D Gray Man Quotes

If there's nobody left, even if the real world is saved, I will be destroyed ... So please don't die. Please don't go away anymore ... -Lenalee Lee ~ Katsura Hoshino

The world as he sees it is Hell. ~ Katsura Hoshino

When you lost sight of your path, listen for the destination in your heart (Allen Walker, D-gray Man) ~ Katsura Hoshino

This world is dark and it's so hard to breathe ... but in this instant, when I laughed along with you, I felt that breathing just got a little easier.
-Kanda Yuu ~ Katsura Hoshino

In the end,
Do you always have to sacrifice something...
To protect something else? ~ D. Gray Man

No matter what I attempt, even if it's the most simple of tasks, it always ends in failure. Unfortunately, I find that my life is one big regret after another. Yet, after all these years, I still don't know when to give up. Is it my fault to keep trying when the results are always the same? Is it impossible for me to make things right? Even if I'd try to give up, I don't think I could. It's not in my nature to sumbit in the face of disappointment. In the end, I guess I'm just a glutton for punishment. I really am an idiot ... ~ Katsura Hoshino

No matter what happens I'll keep on moving. Until this life runs out of me I'll keep on walking (Allen Walker) ~ Katsura Hoshino

Even though the wounds will heal the scars will remain. ~ Allen Walker

If that's the case.. Go deeper. To a world darker than black, brighter than white ... Embrace it. ~ Katsura Hoshino

I want to be a destroyer that can save people.. ~ Katsura Hoshino

Somewhere out of sight a punching-bag was rat-tat-tatting on a board. I stepped through a doorless aperture opposite the door I'd come in by, and found myself in the main hall. It was comparatively small, with seats for maybe a thousand rising on four sides to the girders that held up the roof. An ingot of lead-gray light from a skylight fell through the moted air onto the empty roped square on the central platform. Still no people, but you could tell that people had been there. The same air had hung for months in the windowless building, absorbing the smells of human sweat and breath, roasted peanuts and beer, white and brown cigarettes, Ben Hur perfume and bay rum and hair oil and tired feet. A social researcher with a good nose could have written a Ph.D. thesis about that air. ~ Ross Macdonald

The hassle over the word 'proof' boils down to one question: What constitutes proof? Does a UFO have to land at the River Entrance to the Pentagon, near the Joint Chiefs of Staff offices? Or is it proof when a ground radar station detects a UFO, sends a jet to intercept it, the jet pilot sees it, and locks on with his radar, only to have the UFO streak away at a phenomenal speed? Is it proof when a jet pilot fires at a UFO and sticks to his story even under the threat of court-martial? Does this constitute proof? ~ J.D. Gray

The middle of the road is all of the usable surface. The extremes, right and left, are in the gutters. ~ Dwight D. Eisenhower

(W.D.) Howells asserted that the Americans' 'love of the supernatural is their common inheritance from no particular ancestry.' Their fiction, he added, often gathers in the gray 'twilight of the reason,' on 'the borderland between experience and illusion. Howells's geographical metaphor was derived, of course, from Hawthorne's idea of a moonlit 'neutral territory, somewhere between the real world and fairy-land, where the Actual and the Imaginary may meet, and each imbue itself with the nature of the other.' Whether literally, as in Cooper's The Spy, or metaphorically, as in Hawthorne's works, the neutral territory/borderland was the familiar setting of the American romance. As American writers came to realize, not only was there a borderland between East and West, civilization and wilderness, but also between the here and the hereafter, between conscious and unconscious, 'experience and illusion' - psychic frontiers on the edge of territories both enticing and terrifying. ~ Howard Kerr

The enormous spotlight that focused on King, combined with the construction of Rosa Parks as a saintly symbol, hid the women's long struggle in the dimly lit background, obscuring the origins of the MIA and erasing women from the movement. For decades, the Montgomery bus boycott has been told as a story triggered by Rosa Park's spontaneous refusal to give up her seat followed by the triumphant leadership of men like Fred Gray, Martin Luther King, Jr., E. D. Nixon, and Ralph Abernathy. While these men had a major impact on the emerging protest movement, it was black women's decade-long struggle against mistreatment and abuse by white bus drivers and police officers that launched the boycott. Without an appreciation for the particular predicaments of black women in the Jim Crow South, it is nearly impossible to understand why thousands of working-class and hundreds of middle-class black women chose to walk rather than ride the bus for 381 days. ~ Danielle L. McGuire

She'd barely stepped in, taken that first breath of cool, clean air, when Summerset, Roarke's majordomo, appeared in the foyer like an unwelcome vision.

"Yes, I missed the dinner," she said before he could open his mouth. "Yes, I'm a miserable failure as a wife and a poor example of a human being. I have no class, no courtesy, and no sense of decorum. I should be dragged naked into the streets and stoned for my sins."

Summerset raised one steel gray eyebrow. "Well, that seems to cover it."

"Good, saves time." She started up the stairs. "Is he back?"

"Just."

A little annoyed she'd given him no opportunity to criticize, he frowned after her. He'd have to be quicker next time. ~ J.D. Robb

You said the d-word," Owllwin said regretfully. "I didn't think you would, or I woulda warned ya."
" . . . the d-word?" Cricket repeated in confusion.
"Yeah . . ." Owllwin paused as if he was glancing around, then he whispered through the wall, "Dragon."
Cricket blinked. "Why can't I say that? ~ Ash Gray

I.D.I.O.T BY NATURE HUMBLED BY GOD ! ~ Royale Gray-Lee

I drove back into town, full of the look of her, full of the impact of her. It was an impact that made the day, the trees, the city, all look more vivid. Her face was special and clear in my mind - the wide mouth, the one crooked tooth, the gray slant of her eyes. Her figure was good, shoulders just a bit too wide, hips just a shade too narrow to be classic. Her legs were long, with clean lines. Her flat back and the inswept lines of her waist were lovely. Her breasts were high and wide spaced, with a flavor of impertinence, almost arrogance. It was the coloring of her though that pleased me most. Dark red of the hair, gray of the eyes, golden skin tones. ~ John D. MacDonald

The prediction of false rape-related beliefs (rape myth acceptance [RMA]) was examined using the Illinois Rape Myth Acceptance Scale (Payne, Lonsway, & Fitzgerald, 1999) among a nonclinical sample of 258 male and female college students. Predictor variables included measures of attitudes toward women, gender role identity (GRI), sexual trauma history, and posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) symptom severity. Using linear regression and testing interaction effects, negative attitudes toward women significantly predicted greater RMA for individuals without a sexual trauma history.
However, neither attitudes toward women nor GRI were significant predictors of RMA for individuals with a sexual trauma history."
Rape Myth Acceptance, Sexual Trauma History, and Posttraumatic Stress Disorder
Shannon N. Baugher, PhD,
Jon D. Elhai, PhD,
James R. Monroe, PhD, Ruth Dakota, Matt J. Gray, PhD ~ Shannon N. Baugher

Winter came in days that were gray and still. They were the kind of days in which people locked in their animals and themselves and nothing seemed to stir but the smoke curling upwards from clay chimneys and an occasional red-winged blackbird which refused to be grounded. And it was cold. Not the windy cold like Uncle Hammer said swept the northern winter, but a frosty, idle cold that seeped across a hot land ever lookung toward the days of green and ripening fields, a cold thay lay uneasy during during its short stay as it crept through the cracks of poorly constucted houses and forced the people inside huddled around ever-burning fires to wish it gone. ~ Mildred D. Taylor

When Seymour and I were five and three, Les and Bessie played on the same bill for a couple of weeks with Joe Jackson -- the redoubtable Joe Jackson of the nickel-plated trick bicycle that shone like something better than platinum to the very last row of the theater. A good many years later, not long after the outbreak of the Second World War, when Seymour and I had just recently moved into a small New York apartment of our own, our father -- Les, as he'll be called hereafter -- dropped in on us one evening on his way home from a pinochle game. He quite apparently had held very bad cards all afternoon. He came in, at any rate, rigidly predisposed to keep his overcoat on. He sat. He scowled at the furnishings. He turned my hand over to check for cigarette-tar stains on my fingers, then asked Seymour how many cigarettes he smoked a day. He thought he found a fly in his highball. At length, when the conversation -- in my view, at least -- was going straight to hell, he got up abruptly and went over to look at a photograph of himself and Bessie that had been newly tacked up on the wall. He glowered at it for a full minute, or more, then turned around, with a brusqueness no one in the family would have found unusual, and asked Seymour if he remembered the time Joe Jackson had given him, Seymour, a ride on the handle bars of his bicycle, all over the stage, around and around. Seymour, sitting in an old corduroy armchair across the room, a cigarette going, wearing a blue shirt, gray ~ J.D. Salinger

Miss Lucinda Throckmorton-Jones, former paid companion to several of the ton's most successful debutantes of prior seasons, came to Havenhurst to fill the position of Elizabeth's duenna. A woman of fifty with wiry gray hair she scraped back into a bun and the posture of a ramrod, she had a permanently pinched face, as if she smelled something disagreeable but was too well-bred to remark upon it. In addition to the duenna's daunting physical appearance, Elizabeth observed shortly after their first meeting that Miss Throckmorton-Jones possessed an astonishing ability to sit serenely for hours without twitching so much as a finger.
Elizabeth refused to be put off by her stony demeanor and set about finding a way to thaw her. Teasingly, she called her "Lucy," and when the casually affectionate nickname won a thunderous frown from the lady, Elizabeth tried to find a different means. She discovered it very soon: A few days after Lucinda came to live at Havenhurst the duenna discovered her curled up in a chair in Havenhurt's huge library, engrossed in a book. "You enjoy reading?" Lucinda had said gruffly-and with surprise-as she noted the gold embossed title on the volume.
"Yes," Elizabeth had assured her, smiling. "Do you?"
"Have you read Christopher Marlowe?"
"Yes, but I prefer Shakespeare."
Thereafter it became their policy each night after supper to debate the merits of the individual books they'd read. Before long Elizabeth realized that she'd won the d ~ Judith McNaught

As a group, attachment-challenged children need to be looked at differently. This is a group of children who have experiences and fears of being separated from parent figures. Until they can rebuild some of their emotional security, their time in child-care must be restricted. ~ Deborah D. Gray

She thought she loved him. What do you have in your pocket?"
He smiled, drew out the gray button that had fallen off her very ugly suit the first day they'd met.
"See?" She couldn't say why that stupid button moved her so damn much. "People in love keep things. Sentimental things."
"What do you have?"
She pulled the chain, and the tear-shaped diamond from under her shirt. "I wouldn't wear this for anybody but you. It's embarrassing. And - "
"Ah, something else."
"Shit. I'm tired. It makes me gabby. I have one of your shirts."
His brow creased in absolute bafflement. "My shirts?"
"In my drawer, under a bunch of stuff. You lent it to me the morning after our first night together. It still sort of smells like you."
For a moment, the worry on his face simply dissolved. "I believe that's the sweetest thing you've said to me in all our time together."
"Well, I owed you. Besides, you have enough shirts to outfit a Broadway troupe. So, help me toss the room?"
"Absolutely. ~ J.D. Robb

The room held her scent, that elusive fragrance that sometimes reminded him of spring flowers and other times made him think of summer afternoons and ripe peaches. Gracie seemed to be part of all the seasons. The warm glints of autumn shone in her hair, the clear light of winter sun sparkled in those intelligent gray eyes. He had to keep reminding himself that she wasn't a U.S.D.A. prime-cut female because lately he'd had a tendency to forget. It was just . . .

She was so damned cute. ~ Susan Elizabeth Phillips

Stop complainin." Jess climbed up to the cab and leaned down to pull me up beside him. "I'm not complaining." His fingers clung to my wrists as the soles on my gray, canvas shoes slipped up the worn steps. "It's hot. I'm sweatin'. I don't want to go campin'," his voiced pitched high to mock me. ~ S.D. Hendrickson

Role-playing situations work well for many parents. After deprivation or prenatal exposure to substance, many children have verbal instruction as their weakest learning area, but many have role playing as their strongest. ~ Deborah D. Gray

Colors of spring have turned upside down.
Red once burned underfoot, now hangs over the horizon--a blood bruise where sky
smashed itself against hills. Green once gathered in the quick-shaping clouds carrying a mix of sand and rain and left quickly as it arrived; now it cushions your steps, hides the evidence of bones. ~ D.A. Gray

I am a writer because I write, an author because I create, a poet because the words are in my soul. ~ Wesley D. Gray

You bought something. You shopped!"
"I didn't shop. I purchased what is likely stolen merchandise, or gray-market goods. It's potential evidence. ~ J.D. Robb

I'm gonna sit here in my place on the hill behind the house. Waiting. And watching.

And nothing moving down there.

The valley look pretty bare in the snow. Just the house, gray and lonely down by the river all frozen. I got to think what I'm gonna do now that everyone gone.

But I got my dog head on.

The dog gonna tell me what to do. The dog gonna help me.

The house look proper empty – don't it, dog? ~ S.D. Crockett

N]ow, even more than in the past, creativity is a key to economic success. We no longer need people to follow directions in robot-like ways (we have robots for that), or to perform routine calculations (we have computers for that), or to answer already-answered questions (we have search engines for that). But we do need people who can ask and seek answers to new questions, solve new problems and anticipate obstacles before they arise. These all require the ability to think creatively. The creative mind is a playful mind." - PETER GRAY, PH.D., Research Professor, Boston College ~ Robin Landa

When I take my hand out of this blanket," he thought, "my nail will be grown back, my hands will be clean. My body will be clean. I'll have on clean shorts, clean undershirt, a white shirt. A blue polka-dot tie. A gray suit with a stripe, and I'll be home, and I'll bolt the door. I'll put some coffee on the stove, some records on the phonograph, and I'll bolt the door. I'll read my books and I'll drink coffee and I'll listen to music, and I'll bolt the door. I'll open the window, I'll let in a nice, quiet girl
not Frances, not anyone I've ever known
and I'll bolt the door. I'll ask her to read some Emily Dickinson to me
that one about being chartless
and I'll ask her to read some William Blake to me
that one about the little lamb that made thee
and I'll bolt the door. She'll have an American voice, and she won't ask me if I have any chewing gum or bonbons, and I'll bolt the door. ~ J.D. Salinger

Excerpt from Storm's Eye by Dean Gray

With a final drag and drop, Jordan Rayne sent his latest creation winging its way toward the publisher. He looked up, squinted at that little clock in the right hand corner of his monitor, and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. His cover art was finished and shipped, just in time for lunch. He sighed and stood, rolling his shoulders and bending side to side, his back cracking in protest as the muscles loosened after having been hunched over the screen for so long. Sam raised his head, tilting it enquiringly at him, and Jordan laughed.
"Yeah, I know what you want, some lunch and a nice long walk along the beach, hmm?" Jordan smiled fondly at the furry ball of energy he'd saved from certain death. With his mom's recent death it was just Sam and him in the house. Sometimes he wondered what kept him here, now that the last thread tethering him to the island was severed.

Sam limped over and nuzzled at his hand. When Jordan had first found him out on the main road, hurt and bleeding, he hadn't been sure the pooch would make it. Taylor, his best friend and the local vet, had done what she could. At the time, Jordan simply didn't have the deep pockets for the fancy surgery needed to mend Sam's leg perfectly, he could barely afford the drugs to keep his mom in treatment. So they'd patched him up as well as they could, Taylor extending herself further than he could ever repay, and hoped for the best. The d ~ Dean Gray

The biggest man you're ever going to see was once a baby. ~ Bob Marley

Troubles are usually the brooms and shovels that smooth the road to a good man's fortune. ~ Saint Basil

aunt Bela would be most pleased." "Wait a second," I said. "You know Bela Kilgore?" The man in the fez smiled. "Oh, yes, Kidd ~ James Patterson

As he looked back upon man moving through History, he was haunted by a feeling of loss. So much had been surrendered! and to such little purpose! ... Hedonism ... was to teach man to concentrate himself upon the moments of a life that is but itself a moment. ~ Oscar Wilde

I want to make you never want to leave from under me." Stitch gave him one more kiss before finally pushing himself up. Stitch had no idea he had already reached his goal, but Zak was a reasonable man, and he wouldn't make teenage-worthy promises or declarations. Life didn't work that way in his world.
Instead, he reached back with his hand without yet looking up. He was heavy with lazy, sweet exhaustion.
"What's this?" Stitch chuckled and pulled on his fingers.
"Nothing. Just wanted to touch you," muttered Zak, slowly turning his head and sprawling his cheek on the blanket to look back. He took a deep breath when Stitch pulled out his cock, leaving him boneless.
"You can touch me whenever you want." Stitch smiled at him with his eyelids lowered. He was the picture of satisfaction.
Zak snorted and pulled on Stitch's hand, getting to his feet. He didn't want to think about the bad blood left over from the spying. Or the broken window. "That's handy."
Stitch got rid of the condom and stroked Zak's ass with a lazy grin.
Zak sighed, looking at the large hand on his asscheek. "You know how to make a man feel special ~ K.A. Merikan

Humanity has always conquered the flux of natural time by means of a rhythm between active and passive time-spans. To reconquer his holidays, to establish a new and better time schedule for life, has been the great endeavour of man ever since the days of Noah. ~ Eugen Rosenstock-Huessy

Baptism is the Sacrament of Faith. Now, dead faith does not suffice for salvation ..Therefore, the Sacrament of Baptism cannot give salvation to a man whose will ... expels the form of faith. ~ Thomas Aquinas

She is the mystery that is wrapped tightly around the man I am trying so desperately to unravel. ~ Ella Frank

Continuous, unflagging effort, persistence and determination will win. Let not the man be discouraged who has these. ~ James Whitcomb Riley

I'm often asked where I get my ideas. For this story, the hero and the heroine have a rather unconventional start - they meet when she falls on him through a hole in the ceiling while he's standing before the toilet. Funny, but not very romantic. Not too long ago, I was at a writers' meeting. In the bathroom, far above me, there was a hole. It flapped open, revealing a dark, yawning space. As I sat there contemplating this hole, I wondered what would happen if a really, really gorgeous man fell through it. One didn't, darn it, but a story was born. ~ Jill Shalvis

It is the duty of every cultured man or woman to read sympathetically the scriptures of the world. If we are to respect others' religions as we would have them respect our own, a friendly study of the world's religions is a sacred duty. ~ Mahatma Gandhi