It Was Lovely Meeting You Quotes

School and a year into remission. You had to be pretty sick for the Genies to hook you up with a Wish. "I got it in exchange for the leg," he explained. There was all this light on his face; he had to squint to look at me, which made his nose crinkle adorably. "Now, I'm not going to give you my Wish or anything. But I also have an interest in meeting Peter Van Houten, and it wouldn't make sense to meet him without the girl who introduced me to his book." "It definitely wouldn't," I said. "So I talked to the Genies, and they are in total agreement. They said Amsterdam is lovely in the beginning of May. They proposed ~ John Green

Dear Lily
Don't think me silly,
but I forget what time you said.
Are we meeting at two thirty?
It's gone right from my head.
Did you say Monday or Thursday?
I have quite forgotten what day.
Was it late lunch, or afternoon tea?
Tell me, what did you say?
I think I would like to do Tuesday.
Let's go for a lovely lunch.
Or, if you prefer we could even
go early, and settle for brunch.
A lovely Bistro or Cafe Bar,
or maybe a country pub.
I don't really mind that much,
as long as we get some grub.

Dear Maisie,
Are you going crazy?
We didn't set a date.
You needed to check your diary.
I think you are losing it, mate.
But since you are free on Tuesday,
and that day suits me fine.
Could we meet, about twelve…ish?
Its early I like to dine.
You mentioned the pub, or Bistro,
or some fancy Cafe Bar.
Not sure I like the sound of that,
and I'm not coming in the car.
If the weather is bright and sunny,
we could always dine al fresco.
Failing that, we could just go
get a cake and a cuppa in Tesco. ~ Mrs A. Perry

You're not quite the one because you don't feel permanent. You're lovely. You're here. You're soft and comfortable and I can curl up beside you and hey, at least neither of us are alone. You don't feel like the start of something, you feel like the continuation of nothing. You're not quite the one because we're not even thinking about crazy concepts like the "one." No one is meeting anyone's parents. No one is going to be a plus-one at anyone's friend's weddings. No one is holding hands on the subway train. You're not quite the one because you're not meant to be the one. You're a bookmark, a beautiful pause, a blinking light on hold at an office desk. ~ Karen Noble

And then also, again, still, what are those boundaries, if they're not baselines, that contain and direct its infinite expansion inward, that make tennis like chess on the run, beautiful and infinitely dense? The true opponent, the enfolding boundary, is the player himself. Always and only the self out there, on court, to be met, fought, brought to the table to hammer out terms. The competing boy on the net's other side: he is not the foe: he is more the partner in the dance. He is the what is the word excuse or occasion for meeting the self. As you are his occasion. Tennis's beauty's infinite roots are self-competitive. You compete with your own limits to transcend the self in imagination and execution. Disappear inside the game: break through limits: transcend: improve: win. Which is why tennis is an essentially tragic enterprise… You seek to vanquish and transcend the limited self whose limits make the game possible in the first place. It is tragic and sad and chaotic and lovely. All life is the same, as citizens of the human State: the animating limits are within, to be killed and mourned, over and over again…Mario thinks hard again. He's trying to think of how to articulate something like: But then is battling and vanquishing the self the same as destroying yourself? Is that like saying life is pro-death? … And then but so what's the difference between tennis and suicide, life and death, the game and its own end? ~ David Foster Wallace

I'm talking about your lovely long arms and your perfectly shaped legs... I find I am quite jealous of those stockings for knowing the feel of you, the warmth of you." She shifted, unable to keep still beneath the onslaught of his words. "I'm talking about that corset that hugs you where you are lovely and soft... is it uncomfortable?"
She hesitated. "Not usually."
"And now?" She heard the knowledge in the question.
She nodded once. "It's rather- constricting."
He tutted once, and she opened her eyes, instantly meeting his, hot and focused on her. "Poor Pippa. Tell me, with your knowledge of the human body, why do you think that is?"
She swallowed, tried for a deep breath. Failed. "It's because my heart is threatening to beat out of my chest."
The smile again. "Have you overexerted yourself?"
She shook her head. "No."
"What, then?"
She was not a fool. He was pushing her. Attempting to see how far she would go. She told the truth. "I think it is you."
He closed his eyes then, hands fisting again, and pressed his head back against the side of the desk, exposing the long column of his neck and his tightly clenched jaw. Her mouth went dry at the movement, at the way the tendons there bunched and rippled, and she was quite desperate to touch him.
When he returned his gaze to hers, there was something wild in those pewter depths... something she was at once consumed and terrified by. "You shouldn't be so quick with the truth," ~ Sarah MacLean

I hope that your plane crashes over the ocean and piranhas eat your balls. It was lovely meeting you, you self-righteous egoistical son of a bitch. I can see where Joey gets his psychotic behavior. ~ L.P. Maxa

And the mist of snow, as he had foreseen, was still on it - a ghost of snow falling in the bright sunlight, softly and steadily floating and turning and pausing, soundlessly meeting the snow that covered, as with a transparent mirage, the bare bright cobbles. He loved it - he stood still and loved it. Its beauty was paralyzing - beyond all words, all experience, all dream. No fairy-story he had ever read could be compared with it - none had ever given him this extraordinary combination of ethereal loveliness with a something else, unnameable, which was just faintly and deliciously terrifying.
("Silent Snow, Secret Snow") ~ Conrad Aiken

I've always had the dream of going to New Zealand and meeting a lovely New Zealander in a bar. ~ Jack Barakat

Looking into each other's eyes and speaking together in low tones, it becomes apparent that she hopes you will walk her through her troubles and show her that male-female relations can be lovely even in loveless union. She is looking for lust fulfilled but she searches also for respect, and in this she is out of luck because you do not know her or like her very much and you do not respect yourself and so the most you can offer this girl is time out of her life and an unsatisfactory meeting of bodies and, if the fates are generous, a couple of laughs and good feelings. At any rate there will unquestionably be a divot in your hearts before dawn and Peg seems to pick up on this after thirty minutes of groping and pawing (the car interior is damp with dew) she breaks away and with great exasperation says, "What do you think you're doing?" You are smiling, because it is an utterly stupid and boring question, and you say to her, "I am sitting in an American car, trying to make out in America," a piece of poetry that arouses something in her, and you both climb into the back seat for a meeting even less satisfactory than you feared it might be. Now she is crying and you are shivering and it is time to go home and if you had a watch you would snap your wrist to look meaningfully at it but she dabs at her face and says she wants you to come upstairs and share a special-occasion bottle of very old and expensive wine and as there is no way not to do this you follow her through the dusty ~ Patrick DeWitt

My life is over.
My one forever love has
been snatched away,
condemned by my own
father's rules to die,
just because he loved me.

I am without a home,
without a single person to love.
And after having
discovered love, lived for a short
while surrounded by love,
that is to much to bear.

I am a pariah, at church,
at school. The few people
I once called friends have
betrayed me and caused
the death of my husband,
our innocent child.

And so they should die too.
All of them. Dad. Bishop
Crandall. Trevor, Becca, Emily.
With the pull of a 10mm hair
trigger, their lives will end at sacrament meeting.
Such lovely irony!

And when I finish there,
I'll hide in the desert,
reload, and go in search
of Carmen and Tiffany,
who started the rumors.
And Derek, just because. ~ Ellen Hopkins

Margaret could not help her looks; but the short curled upper
lip, the round, massive up-turned chin, the manner of carrying
her head, her movements, full of a soft feminine defiance, always
gave strangers the impression of haughtiness. […]
She sat facing him and facing the light; her full beauty met his eye; her round white flexile throat rising out of the full, yet lithe figure; her lips, moving so slightly as she spoke, not breaking the cold serene look of her face with any variation from the one lovely haughty curve; her eyes, with their soft gloom, meeting his with quiet maiden freedom. He almost said to himself that he did not like her, before their conversation ended; he tried so to compensate himself for the mortified feeling, that while he looked upon her with an admiration he could not repress, she looked at him with proud indifference, taking him, he thought, for what, in his irritation, he told himself he was - a great rough fellow, with not a grace or a refinement about him. Her quiet coldness of demeanour he interpreted into contemptuousness, and resented it in his heart to the pitch of almost inclining him to get up and go away, and have nothing more to do with these Hales, and their superciliousness. ~ Elizabeth Gaskell