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I Quotes

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All I Quotes

“I gotta tell you that I love you, Calla,” he said, and I was surprised the heart monitor didn’t catch the fact it felt like my heart had stopped for a moment. “No bullshit. I do. I love the way you think, even if it’s annoying as fuck at times and even then it’s still cute. I love that there’s a shit ton of things you’ve never gotten to experience and that you’re going to get to experience them with me. That I have that honor. I love your strength and everything you’ve survived. I love your courage and I love that you make shit drinks, but no one cares, because you’re so damn nice.”

“I gotta work out. I keep saying it all the time. I keep saying I gotta start working out. Its been about two months since I've worked out. And I just don't have the time. Which uh..is odd. Because I have the time to go out to dinner. And uh..and watch TV. And get a bone density test. And uh.. try to figure out what my phone number spells in words.”

“I grab his hand as he moves to stand. 'Stay.' 'I shouldn't.' Two lines appear between his brows as he searches my eyes. 'People will talk.' 'When did I ever give you the impression that I give a fuck what people think?' I use his earlier words against him and sit up, curling my hand around the section of his neck that bears the relic. 'Stay with me, Xaden. don't make me beg.' 'We both know this is a bad idea.' 'Then it's out bad idea.' His shoulders dip, and I know I've won. He's mine for the night.”

“I grab on to her wrists, pull them away from her face and kiss her lips, lips that can’t kiss me back. “Please, wake up. I’m right here.” I take in her bottom lip, and it’s hard to do when her body trembles and her arms shake for freedom. As I move away, Echo briefly stills. My heart pounds hard once. She heard me. “It’s a bad dream, Echo. It’s not real.” Her arms relax as she stops fighting, and when I link my fingers with hers, she holds me back. Behind her closed lids, her eyes dart. She still belongs to the dream, but for the first time, I’m in there with her. I lower my forehead to hers. “Come back to me, baby.””

“I grab Sarah’s hand. “You are more than that. I need you here with me. You’re pretty much the only thing keeping me from completely melting down.” “I get it,” she says. “You’re going to save the freaking world and I’m going to help you. That whole saying about behind every great man there is a great woman? I can be that for you. I just want to be a great woman with excellent aim.”

“I grab the nearest lamppost when my knees threaten to give out, panting for breath as the words rip through me”

“I grab the nonstick skillet, put it on the stove, and fetch four slices of bread from the breadbox. I've been playing with a new bread recipe, a cross between sourdough and English muffin, baked in a sliceable loaf. Makes fantastic toast, and I've been craving grilled cheese with it since I brought it home yesterday. I literally butter all four slices all the way to each edge, place them butter-side down in the skillet, and top each with a thick slice of American cheese. That way, as the pan slowly heats up, the cheese starts to melt, and by the time the outsides are crunchy and crispy, the cheese is a goo-fest, and nothing gets burnt. And I always make two, because one grilled cheese sandwich is never enough.”

“I grabbed a handful of tarragon and closed my eyes, inhaling its sweet fragrance. I could almost feel my grandmother next to me, smell the aromas embedded into her poppy-print apron, taste her creamy veloutés. Thanks to her, my skills in the kitchen started developing from the age of seven. I'd learned how to chop, slice, and dice without cutting my fingers, to sauté, fry, and grill, pairing flavors and taming them into submission. Just as I'd experienced with my grandmother's meals, when people ate my creations, I wanted them to think "now this is love"- while engaging all of the five senses. For me, cooking was the way I expressed myself, each dish a balance of flavors and ingredients representing my emotions- sweet, sour, salty, smoky, spicy-hot, and even bitter. My inspiration as a chef was to give people sensorial experiences, to bring them back to times of happiness, to let them relive their youth, or to awaken their minds.”

“I grabbed a menu and looked at the selections. There were several tempting salads, including one with field greens, goat cheese, pecans, raisins, and fresh sliced apple. The tuna salad also looked good- albacore, diced celery, onion, capers, and mayonnaise, served on mixed greens. Capers? I'd never heard of putting capers in tuna salad. It sounded interesting. Farther down the menu I saw sandwiches. Rare roast beef and Brie with sliced tomato on a toasted French baguette. That sounded great, but I'd have to forgo the Brie- too much cholesterol. But then, without the Brie, what did you really have but just another roast beef sandwich? The chicken salad sandwich also looked good, with baby greens, tomato, sprouts, grapes, and crumbled Gorgonzola, but there was the issue of the cheese again. Then I saw something that really caught my eye- the Thanksgiving Special. Oven-roasted turkey breast, savory stuffing, and fresh cranberry sauce on whole wheat bread. Perfect.”

“I grabbed Aunt Prue's tiny hand, her fingers as small as bare twigs in winter. I closed my eyes and took her other hand, twisting my strong fingers together with her frail ones. I rested my forehead against our hands and closed my eyes. I imagined lifting my head up and seeing her smiling, the tape and tubes gone. I wondered if wishing was the same thing as praying. If hoping for something badly enough could make it happen.”

“I grabbed her by the waist and swung her around to face me. As I bent, I closed my eyes … and kissed air as she ducked out of my grasp. I opened my eyes to see her dancing backward along the path. I made a noise in my throat. “Don’t growl,” she said. “Aren’t you always complaining that you don’t get enough exercise?” I lunged. She backed away. I let out another growl and crossed my arms. “Better watch out. I might decide the prize isn’t worth the effort.” She grinned, blue eyes dancing. “Oh, you know it is. And you know it’s never as sweet as when you have to work for it.” She wheeled and ran. As I went after her, adrenaline pumped through me, like liquid fire. There was nothing quite like a chase, and one that ended with this reward was the best chase of all.”

“I grabbed hold of my Divergence like it was a hand outstretched to save me. I needed that word to tell me who I was when everything else was coming apart around me. But now I'm wondering if I need it anymore, if we ever really need these words, 'Dauntless,' 'Erudite,' 'Divergent,' "Allegiant,' or if we can just be friends or lovers or siblings, defined instead by the choices we make and the love and loyalty that binds us.”

“I grabbed one of the plants he had given me and shoved it into his hands. "Take it. I killed it. Just like you killed our relationship by never being there when I needed you. Just like you killed it again by asking me to meet you so you could get your revenge. Good-bye." "It's not dead," he pointed out. "It just needs a little love." "Then give it to Clare." "She's not a loving type. She's an evil, using, betraying, double-crossing type. Not like you, sweetheart." "Don't sweetheart me," I snapped. "Your fake seduction won't work here. Clearly, the only thing that is a danger to me is you.”

“I grabbed the closest box of books and heaved it onto my bed. It contained all the books I had read in Iraq. Dog-eared, with broken spines, speckled with dirt, food, and even a little blood, most of the copies were marked up with notes in the margins. The better the book, the worse it looked--that's the way it should be. As I saw it, they were almost more like diaries than books.”

“I grabbed the closest caterer and sent him for a cup of boiling hot water from the kitchen. I pulled out the wilting hydrangeas one by one, recruit their stems, dipped them into the boiling water for about thirty seconds, and then placed them back into the arrangements. It took a few minutes, but this trick would perk the flowers right up, at least for the next hour or so. Didn't people know hydrangeas were the absolute most finicky flowers? I also grabbed some floral wire to prop up some of the worst offenders. At least they weren't dead. There was no resurrecting a bloom once it had completely wilted.”