphasize in this complex history will determine our lives. If we see only the worst, it destroys our capacity to do something. If we remember those times and places - and there are so many - where people have behaved magnificently, this gives us the energy to act, and at least the possibility of sending this spinning top of a world in a different direction.
And if we do act, in however small a way, we don't have to wait for some grand utopian future. The future is an infinite succession of presents, and to live now as we think human beings should live, in defiance of all that is bad around us, is itself a marvelous victory. — Howard Zinn

Dancing Towards Bethlehem
If there is only enough time in the final
minutes of the 20th century for one last dance
I would like to be dancing it slowly with you,
say, in the ballroom of a seaside hotel.
My palm would press into the small of your back
as the past hundred years collapsed into a pile
of mirrors or buttons or frivolous shoes,
just as the floor of the 19th century gave way
and disappeared in a red cloud of brick dust.
There will be no time to order another drink
or worry about what was never said,
not with the orchestra sliding into the sea
and all our attention devoted to humming
whatever it was they were playing. — Billy Collins

She was a wonder junkie. In her mind, she was a hill tribesman standing slack-jawed before the real Ishtar Gate of ancient Babylon; Dorothy catching her first glimpse of the vaulted spires of the Emerald City of Oz; a small boy from darkest Brooklyn plunked down in the Corridor of Nations of the 1939 World's Fair, the Trylon and Perisphere beckoning in the distance; she was Pocahontas sailing up the Thames estuary with London spread out before her from horizon to horizon. been voyaging between the stars when the ancestors of humans were still brachiating from branch to branch in the dappled sunlight of the forest canopy. Drumlin, like many others she had known over the years, had called her an incurable romantic; and she found herself wondering again why so many people thought it some embarrassing disability. Her romanticism had been a driving force in her life and a fount of delights. Advocate and practitioner of romance, she was off to see the Wizard. — Carl Sagan

The sickness of our times for me has been just this damn thing that everything has been getting smaller and smaller and less and less important, that the romantic spirit has dried up, that there is no shame today. We're all getting so mean and small and petty and ridiculous, and we all live under the threat of extermination. — Norman Mailer

Travis Sanchez rubbed a hand over his head as he stepped into an elevator at the Red Stone Security building. His Mohawk was gone and he wore his hair in a buzz cut these days. It was probably his military background, but he always came back to this cut out of habit. The walk to Harrison's office was too short. He wasn't sure why his boss had called him in after his last security detail, but a small burst of panic had detonated in his gut. He loved this job, but there had been some issues with the CEO he'd recently been guarding not following Travis' orders. The asshole had almost gotten himself killed and now Travis wondered if his head was on the chopping block because of it. — Katie Reus

He liked the way her smile infected him and infused a bit of heat into his cold bones - a warmth missing until he'd opened the door to her flower shop. — Lyz Kelley

What makes for a good marriage isn't necessarily what makes for a good romantic relationship. Marriage isn't a passion-fest; it's a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane and often boring non-profit business. And I mean this in a good way. — Lori Gottlieb

I believe it was Jung who said that all beings are joined by invisible threads. You pull one, and the whole set moves. That is why every small act affects everything and everyone. Titus in Love in Lowercase — Francesc Miralles

The issue of the mysterious power of transmission arises here. What do you transmit to your child? Blonde hair, blue eyes, very small feet? But also a taste for cigarettes, panettone, boys with guitars? Is this foetus's life destined to be filled with suitcases packed in the middle of the night, suitcases that will always return to their point of departure some weeks later?

In other words, is this foetus destined to relive, again and again, emotions encoded in a fossilized region of its brain and thus, almost simultaneously, experience love and the end of the world, hope and lightning, a romantic comedy and a horror film? — Monica Sabolo

In fact, Lig never formally resigned his editorship - he merely left his office late one morning, and has never returned since. Though well over a century has now passed, many members of the Guide staff still retain the romantic notion that he has simply popped out for a sandwich and will yet return to put in a solid afternoon's work.
Strictly speaking, all editors since Lig Lury Jr., have therefore been designated acting editors, and Lig's desk is still preserved the way he left it, with the addition of a small sign that says LIG LURY, JR., EDITOR, MISSING, PRESUMED FED. — Douglas Adams

It's a romantic novel," Jaenelle said in a small voice as he called in his half-moon glasses and started idly flipping the pages. "A couple of women in a bookseller's shop kept talking about it." Romance. Passion. Sex. He suppressed - barely - the urge to leap to his feet and twirl her around the room. A sign of emotional healing? Please, sweet Darkness, please let it be a sign of healing. — Anne Bishop

Recall what used to be the theme of poetry in the romantic era. In neat verses the poet lets us share his private, bourgeois emotions: his sufferings great and small, his nostalgias, his religious or political pre-occupations, and, if he were English, his pipe-smoking reveries. On occasions, individual genius allowed a more subtle emanation to envelope the human nucleus of the poem - as we find in Baudelaire for example. But this splendour was a by-product. All the poet wished was to be a human being.
When he writes, I believe today's poet simply wishes to be a poet. — Jose Ortega Y Gasset

It worried him. Like him, she had to be exhausted. She smelled like gasoline; her clothes were torn. She had a small white bandage on her forehead where the EMT had cleaned her cut. Dirt smudged her face, her arms, her legs. He knew she still didn't have any underwear, and for the first time, he felt bad about it. Real bad. He wanted to protect her, make her feel secure, keep her from harm - and all he'd done was lose her underwear and practically get her blown up. — Tara Janzen

When he stood before her naked, he couldn't believe this beautiful woman, with the pale skin, flaming auburn hair, and eyes the color of spring hay, lay waiting for him.
Phoebe's cheeks flushed a pretty pink. "You look like you're hungry and ready to eat the proffered offering."
"I am, and I will. — Elle James

Ceelie preferred cats and small dogs, although they tended to be eaten by alligators around here, as she recalled. Munchability wasn't a desirable trait in a pet. — Susannah Sandlin

She stood there, rooted to the spot, until he murmured, "Relax, this is all part of our cover."
His words were like ice water right in the face. He'd just kissed her as part of their cover. That brief brush over her lips and she didn't want to relax, she wanted to take all his clothes off. Peel that charcoal gray suit off him and kiss every inch of his ripped, naked body.
Instead of indulging in that insanity and getting arrested for public indecency - and tearing open old wounds - she took a small step back. Just like that, she could breathe again. — Katie Reus

Daisy Bowman, Lillian's young sister, had an out-sized personality that belied her small, slight frame. Idealistic and possessed of a decidedly whimsical bent, she devoured romantic novels populated with rogues and villains. However, Daisy's elfin facade concealed a shrewd intelligence that most people tended to overlook. She was fair-skinned and dark-haired, with eyes the color of spiced gingerbread... mischievous eyes with long, spiky lashes. — Lisa Kleypas

Are we ever getting out of these mountains?" she asked without turning to look at him.
He moved up behind her and put his arms around her.
She leaned back against him. Her hair glistened with melting snow. She felt small in his arms.
"We're going to get out of here," he whispered as he slowly turned her to face him. "Do you trust me?"
She raised her head to meet his eyes and held his gaze for a long moment. "With my life. — B. J. Daniels

Her lips curved up then, as if she liked his answer. "Are you working tomorrow?"
Dax nodded. "Yeah. Training stuff." He was running weapons-training exercises with three of his guys and a small team of DEA agents. They liked to do joint operations, especially in Miami, where there was a smorgasbord of government agencies. But he couldn't tell her that.
"When do you get off?"
The way she said "get off" brought up all sorts of images. Hannah must have read his expression, because she shook her head. "Pervert," she muttered.
He grinned, liking the camaraderie between them, as if part of that wall she'd erected had been knocked down. — Katie Reus

We've been together for seven years. Can I really just walk out in the middle of a date and not look back?" #shinersbayou #book2

"How in tarnation do you lose a police car?" -Sheriff Hall #shinersbayou

"I know it's probably not the most romantic end to an otherwise charming night, but have you ever shot a shotgun before?" #shinersbayou #book2

#shinersbayou "No offense, but this is a small town, and if you're not from around here, the law around here doesn't care about you."-Eddie — Gen Griffin

Nash." Lola nodded toward the disappearing SUV. "Deputy Grayson." She grinned. "His first name is Nash. He's one of the four Grayson brothers. Every last one of them is tall, dark and so handsome they'll make your panties damp. — Elle James

Helena had been standing by her window looking out to sea, breathing in the fresh air and admiring the picturesque scene of a small ship sailing into the harbor.
She had not been able to think of anything other than Mikolas for days.
From LONGING the 3rd chapter of TRUE LOVE — Destin Bays

Phoebe stared into his blue eyes. "What would you do if you ran away from a wedding in a car that didn't belong to you and discovered a body in the trunk about the time a sheriff's deputy rolled up behind you?" She flung her hand in the air, and assumed a high-pitched, sarcastic tone. "Hi, I'm a rich man's daughter with a dead man in my trunk. Could you help me get him out so I can be on my merry way? — Elle James

Small-scale fisheries should not be favoured over large-scale operations ebcause of romantic notions of rugged small operators battling both the elements and anonymous corporations. [They ought to be supported] because of the scientific evidence available to confirm the common-sense inference that local fishers, if given privileged access, will tend to avoid trashing their local stocks, while foreign fishers do not have such motivation. — Daniel Pauly

I find television, and particularly live television, very romantic: the idea that there is this small group of people, way up high, in a skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan, beaming this signal out into the night. — Aaron Sorkin

I don't think of community as being a romantic notion. I think it's as vital as air and water, and so I think that informs a lot of what I write about. It could be a story about a couple, or a song about the slow death of the family farm or a small town. — Greg Brown

When I look at my friend's marriages, with their routine day-to-dayness, they actually seem far more romantic than any dating relationship might be. Dating seems romantic, but for the most part it's an extended audition. Marriage seems boring, but for the most part it's a state of comfort and acceptance. Dating is about grand romantic gestures that mean little over the long-term. Marriage is about small acts of kindness that bond you over a lifetime. It's quietly romantic. He makes her tea. She goes to the doctor appointment with him. They listen to each other's daily trivia. They put up with each other's quirks. They're there for each other. — Lori Gottlieb

Jean grinned down at her, and she handed him something in a small silk bag.
'What's this?'
'Lock of my hair, ' she said. 'Meant to give it to you days ago, but we got busy with all the raiding. You know. Piracy. Hectic life. '
'Thank you, love, ' he said.
'Now, if you find yourself in trouble wherever you go, you can hold up that little bag to whoever's bothering you, and you can say, "You have no idea who you're fucking with. I'm under the protection of the lady who gave me this object of her favour. "'
'And that's supposed to make them stop?'
'Shit no, that's just to confuse them. Then you kill them while they're standing there looking at you funny. — Scott Lynch

On the road leading from his ranch to Samantha's, Wyat t drove his surrey up a small hill and caught his breath as the beauty of the large crescent moon dangling just out of reach over the crest A full moon would have been plump with luminescence, yet the pearly surface of the sickle still cast enough light to shadow his surroundings and seemed close enough that once he drove to the top of the hill, he'd be able to touch the bottom horn or at least toss a rope around it. He slackened the reins, slowing the horse, knowing that the higher he climbed, the sooner the illusion of closeness would disappear and he wanted to preserve for a moment the fantasy that the moon was within his grasp.
The stars, by contrast, were distant pricks of diamond light farther out than a man could dream. He sighed. Life as a rancher or as a rancher's wife was not moon and stars easy or romantic. What would put stars in Samantha's eyes? — Debra Holland

They are just really stupid people in Hollywood. You write them a script, and they say they love it, they absolutely love it. Then they say, 'But doesn't it need a small dog, and an Eskimo, and shouldn't it be set in New Guinea?' And you say, 'But it is a sophisticated romantic comedy set in Paris.' — P. J. O'Rourke

I'm concerned about the woman you're holding prisoner in there," Beckett said. "Knock three times if you're being held against your will."
Phoebe gasped and answered, "I'm fine, too."
"Good." Beckett said with a chuckle. "I was afraid I'd have to call the cops on my cop brother. — Elle James

Inside their small house, Grace listened as Roman stood from the couch and walked into the bathroom. He sat down to piss. She thought that Roman's sit-down pisses were one of the most romantic and caring things that any man had ever done for any woman. After — Sherman Alexie

Duke was a burly, barrel-shaped Rottweiler made up of muscle and solid fat and built like a wrestler, a dog that looked like it was permanently on the verge of dying of boredom. He shook his weighty head as if he was being plagued by ear-mites and dislodged a scatter of small romantic words like a broken rope of pearls. — Kate Atkinson

After all your years climbing around in people's heads like a cranial janitor, do you think people know why they do things? People rationalize, they turn their delusions into something romantic that they can disguise as ethics or principles or ideals. People are selfish, Doctor- odiously, monstrously, but in so small and paltry a monstrousness that we barely notice it. — Dennis Lehane

Destiny gets compressed, you know, into just that small fraction of a second you have right in front of you at any one time. And there's nothing romantic about keeping your head down to avoid getting shot, or trying to save a friend who's been injured, or coming face to face with a creature who is as smart and mean and as terrified of dying as you are, and who wants to make sure that if someone is left on the ground there, it's you and not it. — John Scalzi

Don't imagine it would be the usual kind of marriage." He seemed to withdraw even more. "It needn't even be consummated. Any woman I liked we'll enough to marry doesn't deserve to be saddled to me. If we marry, it will be a quiet wedding by special license in a back room. At the end, we'll go our separate ways
you, to your farm, and me ... " He looked around the small room at the messy piles of paper. "I'm not offering to make a life with you. I'm merely giving you the chance to make your child legitimate. Nothing more."
He watched her, his eyes hooded and wary. And deep inside ... She had no notion as to what to say.
She let out a long breath. "Oh, you are romantic. — Courtney Milan

Admittedly, they [(places in novels)] didn't all have such ridiculous names as the ones in the Piddle Valley where her father's group of parishes was centered. It would have been hard to make credible a romantic fiction set in Farleigh Piddle, Middle Piddle, Nether Piddle and Piddle Dummer. — Val McDermid

Jake became excruciatingly aware of her, there, right behind him. The small grunts and groans as she placed each foot carefully on the slick ground reverberated in his gut. He wanted to turn around and tell her to shut the hell up.
She sounded as though she was having sex.
Good sex. — Cherry Adair

After a few brief simple moments, he found her neck, kissing the nape as if it were a peach, grazing her skin barely, causing her to moan out a small tiny little whimper. Before she could take another rbreath, his lips met hers in rapture, and suddenly, she was lost within the tragic abyss of falling beneath a lovebinding spell. — Keira D. Skye

Will you do me a favor?" Declan asked.
If he looked at her with those dark, intoxicating eyes, she was likely to do anything he asked.
"Maybe."
"Any more dreams you have, no matter how small, will you tell me about them?"
"Even the ones that star you?" The almost flirty quiestion slipped out before she could stop herself.
A slow grin spread across his fallen-angel face. The man just looked as if he wanted to do wicked things -- and she'd let him.
"Especially those. — Katie Reus

Dance, cher?" he asks, his blue eyes playful. I nod and he pulls me gently into his arms. He's warm. We sway to the music and the gentle rocking of the boat. His hand rests on the small of my back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected and adored all at once. — Lisa Daily

When you give your heart away, you usually get it back in pieces, fragments. And often, a great deal of time passes before you realize that every piece wasn't returned to you - and probably never will be. You crave nothing more than to get those small - but vital - fragments back; to return to the unbroken, undamaged version of yourself. But what's been broken cannot be unbroken, and so all you can do is learn to live with the void of the missing pieces, to somehow find beauty in the wreckage.
And so I did.
Sophie Lenon — Krystal McLean