Swirling Smoke Quotes & Sayings

She was beautiful, only hers was the dark beauty of night, just as Sherry's was the bright beauty of daytime. Her hair was raven-black, ending in a sort of widow's peak low on her forehead, and her face and arms were alabaster- white. Her gown was a clinging thing of swirling black, almost like smoke, and two peculiar shoulder-draperies she wore, hanging down loosely and caught at the wrists, almost suggested great triangular wings when her arms were in motion.
Her lips were a red gash in the pallor of her face, and they glistened as though she had daubed them with fresh blood instead of rouge.
"What's your name?" I asked.
"Call me Faustine," she said low. I saw her staring fixedly at me, with a sort of half-smile on her face, but her gaze rested a little lower than my own face. I fingered my neck uneasily. "Is there something on my collar?"
("Vampire's Honeymoon") — Cornell Woolrich

The smoke burns slightly down my throat and to my lungs. I focus on this, and empty my head, empty the images of Skye's beautiful face all bruised up.
In the end, I can't even give her what she's rightfully asking. A kiss. Just a fucking kiss on her lips. Even that I'm unable to do. It'd be pathetic if our situation and our past weren't so tragic.
I take another drag of my cigarette and watch the smoke swirling in the room only lit by the moonlight. - Duke — Stephanie Witter

There can be no such things as an Irish nationalist accepting the loyalist veto and partition. You cannot claim to be an Irish nationalist if you consent to an internal six county settlement and if you are willing to negotiate the state of Irish society with a foreign government. — Gerry Adams

We sort of understood abstractly the idea that there are only two kinds of software projects: failures and future legacy horrors. — Peter Weinberger

When leaders acquire the skills that enable them to release the productive potential and tap the collective capabilities of the group, who knows what positive results will be achieved? Some of them may move mountains. — Thomas Gordon

Can you get a summer snow-globe instead of a winter one with green grass and flowering azalea bushes and blue sky? Because I'm here, inside it. If you shake it, perhaps it fills with black smoke, not swirling snowflakes. — Rosamund Lupton

But we lived as usual. Everyone does, most of the time. Whatever is — Margaret Atwood

Shiloh is a wonderfully dramatic battle. The leader of one side is killed, and the other one is going on to glory, and it was the first great battle. It lasted two days. — Shelby Foote

That's what you do in America: you smile at people you don't know and you smile at people you don't even like and you smile for no reason. — NoViolet Bulawayo

Ideas, we all know, are not born in people's heads. They begin somewhere out there, loose wisps of smoke swirling directionless in their search for a befitting mind. — Mia Couto

Lastly, his tomb shall list and founder in the troughs of grass. And none shall speak his name. — Karl Shapiro

Nine-year-old boys usually turn ten at some point. It's the nineteen-year-olds who have difficulty turning twenty. — John Boyne

There is, however, a similarity between juggling and composing on the typewriter. The trick is, when you spill something, make it look like part of the act. — Tom Robbins

Olivia lit a cigarette and said, God, if I worried about running into old boyfriends, I couldn't go anywhere! — Jeffrey Eugenides

No matter what I've written, someone somewhere has come up to me and said, "Me too." The truth can be offensive, but it's always nourishing, in a way. You recognize it. You can feel it. And even if [readers] think, "My god, I would never get in those situations," within those ridiculous circumstances that I have created for myself, they know the way I respond is probably what they would do too. — Augusten Burroughs

Luck is the residue of design. — John Milton

Books are a guide in youth, and an entertainment for age. — Jeremy Collier

He reaches forward slowly, to lift the pen from my lax grip. Wearily I regard the faltering trail of ink it has tracked down my page. I have seen that shape before, I think, but it was not ink then. A trickle of drying blood on the deck of a Red-Ship, and mine the hand that spilled it? Or was it a tendril of smoke rising black against a blue sky as I rode too late to warn a village of a Red-Ship raid? Or poison swirling and unfurling yellowly in a simple glass of water, poison I had handed someone, smiling all the while? The artless curl of a strand of woman's hair left upon my pillow? Or the trail of a man's heels left in the sand as we dragged the bodies from the smoldering tower at Sealbay? The track of a tear down a mother's cheek as she clutched her Forged infant to her despite his angry cries? Like Red-Ships, the memories come without warning, without mercy. — Robin Hobb

What a funny watch!' she remarked. 'It tells the day of the month, and doesn't tell
what o'clock it is!'
'Why should it?' muttered the Hatter. 'Does YOUR watch tell you what year it is?'
'Of course not,' Alice replied very readily: 'but that's because it stays the same year for such a long time together.'
'Which is just the case with MINE,' said the Hatter. — Lewis Carroll