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H Quotes

Browse famous quotes beginning with H. This page is a child index of the full Popular Quotes A-Z directory.

All H Quotes

“Her cheeks were flushed. She caught hold of the Savage's arm and pressed it, limp, against her side. He looked down at her for a moment, pale, pained, desiring, and ashamed of his desire. He was not worthy, not... Their eyes for a moment met. What treasures hers promised! A queen's ransom of temperament. Hastily he looked away, disengaged his imprisoned arm. He was obscurely terrified lest she should cease to be something he could feel himself unworthy of.”

“her cherry lips on his whiskey-flavored kiss and that kind of sugar that can cause a hard defense to soften. so. easy… and you end up with your walls down and your mind forgotten and your pulse. affected. all of it tangled up together… his heart. her heart. his curious fingertips… her dangerously. soft. skin. how you lose your senses in that kind of love… you get wrapped up in so. much. sweet. and you don’t ever want to come undone.”

“Her childhood had been magical, hours spent in ecstatic loneliness in the apple orchard, dreaming of foreign lands and wild adventures. Everything was new, down to bird song and grass blades. By the time she had reached adulthood, the town around her was like a grandmother who had used up all her stories and now simply rocked on the porch. The same flowers, the same streets, year after year. She longed for someone more exotic. A prince. A pirate.”

“Her close friends have gathered. Lord, ain't it a shame Grieving together Sharing the blame. But when she was dying Lord, we let her down. There's no use cryin' It can't help her now. The party's all over Drink up and go home. It's too late to love her And leave her alone. Just say she was someone Lord, so far from home Whose life was so lonesome She died all alone Who dreamed pretty dreams That never came true Lord, why was she born So black and blue? Oh, why was she born So black and blue? Epitaph (Black And Blue) Written by: Kris Kristofferson Note: "Epitaph" is about Janis Joplin.”

“Her collections matured, categorized methodically by order, genus, and species; by age according to bone wear; by size in millimeters of feathers; or by the most fragile hues of greens. The science and art entwined in each other’s strengths: the colors, the light, the species, the life; weaving a masterpiece of knowledge and beauty that filled every corner of her shack. Her world. She grew with them—the trunk of the vine—alone, but holding all the wonders together. But just as her collection grew, so did her loneliness. A pain as large as her heart lived in her chest. Nothing eased it. Not the gulls, not a splendid sunset, not the rarest of shells. Months turned into a year. The lonely became larger than she could hold. She wished for someone’s voice, presence, touch, but wished more to protect her heart.”

“Her companion's discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch, to nothing more than a short, decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as she could,with all the civility and deference of the youthful female mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject.”

“Her complexity is a glorious fire that consumes, while her simplicity goes unapproachable. But if one takes time to understand her, there is something beautiful to find, something simple to be loved. But she goes unloved, for being misunderstood.”

“Her concern with landscapes and living creatures was passionate. This concern, feebly called, "the love of nature" seemed to Shevek to be something much broader than love. There are souls, he thought, whose umbilicus has never been cut. They never got weaned from the universe. They do not understand death as an enemy; they look forward to rotting and turning into humus. It was strange to see Takver take a leaf into her hand, or even a rock. She became an extension of it, it of her.”

“Her consciousness emerges within when the beast of the darkness allows them. This beast was a conjuration of the billion innocent souls lost to the structure of modernization. He was an archetype that transcended time and reality, a governing force as natural as nature itself, and yet this darkness was a new kind, born out of technology only apparent in the last few hundred years.”

“Her constant orders for beheading are shocking to those modern critics of children's literature who feel that juvenile fiction should be free of all violence and especially violence with Freudian undertones. Even the Oz books of L. Frank Baum, so singularly free of the horrors to be found in Grimm and Andersen, contain many scenes of decapitation. As far as I know, there have been no empirical studies of how children react to such scenes and what harm if any is done to their psyche. My guess is that the normal child finds it all very amusing and is not damaged in the least, but that books like Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and The Wizard of Oz should not be allowed to circulate indiscriminately among adults who are undergoing analysis.”

“Her courage almost failed her. He stood watching her, silent, still, as she came to him, and through the scudding clouds the moonlight shone down all around him. He was a man of moonlight, she thought fancifully. Cold and silvered, a creature of the night and shadows. And she was putting herself at his mercy, though she sincerely doubted he was possessed of that particular commodity.”

“Her dad never brought Phil and Lara back to the graveyard. He had buried some of her mother's things beneath a honeysuckle in the garden. A worn leather glove, a birthday card that she had written for each of them. The last photograph of the four of them together. There was a wisdom to what he had done; Lara saw it now. As the memory of her mother faded, the honeysuckle grew stronger. When Lara stood beneath it in summer, when it was in full bloom, her mother's sweetness seemed to live on in the scent of the flowers.”

“Her dad’s coming,” she said, voice shrill. “What?” we all said in unison. Tristan, Ayden and the fairy looked at me and said, “What?” “What?” I repeated, panicked and irritated at my lack of control in responding to a fairy I wasn’t supposed to see or hear. “What?” came their reply. “What?” I continued the theme of repetition because I lacked any form of explanation. Ayden held up a hand for silence. “Why are you ‘whatting’?” “What?” The hand again. “Okay, stop that,” Ayden said.”