The Bed Sitting Room Quotes & Sayings

And so, finding that, for once, I was not sorry to be alone, I said to myself: I am happy. Perfectly happy, I repeated, as my eyes roamed wide over the brilliant desolate sea and the empty contours of the land. Were they, after all, searching for something that was lacking? I hardly knew. A tiny obstinate figure by the dwarf obelisk under an enormous sky, I declared for the third time: I am absolutely happy, absolutely content. And, increasingly overcome by a profound melancholy which I interpreted simply as an appetite for supper I began to walk downhill, towards my sitting room, my holiday task and my lonely bed. — Christopher Isherwood

Nick was waiting for him.
Gabriel hesitated. He wished those text messages had come with some kind of sign, whether Nick was pissed or exasperated or just completely done with him. Hell, a freaking emoticon would have been helpful.
His own room sat pitch-dark at the opposite end of the hallway. A black hole. Gabriel eased around the creaky spot in the floor and slid past his twin's room. Once in his own, he flung his duffel bag onto the ground and shut the door, closing the dark around himself. He sighed and kicked his shoes into the well of blackness under the bed. Maybe Nick hadn't heard him. Maybe he thought he was still out in the car.
"You are so predictable."
Gabriel swore and fumbled for the light switch.
Nick was straddling his desk chair backward, his arms folded on the backrest.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Gabriel snapped. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?"
His twin shrugged. Because I knew you'd walk right past my room. — Brigid Kemmerer

A voice: "My goodness, Nurse Jones." I look up, startled. Simon's in the doorway, leaning against the frame, smiling.
No doubt I'm quite the sight in my bloody, sexy nurse's outfit, sitting on a bed next to a tied-up, taped-up target. "Oh, please." I collect my purse, my phone and my stun gun and walk around the bed.
Simon's smile reaches deep into his dark blue eyes. He has a long face and delicate features for a man.
I grab the sleeve of his black jacket and pull him into the outer room.
"What the fuck are you wearing? You look insane," he says.
"This? This is the creepy outfit the Alchemist put me in after he kidnapped me."
Simon stops smiling. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. — Carolyn Crane

THE SERUM WEARS off five hours later, when the sun is just beginning to set. Tobias shut me in my room for the rest of the day, checking on me every hour. This time when he comes in, I am sitting on the bed, glaring at the wall. "Thank God," he says, pressing his forehead to the door. "I was beginning to think it would never wear off and I would have to leave you here to ... smell flowers, or whatever you wanted to do while you were on that stuff. — Veronica Roth

He didn't deserve someone like Lorcan. He'd turned Lorcan's pure and wonderful feelings into something ugly, something to be ashamed of. He stepped into his room, shutting the door quietly behind him, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands as he listened to Lorcan move around his room. He did something he hadn't allowed himself since his daddy had passed. He cried - for his loss, for what could have been ... but mostly, he cried in shame. — S.J.D. Peterson

Filled with determination, she pounded on Leo's door. "Wake up, slugabed!"
A string of foul words filtered through the heavy oak panels.
Grinning, Amelia went into Poppy's room. She pulled the curtains open, releasing clouds of dust that caused her to sneeze. "Poppy, it's ... achoo! ... time to get out of bed."
The covers had been drawn completely over Poppy's head. "Not yet," came her muffled protest.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Amelia eased the covers away from her nineteen-year-old sister. Poppy was groggy and sleep-flushed, her cheek imprinted with a line left by a fold of the bedclothes. Her brown hair, a warmer, ruddier tint than Amelia's, was a wild mass of tangles.
"I hate morning," Poppy mumbled. "And I'm sure I don't like being awakened by someone who looks so bloody pleased about it."
"I'm sorry." Continuing to smile, Amelia stroked her sister's hair away from her face repeatedly. — Lisa Kleypas

Having a plan made me feel better,so when I walked into my room to find Jack sitting on my bed flipping through my pink journal,I didn't even yell at him.
Much.
Once I finished smacking him over the head with said journal,I put away my school stuff and pulled on a warmer coat. — Kiersten White

There's something covering my face, I can't breathe, I'm suffocating. When I surface into wakefulness, I'm gasping for air and my chest hurts. I sit up, eyes wide, and see something moving in the corner of the room, a dense centre of blackness that keeps growing, and I almost cry out - and then I'm properly awake and there's nothing there, but I am sitting up in bed and my cheeks are wet with tears. — Paula Hawkins

Cam was sitting on the bed, still clothed. His head was lowered, hands braced on his knees in the posture of a man who was deep in thought. He glanced up as she came into the room and closed the door.
"What's the matter, love?"
"I ... " Amelia approached him hesitantly. "I'm afraid you won't let me have what I want."
His slow smile robbed her of breath. "I have yet to refuse you anything. I'm not likely to start now. — Lisa Kleypas

I was just sitting on my bed in a dormitory room, and I started writing. The thing that was magic about it was that once you put down one word, you could cross it out. I figured that out right away. I put down 'mountain,' and then I'd go, 'No - 'valley.' That's better.' — James Tate

Well, at least he keeps himself fit," said the Archchancellor nastily. "Not like the rest of you fellows. I went into the Uncommon Room this morning, and it was full of chaps snoring!"
"That would be the senior masters, Master," said the Bursar. "I would say they are supremely fit, myself."
"Fit? The Dean looks like a man who's swallered a bed!"
"Ah, but Master," said the Bursar, smiling indulgently, "the word 'fit,' as I understand it, means 'appropriate to a purpose,' and I would say the body of the Dean is supremely appropriate to the purpose of sitting around all day and eating big heavy meals. — Terry Pratchett

Emily is sitting up in bed staring down at their daughter. Logan has his arm wrapped around them both, and he's holding them close, talking softly to Emily. She turns and kisses his cheek. He smiles at her, and there's so much love there that it makes me ache inside. They're all wrapped up in one another, so I leave the room much more quietly than I arrived. But outside the door I stop and think about the way they looked together. Their family is perfect. Is it safe for me to want that, too? Or is perfect something I'll just never have? — Tammy Falkner

She found Diana's room. Diana was sitting in her bed using a remote control to idly flip through the channels on the wall-mounted TV.
"You," Diana said by way of greeting.
"Me," Astrid said.
"Can't believe it," Diana said. "All this time. And there's still nothing on."
Astrid laughed and lowered herself slowly into a chair. "You know how they say hospital food is so awful? Somehow I'm not having that reaction."
"Tapioca beats rat," Diana said.
"I never minded rat as much as that dog jerky we were getting for a while. The stuff Albert had them flavor with celery salt? That was the culinary low point for me."
"Yeah, well, I had a lower low point," Diana said, sounding angry. Or maybe not angry, maybe hurt.
Astrid put a hand on Diana's arm, and Diana did not shake it off. — Michael Grant

The very first picture that came up on the camera's little view screen was of him.
What did that mean that she'd kept this picture of him?
Was it because she still cared?
Or had she saved it as a warning? Like, "Never forget how completely screwed up your relationship was with this loser ... "
It wasn't a particularly good picture. In fact, it was pretty embarrassing.
Sitting up in his bed, Max was in his room at Sheffield. It was the photo Gina had taken the day after he'd arrived there. He looked like crap warmed over after his very first physical therapy session, and he was glowering into the camera because he goddamn didn't want his picture taken. — Suzanne Brockmann

I hope I'm not disturbing anything," Finn said, looking past Duncan at me.
As soon as his dark eyes landed on mine, my breath caught in my throat. He stood at the door, his black hair mussed a bit.His vest was still neatly pressed but it was marred with a dark stain from Elora's blood.
"No,not at all," I said, sitting up further.
"Actually,we were-" Matt began,his voice hard.
"Actually,we were leaving," Willa cut him off. She scooted off the bed,and Matt shot her a look, which she only smiled at. "We were just saying that we had something to do in your room. Weren't we,Matt?"
"Fine," Matt grumbled and stood up. Finn moved aside to Matt and Willa could walk out of the room, and Matt gave him a warning glare. "But we'll just be right across the hall."
Willa grabbed Matt's hand to keep him moving. Finn, as usual, seemed oblivious to Matt's threats, which only made Matt angrier. — Amanda Hocking

One of the two owners, the man who had been sitting in the front room, was stretched out in there asleep, stockinged-toes pointed at the ceiling, one hand backed defensively against his eyes to ward off the light. He'd taken off his vest and shoes, and that strap that wasn't straight enough to be a suspender-strap was dangling now around one of the knobs at the foot of the bed. It ended in a holster, with a black, cross-grained slab of metal protruding from it. Turner couldn't take his eyes off it, while the long seconds that to him were minutes toiled by.
That meant out, that black slab, more surely than any door. He had to have it. More than that, it meant a continuance of out, for so long as he had it. And he wanted out with all the desperate longing of all trapped things, blindly scratching, clawing their way through a maze to the open. To the open where the equal chance is. — Cornell Woolrich

Our first night in the house, my wife and I were lying in bed. I was thanking God for my blessings. Thanking God for not having to pull aside a dining room curain to have my children near - that they were right down the hall, asleep in their Superman underwear, their little chests rising and falling to the pulse of their dreams.
I thought how some blessings are fickle guests. Just when we think they're here to stay, they pack their bags and move. When we're in the midst of blessing, we think it's our due - that blessing lasts forever. Next thing you know we're sitting helpless beside a hospital bed. All we're left with is a name on a wall, a toy in a desk, and memories that haunt our sleep.
Sometimes we come to gratitute too late. It's only after blessing has passed on that we realize what we had.
- chapter 2 — Philip Gulley

What do you need that for?" he asks about the Jack Daniel's. "We might have to hit her over the head." "Why are you smiling?" "Because this is a happy time," I tell him honestly, even after I push aside the image of knocking Shannon unconscious with a bottle of JD. "This is fun. This is good. When this is all over, we're going to have a baby." He doesn't look all that convinced, but he trots after me as we take our equipment into Shannon's room. She's sitting propped up on the bed with every pillow in my house behind her, blowing out air like a stalled locomotive. "You're going to ruin my pillows," I moan. "I'll buy you new pillows," she spits at me. "I'll buy you a new bed. I'll buy you a new fucking house." "Watch your language," I tell her. "There's a little kid here." "You think I care about a fucking little kid? Why is there a little kid here?" "Can we hit her yet?" Kenny asks. "Not yet." Fanci — Tawni O'Dell

I had no friends. Was I happy? I was wildly happy. Sitting on my bed, which took up most of the space in that narrow room, I whispered prayers of thanks that I was really and truly here in New York, beginning another life. I worshipped the place. I feasted on every beautiful inch of it - the crowds, the fruit and vegetable stands, the miles of pavement, the graffiti, even the garbage. All of it sent me into paroxysms of joy. Needless to say, my elevation had an irrational cast to it. Had I not arrived laden with ideas of urban paradise, I might have felt bad losing sleep, might have felt lonely and disoriented, but instead I walked around town like a love-struck idiot, inhaling the difference between there and here. — Siri Hustvedt

One night I was sitting on the bed in my hotel room on Buker Hill, down in the middle of Los Angeles. It was an important night in my life, because I had to make a decision about the hotel. Either I paid up or I got out: that was what the note said, the note the landlady had put under my door. A great problem, deserving acute attention. I solved it by turning out the lights and going to bed. — John Fante

People talk about the happy quiet that can exist between two loves, but this, too, was great; sitting between his sister and his brother, saying nothing, eating. Before the world existed, before it was populated, and before there were wars and jobs and colleges and movies and clothes and opinions and foreign travel
before all of these things there had been only one person, Zora, and only one place: a tent in the living room made from chairs and bed-sheets. After a few years, Levi arrived; space was made for him; it was as if he had always been. Looking at them both now, Jerome found himself in their finger joints and neat conch ears, in their long legs and wild curls. He heard himself in their partial lisps caused by puffy tongues vibrating against slightly noticeable buckteeth. He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away. — Zadie Smith

The Coffee Guy, whose name is Rosie by the way, has moved to El Salvador.' I lied.
This was not met with happy noises.
'He's turned his back on coffee and is in the wilds of Central America building houses for the poor. I think we should all take a moment away from our quest for coffee-satisfaction and think about this noble decision. As you clamor for caffeine and curse the hard-working but innocent staff at my store, Rosie is sitting in the bed of a beat-up pickup bumping across roads to make one room homes out of mud for those who have nothing at all — Kristen Ashley

God is still in the business of coming down to earth: to this cubicle, this email, this room, this house, this job, this hospital room, this car, this bed, this vacation. Any place can become Bethel, the house of God. Cleveland, maybe. Or the chair you're sitting in as you read these words. — John Ortberg

Melissa Hopkins wanted more than anything to be home in her warm bed, securely tucked under her thick down comforter. For several hours now, she'd been sitting in a small windowless room at the local police headquarters, being interrogated by the same two cops non-stop. It made her head ache, although she supposed the drinks she'd had earlier could be a contributor to that as well. — Pamela M. Kelley

The cashier had long since left for home. By now she was probably bustling by an unmade bed that was waiting in her small room like a boat to carry her off to the black lagoons of sleep, into the complicated world of dreams. The person sitting in the box office was only a wraith, an illusory phantom looking with tired, heavily made-up eyes at the empyiness of light, fluttering her lashes thoughtlessly to disperse the golden dust of drowsiness scattered by the elctric bulbs. — Bruno Schulz

Are you not afraid of death?'
I am not in the least afraid! ... I would rather die than drink that bitter medicine.'
At that moment the door of the room flew open, and four rabbits as black as ink entered carrying on their shoulders a little bier.
What do you want with me?' cried Pinocchio, sitting up in bed in a great fright.
We are come to take you,' said the biggest rabbit.
To take me? ... But I am not yet dead! ... '
No, not yet: but you have only a few minutes to live, as you have refused the medicine that would have cured you of the fever.'
Oh, Fairy, Fairy!' the puppet then began to scream, 'give me the tumbler at once ... be quick, for pity's sake, for I will not die
no ... I will not die ... — Carlo Collodi

Callie tucked her brother into bed, and once he fell asleep, she left her room in search of her husband. She found him outside her door, leaning against the wall with his sword beside him.
"Sin? What are you doing?"
"'Twould appear I am sitting."
"And why are you sitting there?"
"Because it's rather difficult to sleep while standing."
Callie faltered as his meaning became clear. "You are sleeping outside my door? Why?"
"Because if I slept outside of Simon's door, the innkeeper might think I'm strange."
-Callie & Sin — Kinley MacGregor

For a while we talked about things I've forgotten now. Or maybe we were silent for a while, me sitting at the foot of his bed, him stretched out with his book, the two of us sneaking looks at each other, listening to the sound the elevator made, as if we were in a dark room or lost in the country at night, just listening to the sound of horses. — Roberto Bolano

There was someone in his little attic room. Geralt knew it before he even reached the door, sensing it through the barely perceptible vibration of his medallion. He blew out the oil lamp which had lit his path up the stairs, pulled the dagger from his boot, slipped it into the back of his belt and pressed the door handle. The room was dark. But not for a witcher. He was deliberately slow in crossing the threshold; he closed the door behind him carefully. The next second he dived at the person sitting on his bed, crushed them into the linen, forced his forearm under their chin and reached for his dagger. He didn't pull it out. Something wasn't right. "Not a bad start," she said in a muffled voice, lying motionless beneath him. "I expected something like this, but I didn't think we'd both be in bed so quickly. Take your hand from my throat please." "It's — Andrzej Sapkowski

I don't remember waking up that Sunday morning - - perhaps I never slept. Iwas just sitting up in bed watching Sarah sleep. She'd slept naked in my bed but she hadn't let me have sex with her. I didn't care. I loved watching her sleep. The light was falling through my window, all over the blue sheets of my old bed, and onto her face. I lifted up the sheets and watched her breasts move with her breath. They seemed to be sleeping themselves.
I hoped that she wouldn't wake up. I laid the sheet back over her, right up to her chin.
I looked up and out of my room.
I thought, This must be what praying is like. — Ethan Hawke

Sitting cross-legged on her bed, I watch her take out her gear. She's been smoking so much the room stinks of it. Over the last few weeks, I've seen her do it so often I've resisted the urge. It's surreal, like I'm watching me from outside my body. My willpower is fragile at the best of times, but my resolve is always weaker in the evening.
I feel a dread and a revulsion for what I'm about to do, but there's a stronger feeling, an unutterable longing. I crack.
'Give us a line,' I say. — Christine Lewry

Never coming back here, she thought.
With a groan, she levered herself into a sitting position and discovered a painful crick in her neck. Never ever. She launched herself off the bed and limped over to the door and put here eye to the viewer, was treated to a fish-eye view of a small, dapper, well-dressed man holding a bunch of white roses.
Okay. Man with flowers. Carey looked around the room. The windows opened on short tethers so guests couldn't throw furniture or each other out into the street, and she was too high to jump anyway. She looked around the room again, looking for possible weapons. There was a rickety-looking chair by the desk in the corner, but it would probably fall to bits even before she hit anyone with it. She looked through the viewer. The little man knocked again. Not urgently, not in an official we-have-come-to-take-you-to-the-gulag kind of way, but in the manner of a gentleman visiting his lady friend with a nice bunch of roses. — Dave Hutchinson