Small Touches Quotes & Sayings

The line at the end that says, 'Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands' makes perfect sense to me. It means they can go anywhere inside of you, because like the rain, like water, they find places that nothing solid could pass through. It explains the way that Sky gets into me, into places that I never knew were there. How he touches a part of me no one has ever touched. We both have secret places in us. — Ava Dellaira

The magic is in the tiny moments. The small touches, the gentle smiles, the quiet laughs. The magic is about living for today and allowing yourself to breathe and be happy. My dear boy, to love is the magic. — Brittainy C. Cherry

What you must understand about me is that I'm a deeply unhappy person. — John Green

Pink culture is presented in a positive, pink and gentle way bordering on the thinking that we are "close" to finding a cure. This does not reflect today's reality of more women dying around the world from this disease and the lack of real progress. — Leanne Pooley

I have a message for the young kids. Life is about obstacles, endeavors in life are not to be overlooked. — Wade Boggs

When they reached her she stood on the path holding a pair of moths. Her eyes were wide with excitement , her cheeks pink, her red lips parted, and on the hand she held out to them clung a pair of delicate blue-green moths, with white bodies, and touches of lavender and straw colour. All about her lay flower-brocaded grasses, behind a deep green background of the forest, while the sun slowly sifted gold from heaven to burnish her hair. Mrs. Comstock heard a sharp breath behind her.
Oh, what a picture!" Exulted Ammon over sher shoulder. "She is absolutely and altogether lovely! Id give a small fortune for that faithfully set on canvas! — Gene Stratton-Porter

Lying is a thriving vocation. — Susanna Centlivre

The councilman staggered to one side, his sword clanging on the stones as he clutched at the gushing wound in his neck. — Steven Erikson

I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn't happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. — Charles Bukowski

I've had the good fortune of studying the 17th-century art of Amsterdam in preparation for a film. — Jack O'Connell

No story ever looks as bad as the story you've just bought; no story ever looks as good as the story the other fellow just bought. — Irving Thalberg

At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting: these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist, the gourmet's fondness for good food, and the love of flowers, which concealed in their delicate shadows a hint of the love of women — August Strindberg

With two small touches and a smile, he's killed my brain. — Anne Eliot

Her hand holding his for a dozen paces. His, resting on the small of her back for a moment. Touches that had no real purpose but to say I'm here and We are together still. — Veronica Rossi

I set my hands on his waist. I can't remember deciding to do that. But I also can't move away. I pull myself against his chest, wrapping my arms around him. My fingers skim the muscles of his back. After a moment he touches the small of my back, pressing me closer, and smoothes his other hand over my hair. I feel small again, but this time, it doesn't scare me. I squeeze my eyes shut. He doesn't scare me anymore. — Veronica Roth

Nothing touches a work of art so little as words of criticism: they always result in more or less fortunate misunderstandings. Things aren't all so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered, and more unsay able than all other things are works of art, those mysterious existences, whose life endures beside our own small, transitory life. — Rainer Maria Rilke

I know that I am birdlike, made narrow and small as if for taking flight, built straight-waisted and fragile. But when he touches me like he can't bear to take his hand away, I don't wish I was any different. — Veronica Roth

Many of us fear women. WE are afraid of woman as woman, longing for her as virgin or as madonna or as whore. It is not by becoming a woman that we will address this fear. It is by becoming the things she touches, the spaces she moves through, the fractured gestures that are not signs in themselves but are nonetheless hers and thus a part of her. If we discover the weight of these small things, then she will appear not as an idea but as a life and a totality. — Eleanor Catton

The desert, with its endless monotony, put him to dreaming. — Paulo Coelho

Having small touches of colour makes it more colourful than having the whole thing in colour. — Dieter Rams

The one thing ... maybe no family could tolerate was things coming out into the open. — Jane Smiley

Good!" the creature echoed. "Doctor Nelson will be along in a minute. Feel like some breakfast?" All four symbols in the query were in Smith's vocabulary but he had trouble believing that he had heard them rightly. He knew that he was food, but he did not "feel like" food. Nor had he had any warning that he might be selected for such an honor. He had not known that the food supply was such that it was necessary to reduce the corporate group. He was filled with mild regret, since there was still so much to grok of these new events, but no reluctance. — Robert A. Heinlein

I shake my head. "I know," I reply. "You are searching for her too."
We stand for a moment, staring out at the stars mirrored in the calm seas. I know why Magiano doesn't look at me. I remind him too much of her.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, after a long pause.
"Don't be." A small, sad smile touches his lips. "She chose it. — Marie Lu

It seems like he's keeping my foot within his grasp for longer than necessary when I see his eyes wander up my legs again. I tingle in every spot his gaze touches.
His voice sends shivers up my spine when he asks, "Have you ever been fucked, Eve?"
My eyelids flutter and I let out a small surprised gasp at his question, breath gushing from my lips. I'm not exactly a virgin, not too far off though, and I can safely say that I have never been fucked in the way that Phoenix is insinuating. Most of the sex I've had has been the fantasy kind. Our eyes lock and he moves his hand from the heel of my foot up along the back of my leg, massaging my shin.
I actually moan when his fingers press in, releasing the tension from a knotted muscle. His mouth opens as he watches me.
"I don't think that's a very appropriate question to ask of a friend," I finally manage to croak out.
He smiles darkly. "I told you I was bad news. — Raine Anthony

No mother. Two small words, and yet within them lay a bottomless well of pain and loss, a ceaseless mourning for touches that were never received and words of wisdom that were never spoken. No single word was big enough to adequately describe the loss of your mother. — Kristin Hannah

The "experience" which we need to understand logic is not that such and such is the case, but that something is; but that is no experience. Logic precedes every experience - that something is so. It is before the How, not before the What. — Ludwig Wittgenstein

Fight it, put on your show little Luna. Because if the witch lets you go, I'll eat your kidneys like conversation hearts," War snarled and bit down hard on his victim's shoulder, tearing the skin and fascia. — Saranna DeWylde

People often ask me why I persisted in doing research on a subject that was so controversial. I frequently respond by telling them that only a few scientists are granted the great fortune to pursue topics that are so new and different that only a small number of people can grasp the meaning of such discoveries initially. — Stanley B. Prusiner

That night, Zalmai wakes up coughing. Before Laila can move, Tariq swings his legs over the side of the bed. He straps on his prosthesis and walks over to Zalmai, lifts him up into his arms. From the bed, Laila watches Tariq's shape moving back and forth in the darkness. She sees the outline of Zalmai's head on his shoulder, the knot of his hands at Tariq's neck, his small feet bouncing by Tariq's hip.
When Tariq comes back to bed, neither of them says anything. Laila reaches over and touches his face. Tariq's cheeks are wet. — Khaled Hosseini

It all matters. That someone turns out the lamp, picks up the windblown wrapper, says hello to the invalid, pays at the unattended lot, listens to the repeated tale, folds the abandoned laundry, plays the game fairly, tells the story honestly, acknowledges help, gives credit, says good night, resists temptation, wipes the counter, waits at the yellow, makes the bed, tips the maid, remembers the illness, congratulates the victor, accepts the consequences, takes a stand, steps up, offers a hand, goes first, goes last, chooses the small portion, teaches the child, tends to the dying, comforts the grieving, removes the splinter, wipes the tear, directs the lost, touches the lonely, is the whole thing. What is most beautiful is least acknowledged. What is worth dying for is barely noticed. — Laura McBride

Remember this, son, if you forget everything else. A poet is a musician who can't sing. Words have to find a man's mind before they can touch his heart, and some men's minds are woeful small targets. Music touches their hearts directly no matter how small or stubborn the mind of the man who listens. — Patrick Rothfuss

I've probably saved more black lives as mayor of New York City than any mayor in New York City with the possible exception of Mike Bloomberg, who was there for 12 years. — Rudy Giuliani

What then is to be the lot of Rossetti's fame and influence? 'An amateur who failed in two arts', it is true; yet it hardly harms Rossetti or touches his standing. On the contrary, it defines both very brilliantly. The small word 'failed' is a small word and little more to artists who are forever going on until they give up over a game that must be lost. Every artist, when confronted by the immensities of art, which is life, must confess to failure. A failure is a thing very relative. — Ford Madox Ford