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H Quotes

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All H Quotes

“He was phrasing that exactly the way those activists did when they stood outside of Vons with their clipboards and asked , as you were rushing into the store , “Do you have time for the environment ? ” So obviously , you couldn’t say no , because then you looked like an asshole who didn’t have time for the environment . You only had time to buy donuts and a fifth of Jack , and the environment could go fuck itself . Obviously , that’s what you meant .”

“He was polite; he was cool; he was enigmatic. He was every bit what they expected and wanted the storied Duke of Falconbridge to be, because it amused him to be so. In truth, his eyes were on the stairs. He waited with the patience of a cat near a mouse hole for Genevieve Eversea to arrive. He almost didn't recognize her when she did appear. Her dress was a glossy silk of midnight blue, cut very low, and the "sleeves"- really scraps of net- clung to her pale, flawless shoulders, as though she'd tumbled down through clouds to get here and brought a few sheds of sky with her. Her neck was long. Her collarbone had that smooth pristine temptation of a bank of new-fallen snow. It was interrupted only by a drop of a blue stone on a chain that pointed directly at quite confident cleavage, as if the owner knew full well it was splendid and was accustomed to exposing it. Her sleek dark hair was dressed up high and away from her face, and tiny diamanté sparks were scattered through it. Her face beneath it was revealed in delicate simplicity. A smooth, pale, high forehead, etched cheekbones. Elegant as Wedgwood, set off by that dark, dark hair and those vivid eyes. He stared. He wasn't precisely... nonplussed. Still, this particular vision of Genevieve Eversea required reconciling with the quiet girl in the morning dress, the moor pony with the determined gait. As though they were not quite the same thing, or were perhaps 'variations' of the same thing, like verb tenses. He felt a bit like a boy who needed to erase his morning lessons and begin again.”

“He was prepared to die for it, as one of Baudelaire's dandies might have been prepared to kill himself in order to preserve himself in the condition of a work of art, for he wanted to make this experience a masterpiece of experience which absolutely transcended the everyday. And this would annihilate the effects of the cruel drug, boredom, to which he was addicted although, perhaps, the element of boredom which is implicit in an affair so isolated from the real world was its principle appeal for him.”

“He was probably just being paranoid, but why take chances? He quickened his pace, hoping to put a little more distance between himself and his (inadvertent?) tail. A taxi was sounding better and better, but now that he actually wanted one, he looked in vain for an unoccupied cab. Darkened storefronts, guarded by iron bars and pull-down metal shutters, offered little in the way of shelter should he need to get off the street in a hurry. He searched his own pockets for something to defend himself with, just in case, but found only his favorite Sharpie. Great, he thought sarcastically. Whoever said the pen was mightier than the sword had obviously never been stalked down a lonely city street by a guy who looked like he could go nine rounds with Bigfoot. Next time I arrange for an escort home.”

“He was probably just sleep-deprived and insatiably horny and it was messing with his head. "Was your head feeling particularly full of something?" she asked innocently. He couldn't help himself any longer. He looked down at Dina and, fuck, she was there, stark naked. His brain short-circuited; it was too much. Moonlight bounced off her deep honeyed skin. "Fuck, Dina. Look at you." Scott's voice was hoarse. She stared up at him with molten eyes. She was perfect, fuck, she was perfect. Just as he'd imagined--- no, better than he'd imagined. The curve of her hips, the softness of her belly and the swell of her breasts, her nipples stiff. For him. His eyes feasted their way down her body, to her inner thighs. If he kissed her there, would she be wet for him? Her face was only hunger, only lust. He needed to have her.”

“He was quite a Casanova, no doubt about it. He was in a very good mood today and stopped longer than usual. The girls could see he was gloriously drunk. ’Well, Ragna, why do you think I come here so often?’ asked Rolandsen. ’I’ve no idea,’ Ragna answered. ’You must think I’m sent by old Laban.’ The girls giggled. ’When he says Laban he really means Adam.’ ’I’ve come to save you,’ said Rolandsen. ’You have to beware of the fishermen around here, they’re out-and-out seducers!’ ’There’s no greater seducer than you,’ said another girl. ’You’ve got two kids already. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’ ’How can you talk like that, Nicoline? You’ve always been a thorn in my flesh and you’ll be the death of me, you know damned well. But as for you, Ragna, I’m going to save your soul wether you like it or not!”

“He was ready to take a pothead, alcoholic, heroin-addicted, whoremonger, a bulimic, cigarette smoking womanizer, and form the deepest type of bond that could be made and had no exit clauses or reversals. He had pursued me when others would’ve given up a thousand times. He made a covenant with me, signed by a pen dipped in His own blood, a covenant forged by His love, in His love, and through His love. It is a love story written by the Author of the universe.”