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Quote by Maureen Callahan

“Anna Wintour hadn't been to any of McQueen's shows, and McQueen didn't like it. McQueen said American Vogue could borrow the dress only if they flew it to New York and back, in its own seat, with an escort. It was a fuck-you and they took it, and the dress was shot by Richard Avedon. "Fashion people haven't got any brains," McQueen said.”

Quote by Maureen Callahan

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Maureen Callahan

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“I think maybe they come out into the grounds in nightwear. But no, in typical anorexic stype they have read the fashion magazines literally. This is their version of thin girls in strappy clothes. The girl in the petticoat talks to me, as Emma has done on occsasion, in a rather grand style, as if she is a 'lady' of some substance and I a visiting guest. Do they chat much about clothes? I ask Emma in the car. She shakes her head. So, does she, Emma, see the difference between underwear or nightwear and 'going out' clothes? 'Yes,' she says, her voices strained again. 'But it's one of the things you don't know properly when you're ill and confused. You see these pictures and the people in the magazines are real for you.”

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“If you give me the five hundred dollars right now, I’ll let you do whatever you want to me,” she whimpered. “Why are you being such a hard ass, Jeni?” he said with a wry smile. He took her hand and slid it down the front of his bare torso. His abdominal muscles rippled under her hand. Then he slid her hand over his erection. His cock twitched at the feel of her hand. “You know you want me to fuck you.” “Then cough up the money, Hamilton!” Though her voice regained its edge, her body was seconds away from crumbling. She wanted nothing more than him buried deep inside her. She ached for him.”

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“He ran the back of his fingers along her cheek. “Being with you this weekend made me realize how much I actually missed you. And not just sexually. I miss your smile. Your laugh. Your presence. Our late night conversations while we lie in bed and I hold you. The way you raise your right eyebrow when you think I’m being an idiot. The way you know exactly what I’m thinking or what I need without me having to even say it. It just hit me hard that I truly miss you.”

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“All the books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been blind as a bat not to have seen it long before, the ludicrous contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of course it was a pity that he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity. He was good in spite of it. Chesterton has more sense than all the other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought to have been complete -- Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and Voltaire -- all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon) entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in their books.”

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