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All A Quotes

“And there's another one, where you look yourself in the mirror and keep looking until you can see through your skin, and then you draw your own heart and send the drawing in a letter to someone else." "Why would you do that?" I couldn't stop myself from saying. "So that they can control you," she said. "You are saying, 'I do not want myself and so I am giving you the gift of me.' Or something like that." "It's very strange here," I said.”

“And- there's another surprise.' He pointed with a healed hand toward the Cauldron. 'Someone fish out dear Amren before she catches cold.' Varian whirled toward us. But Mor was sprinting for the Cauldron, and her cry as she reached in- 'How?' I breathed. Azriel and Varian were there, helping Mor heave a waterlogged form out of the dark water. Her chest rose and fell, her features the same, but... 'She was there,' Rhys said. 'When the Cauldron was sealing. Going... wherever we go.' Amren sputtered water, vomiting onto the rocky ground. Mor thumped her back, coaxing her through it. 'So I reached out a hand,' Rhys went on quietly. 'To see if she might want to come back.' And as Amren opened her eyes, as Varian let out a choked sound of relief and joy- I knew- what she had given up to come back. High Fae- and just that. For her silver eyes were solid. Unmoving. No smoke, no burning mist in them. A normal life, no trace of her powers to be seen. And as Amren smiled at me... I wondered if that had been her last gift. If it all... if it all had been a gift.”

“And there's my poor endeavoring human desk at which I sit so often during the day, facing south, the papers and pencils and the coffee cup with sprigs of alpine fir and a weird orchid of the heights wiltable in one day– My Beechnut gum, my tobacco pouch, dusts, pitiful pulp magazines I have to read, view south to all those snowy majesties– The waiting is long. On Starvation Ridge little sticks Are trying to grow.”

“And there’s no synthetic owners manual?” His lips twitched, smile threatening to break into a grin. A joke. He wasn’t funny. “Do you come with an owners’ manual, Captain? Because I’d like to study your troubleshooting section.” “Would you like to strip me down to my nuts and bolts, and figure out what makes me tick?” “I knew what made you tick from the moment we first met. That’s why I punched you between the legs.” ~ #1001 & Caleb”

“And there’s one other matter I must raise. The epidemic of domestic sexual violence that lacerates the soul of South Africa is mirrored in the pattern of grotesque raping in areas of outright conflict from Darfur to the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and in areas of contested electoral turbulence from Kenya to Zimbabwe. Inevitably, a certain percentage of the rapes transmits the AIDS virus. We don’t know how high that percentage is. We know only that women are subjected to the most dreadful double jeopardy. The point must also be made that there’s no such thing as the enjoyment of good health for women who live in constant fear of rape. Countless strong women survive the sexual assaults that occur in the millions every year, but every rape leaves a scar; no one ever fully heals. This business of discrimination against and oppression of women is the world’s most poisonous curse. Nowhere is it felt with greater catastrophic force than in the AIDS pandemic. This audience knows the statistics full well: you’ve chronicled them, you’ve measured them, the epidemiologists amongst you have disaggregated them. What has to happen, with one unified voice, is that the scientific community tells the political community that it must understand one incontrovertible fact of health: bringing an end to sexual violence is a vital component in bringing an end to AIDS. The brave groups of women who dare to speak up on the ground, in country after country, should not have to wage this fight in despairing and lonely isolation. They should hear the voices of scientific thunder. You understand the connections between violence against women and vulnerability to the virus. No one can challenge your understanding. Use it, I beg you, use it.”

“And there's that big ego again, filling the room." "That's not the only big thing in this room, sweetheart." He slid his hand around my nape and pulled me in for a long, deep kiss. I stiffened and instinctively pulled away, but Jack tightened his hold. "She's watching," he mumbled against my lips. "We need to sell the story." To be honest, I didn't want to fight it. I'd missed Jack. I wanted him. I wanted this to be real. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep myself from melting into him and drowning in that kiss. "That's my girl." His lips swept down my neck, his hand curving under my ass. Before I knew what was happening, he'd lifted me to his lap. "Put me down." I shot a frantic gaze in the direction of the nosy receptionist, who didn't seem to have anything else to do but watch us. "I'm not a child." "But you are good at hiding things." He gave a pointed glance down at his lap. "Although if you don't sit still, you're going to make the problem worse, not better." I could feel the problem hard against my thigh, so I did what any irritated fake newlywed would do: I wiggled.”

“And there she was, alone and walking out in the cornfield while everyone else I cared for sat together in one room. She would always feel me and think of me. I could see that, but there was no longer anything I could do. Ruth had been a girl haunted and now she would be a woman haunted. First by accident and now by choice. All of it, the story of my life and death, was hers if she chose tot ell it, even to one person at a time.”

“And there, sir, lies the entire problem, to have within oneself the inseparable reality and the material clarity of feeling, to have it in such a degree that the feeling cannot but express itself, to have a wealth of words and of formal constructions which can join in the dance, serve one's purpose—and at the very moment when the soul is about to organize its wealth, its discoveries, this revelation, at the unconscious moment when the thing is about to emanate, a higher and evil will attacks the soul like vitriol, attacks the word and image mass, attacks the mass of feeling and leaves me panting at the very door of life.”

“And there, too?” Catti-brie asked, indicating a lower point, a shelf not much higher than the floor of the rift, where a cluster of giant stalagmites lay at a strange angle, some broken, some still showing their full tips, and one even hinting at the glow of faerie fire. “That is what remains of House Oblodra,” Gromph told her. “Thrown in here by Matron Mother Baenre in the Time of Troubles nearly two centuries ago. They sought to use the silence of Lolth to their advantage with their psionic powers. Lolth didn’t like it.”

“And there was a deeper, less visible effect of the Truman loyalty program. Seeing its consequences for certain individuals and fearing its intrusion on their own lives, many in the government sought protection by strongly asserting their anti-Communism. In the public action that ensued, policy was based not on reality but, instinctively or deliberately, on personal caution...Those who urged a militant and sometimes military anti-Communism were considered sound, trustworthy and personally safe; those who questioned such a course were politically unsafe, possible even slightly disloyal.”

“And there was Livia, standing in a little puddle of water. She smiled at him, though her hazel-green eyes were wary beneath the brim of a sodden hat. Right at that moment, staring at her across the entrance hall, Gideon Shaw, cynic, hedonist, drunkard, libertine, fell hopelessly in love. He had never been so completely in the thrall of another human being. So enchanted, and foolishly hopeful. A thousand endearments crowded his mind, and he realized ruefully that he was every bit the mooncalf that he had accused McKenna of being the previous day. "Livia," he said softly, approaching her. His gaze raked over her flushed, rain-spattered face, while he thought that she looked like a bedraggled angel.”

“And there was nothing left for me to do, but go. Though the things of the world were strong with me still. Such as, for example: a gaggle of children trudging through a side-blown December flurry; a friendly match-share beneath some collision-tilted streetlight; a frozen clock, bird-visited within its high tower; cold water from a tin jug; toweling off one’s clinging shirt post–June rain. Pearls, rags, buttons, rug-tuft, beer-froth. Someone’s kind wishes for you; someone remembering to write; someone noticing that you are not at all at ease.”

“And there was some trouble with Oliver Cowdery, and whisper said it was relating to a girl then living in his family; and I was afterwards told by Warren Parish, that he himself and Oliver Cowdery did not that Joseph had Fannie Alger as wife, for they were spied upon and found together. And I can now see that at Nauvoo, so at Kirtland, that the suspicion or knowledge of the Prophet's plural relation was one of the causes of apostasy and disruption at Kirtland, although at the time there was little said publicly on the subject.”

“And there was something both frustrating and maddeningly arousing about that. His restraint made something burn low and deep in her belly, and then his mouth, oh God his mouth. He tasted like cinnamon, again, and every now and then he’d pull away, just a little — just enough to make her want to drag him back. Before giving her a teasing lick with that perfect, curling tongue of his. It set all the nerve endings in her upper lip on fire.”

“And there was that letter from the Bramleys—that really made me feel good. You don’t find people like the Bramleys now; radio, television and the motorcar have carried the outside world into the most isolated places so that the simple people you used to meet on the lonely farms are rapidly becoming like people anywhere else. There are still a few left, of course—old folk who cling to the ways of their fathers and when I come across any of them I like to make some excuse to sit down and talk with them and listen to the old Yorkshire words and expressions which have almost disappeared.”

“And there was the time Paul McCartney serenaded my wife with “Michelle.” She laughed, a little embarrassed, as the rest of the audience applauded, and I wondered what Michelle’s parents would have said back in 1965, the year the song came out, if someone had knocked on the door of their South Side home and told them that someday the Beatle who wrote it would be singing it to their daughter from a White House stage.”