One Tongue Singing Quotes

Only wings evade death. Neruda says so.' As he turns the page he looks at Zara and makes his bright blue eyes big. 'And Neruda knows.' He reaches for his pipe.

Zara stares at him for some time. 'Was he a friend of God?'

Who? Neruda?'

Yes.'

He may have been, I'm not sure, petite. For all we know he may even have been God. ~ Susan Mann

Why do movies make this look so simple?" He leaned back and looked her straight in the eye, the smile winning. "One-handed bra removal is not easy. I call false reality."
"Teen boys all over the world are going to hate themselves for not being able to do it."
"Grown men, too."
"Don't forget Irish men." Melody readjusted herself and sat up straighter. "Declan?" she whispered, tipping her face toward his. Then she ran her tongue over his mouth and pinned his other hand against his side. "I don't want you to hate yourself. Don't give up. You've got this. ~ Brooklyn Skye

Sick"

"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more--that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut--my eyes are blue--
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke--
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is--what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play! ~ Shel Silverstein

Clearing his throat, he rumbled, "Miss Darling, a word if you please."
"Sesquipedalian," she said, keeping her back towards him.
The strange response momentarily stunned him. "Pardon?"
Turning around, she leaned against the counter and grinned at him, "You asked for a word and I gave you one. It means 'many syllabled' and while it's exceedingly pretentious it is a lot of fun to say. Sesquipedalian; it tangles up the tongue and then just falls right off.
"Or perhaps you would prefer a different word?" she continued guilelessly and he was completely charmed by her. "Tittle, which is the little dot over i's and j's; or Ornithopter, an aircraft that flies by flapping its wings; Tuatha De Danan Lora or Expector Patronum?"
"Now you're just making words up," he grinned, and realized he had missed talking to her. ~ A.C. Warneke

He could gaze upon a particular deep shade of green and pick out every nuance of the color. Zeluppian Fern Green, his mind would inform him. Gray, said his soul. Just a shade of gray with a greenish name. His well-trained tongue could pick out every flavor of a sweetmeat. Honey from bees fed only cowslip nectar, his mind would tell him, with cherries marinated for twenty-one years in peach-and-saffron brandy. Ash, said his soul. Ash and dust. Even ~ Frances Hardinge

I love to go out in late September among the fat, overripe, icy, black blackberries to eat blackberries for breakfast, the stalks very prickly, a penalty they earn for knowing the black art of blackberry-making; and as I stand among them lifting the stalks to my mouth, the ripest berries fall almost unbidden to my tongue, as words sometimes do, certain peculiar words like strengths or squinched, many-lettered, one-syllabled lumps, which I squeeze, squinch open, and splurge well in the silent, startled, icy, black language of blackberry - eating in late September. ~ Galway Kinnell

The social and political history of Europe would be what it has been if Dante, Shakespeare, Michelangelo, Mozart, et al., had never lived. A poet, qua poet, has only one political duty, namely, in his own writing to set an example of the correct use of his mother tongue which is always being corrupted. When words lose their meaning, physical force takes over. By all means, let a poet, if he wants to, write what is now called an "engagé" poem, so long as he realizes that it is mainly himself who will benefit from it. It will enhance his literary reputation among those who feel the same as he does. ~ W.H. Auden

Hello, Josie, they'd say with a half smile, followed by a sigh and sometimes a shake of the head. They acted like they felt sorry for me, but as soon as they were ten steps away, I'd hear one of the words, along with my mother's name. The wealthy women pretended it singed their tongue to say whore. They'd whisper it and raise their eyebrows. Then they'd fake an expression of shock, like the word itself had crawled into their pants with a case of the clap. They didn't need to feel sorry for me. I was nothing like Mother. ~ Ruta Sepetys

This summer-sweet night is only one minute upon one minute upon another
Beautiful cacophony, sugar upon lips, dancing to exhaustion
I thought of you, before this minute upon another minute upon another
Until, numb, my lips fell onto the mouth of another, and I was undone.

~from Golden Tongue: The Poems of Steven Slaughter which is a fictional book in
Ballad: A gathering of faerie ~ Maggie Stiefvater

And watch your tongue. I happen to be partial to humans - most, anyway. Clowns, not so much. Those evil bastards never stop smiling."
Niccolo didn't know what these "clowns" were, but he made a mental not to stay away if he ever encountered one. Sounded unpleasant. ~ Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

And now I know what to do with lemons. When life gives you lemons, do experience the sour taste. Don't try to make a face or squint your eye and show your tongue. Instead, taste it with all your might so that one day you can throw the Lemon back to where it come from. Take that you Lemon! ~ Sanjana Pandey

You have a minute and a half left."
"Fine," she snapped. "Then I'll reduce this conversation to one single fact. Today I had six callers. Six! Can you recall the last time I had six callers?"
Anthony just stared at her blankly.
"I can't," Daphne continued, in fine form now. "Because it has never happened. Six men marched up our steps, knocked on our door, and gave Humboldt their cards. Six men brought me flowers, engaged me in conversation, and one even recited poetry."
Simon winced.
"And do you know why?" she demanded, her voice rising dangerously. "Do you?"
Anthony, in his somewhat belatedly arrived wisdom, held his tongue.
"It is all because he" - she jabbed her forefinger toward Simon - "was kind enough to feign interest in me last night at Lady Danbury's ball. ~ Julia Quinn

I wish this was a love story. A love story about lovers whose mouths meet like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly into place, about the electric feeling of one person's name on the other's tongue because no one has ever spoken them out loud like that before. About people who spend the night together looking at the stars until entire constellations exist within them. Everyone is perfect in that indistinct way most characters are and every perfectly constructed scene in their fictional lives is somehow more real than anything you've known or lived. Love stories, romances, leave a person secure in the knowledge they'll end Happily Ever After and who wouldn't want a story like that? I wish this was a love story because I know how it goes in one like mine, where the only moments of reprieve are the spaces between its lines. ~ Courtney Summers

By the time we were in high school the only difference was that we were talking about how J.D. didn't know that tongue in a girl's ear wasn't a good thing instead of which one of us was going to marry the lead singer of Fall Out Boy one day. ~ Amy Garvey

How are you holding up?"
"I'm good.And still untouched," she added. "Are you alone in that bed?"
"Except for the six members of the all-girl Swedish volleyball team.Helga's got a hell of a spike.Aren't you going to ask what I'm wearing?"
"Black Speedos,sweat,and a big smile."
"How'd you guess?So,what are you wearing?"
Slowly,she ran a tongue around her teeth. "Oh,just this little..very little..white lace teddy."
"And stiletto heels."
"Naturally.With a pair of sheer hose.They have little pink roses around the tops. It matches the one I'm tucking between my breasts right now. I should add I've just gotten out of the tub.I'm still a little..wet."
"Jesus.You're too good at this.I'm hanging up."
Her response was a long, throaty laugh."I'm going to love driving the Jag.let me know when to expect the shipment."
When the phone clicked in her ear,she laughed again,turned, and found herself nearly face to face wth Kate. "how long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough to be confused.Were you just having [hone sex with Josh? Our Josh?"
Carelessly,Margo brushed her hair behind her ear. "It was more foreplay really. ~ Nora Roberts

The kingdoms of kings are confined, either by mountains or rivers, or by a change in customs or by a difference of language; but my kingdom is as great as the world, because I am neither Italian, nor French, nor Hindu, nor American, nor a Spaniard; I am a cosmopolitan. No country can claim to be my birthplace, God alone knows in which region I shall die. I adopt every custom, I speak every tongue [... ] In this way, you see, being of no country, asking for the protection of no goverment and acknowledging no man as my brother, I am not restrained or hampered by a single one of the scruples that tie the hands of the powerful or the obstacles that block the path of the weak. ~ Alexandre Dumas

He used to annoy me with sophistry that we all chose our destiny. Then one day I told him that that's great when fate offers you a nice set of destinies to choose from, but when you find yourself choosing between risking being raped, tortured and killed, or moving to another country to live like an alien without tongue, money or understanding, you are buggered either way. And that's not even to mention how easily he could navigate through the mine filed of his mistakes... ~ Dunya Look

He did not see how he could be considered the breathtaking one with the prince in the room. He was everything Cassius was not. He set Cassius's soul afire. And yet those words filled him in ways he did not know he needed filling. "You are…breathtaking, Cassius."
"Cas," the prince whispered again.
"Merrick," Cassius tested the name on his tongue once more. "I would like to taste the brandy upon your lips. We can have tonight, can we not? Just tonight?" It was all they would ever be allowed to share. The prince would be forced to continue to court Lady Penelope or another woman, and Cassius would watch from afar and dream.
"If I cannot have more, then I will gladly take one night with you." Merrick clutched Cas's hand, twined their fingers together, and led him to the side of his bed. "May I undress you tonight?"
Shivers wracked Cassius's body. To hear the prince make a request such as that to him… "Yes, my prince. ~ Riley Hart

Eleanor reached over and stroked his foreman.
"Was I fair?" Henry whispered.
She nodded. "Very. Besides, I think our Ranulf gave you the justification for some of the changes you have been considering.Perhaps a court of law is needed."
"He did.And besides it was all highly entertaining.I had to bite my tongue when Craven started all that nonsense about Ranulf trying to kill him with an arrow."
"So you knew from the beginning..." Eleanor murmured in partial disbelief and admiration.
"That Ranulf was up to something? The man would never let anyone-even me-insult his honor without response. It was hard to wait until the oaf finished everything Ranulf needed him to say...and come to think of it...it was very convenient for Lady Bronwyn to be in disguise. How is it that you did not inform me earlier of what was to happen?"
"I did not know," Eleanor rejoined quickly. "I met with his wife, who never owned to her true identity...but I liked her and suspected she would enjoy the night much better as one of my ladies-in-waiting.It is a great honor,you know."
"And the idea of coming in masquerade?"
"Well,it has been dull lately."
"And you never knew who she was.Never thought to tell me you suspected Lady Bronwyn was not whom she professed to be."
"I only knew for sure that I liked her and that she was Laon's daughter. And as for the masquerade, I did it for you, my king."
"Me?"
"Mmm-hmmm," Eleanor purred against his ear. "I kno ~ Michele Sinclair

And what do we do to fit our English-speaking Chinese, our docile and happy, our truly loyal servants, for the Asia of the future? We teach them English history: Henry the VIII, Elizabeth and Victoria, English geography, three-quarters of the book the British Isles, one quarter the rest of the world. literature, Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare and The Mill on the Floss, all in Basic, as they aren't to know the complexities of our tongue. We cut them from their own learning, their traditions; if that were cutting them off merely from the past, it wouldn't matter, but also and more dangerously, it cuts them from the present, and perhaps the future of Asia. With these happy eunuchs who are bound to us by their knowledge of English we run this country well as our colonial preserve. But we cannot pretend to think we can leave it to them to run it for themselves. All the revolutionaries in India were people who went back to their own literature and language. We'll see the same phenomenon here. ~ Han Suyin

For me to write, I need to work my way back out of one home, consider another, and find the no-man's-land in between. I need to go to one Andre, unwrite that Andre, choose the other Andre across the way, only then go looking for the middle Andre, whose voice will most likely approximate the voice of an Andre able to camouflage all telltale signs that English is not his mother tongue, but that neither is French, nor Italian, nor Arabic. Writing must almost have to fail - it must almost not succeed. If it goes well from the start, if I am in the groove, if I come home to writing, it's not the writing for me. I need to have lost the key and to find no replacement. Writing is not a homecoming. Writing is an alibi. Writing is a perpetual stammer of alibis. ~ Andre Aciman

Alessandro Volta, an Italian count and the inspiration for the eponym "volt," demonstrated this back around 1800 with a clever experiment. Volta had a number of volunteers form a chain and each pinch the tongue of one neighbor. The two end people then put their fingers on battery leads. Instantly, up and down the line, people tasted each other's fingers as sour. ~ Sam Kean

I meant what I said about sex."
His hand slid all the way up her leg, pushing what little skirt was still covering her out of the way, holding it in a bunch at her belly button. Her nudity was fully exposed to his gaze and he looked his fill, breathing out hard.
"Who said anything about sex?"
He leaned in, his mouth dropping to the pale slice of skin between where his hand held her skirt and the thatch of hair between her legs. She wasn't trimmed as was the fashion among the women he usually took to his bed but Troy was not a fussy guy and here, under the stars, his head filling with the musky scent of her arousal, au naturel seemed fitting.
The ragged pant of her breathing stuttered into the air as he lazily stroked his tongue down.
Down. Down. Down.
She roused. Shifted. Raised herself up on her elbows, her abs tightening, her thighs tensing. "I think you'll find that still counts," she said, obviously throwing one last-ditch effort into denying herself the pleasure she so clearly craved.
He chuckled low, his warm breath fanning her belly, satisfied to feel gooseflesh stippling the soft skin. "If you think this is sex, you need to read some more textbooks, doc. ~ Amy Andrews

Five thousand dollars? For a kiss?"

"That's what I said."

"With tongue?"

"It's not really a kiss without it.
Just say yes, pet. You obviously need the money."

I gasp before I can stop myself. I didn't think five words from a stranger could hurt so much. What a dick.

"For fuck's sake, Nicholas," Simon says.

But he just looks at me, waiting, those arrogant green eyes alight with anticipation. So I give him what he's waiting for.

"Hands under the table," I order.

He smiles wider, puts his flask in his pocket, and does what he's told.

"Close your eyes."

"I like a woman who's not afraid to take charge."

"No more talking." He's said more than enough.

I lean in, keeping my eyes open the whole time, memorizing every angle of that face, feeling his warm breath against my cheek. This close, I can see the shadow of stubble on his chin and for just a second, I let myself wonder what it would feel like scratching against my stomach, my thighs - everywhere.

Then in one move, I pick up his plate - and smash the apple pie in his stupid, handsome face.

"Kiss this, asshole. ~ Emma Chase

The secret of seeing is, then the pearl of great price. If I thought he could teach me to find it and keep it forever I would stagger barefoot across a hundred deserts after any lunatic at all. But although the pearl may be found, it may not be sought. The literature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise. I return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour the laurel blooms. I return form the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name. Litanies hum in my ears; my tongue flaps in my mouth. Ailinon, alleluia! ~ Annie Dillard

Little sister don't you worry about a thing today
Take the heat from the sun
Little sister
I know that everything is not ok
But you're like honey on my tongue

True love never can be rent
But only true love can keep beauty innocent

I could never take a chance
Of losing love to find romance
In the mysterious distance
Between a man and a woman
No I could never take a chance
'Cause I could never understand
The mysterious distance
Between a man and a woman

You can run from love
And if it's really love it will find you
Catch you by the heel
But you can't be numb for love
The only pain is to feel nothing at all
How can I hurt when I'm holding you?

I could never take a chance
Of losing love to find romance
In the mysterious distance
Between a man and a woman

And you're the one, there's no-one else
who makes me want to lose myself
In the mysterious distance
Between a man and a woman

Brown eyed girl across the street
On rue Saint Divine
I thought this is the one for me
But she was already mine
You were already mine...

Little sister
I've been sleeping in the street again
Like a stray dog
Little sister
I've been trying to feel complete again
But you're gone and so is God

The soul needs beauty for a soul mate
When the soul wants...the soul ~ U2

In the same vein, Rupert knew that he'd found his own ideal match,too. He just couldn't imagine how he was going to convince her of it.
But that wasn't what he was thinking about on the ride home. Unable to take his eyes off of his wife,he said, "There's something about riding in a coach with you that drives me crazy."
Rebecca's dark blue eyes flared, but she didn't protest when he moved across to her seat and gathered her into his arms. Catching his wife off guard did have its advantages, which was fortunate, because she really did inflame his passions without even trying. One heady taste of her and most of his control was gone.
"Could it be because we nearly made love in this coach before?" he said against her lips. "Or could it be because I suspect you were sitting here earlier tonight thinking of me with my breeches off?"
Rebecca gasped but he just thrust his tongue deeply inside her until she no longer seemed to feel like upbraiding him for that teasing remark. He loved teasing her. It was too bad she was rarely in a mood for it.
Unfortunately,she didn't let his remark go unanswered, though they were nearly home before she pulled away from his arms to say breathlessly, "I was doing nothing of the sort. ~ Johanna Lindsey

I fucking hated labels. Always had.
But maybe that was because no one had ever given me the right one.
At least, not until that moment.
Gay. Straight. Bi. None of them fit me the way mine did rolling off Henry's tongue.
Suddenly, it was the only label I'd ever wanted. ~ Aly Martinez

Speak but little, and that little only when thy own purposes require it. Heaven has given thee two ears but only one tongue, which means: listen to two things, but be not the first to propose one. ~ Hafez

Why are you making that face, Fern?" Bailey asked.
"What face?"
"That face that looks like you can't figure something out. Your eyebrows are pushed down and your forehead is wrinkled. And you're frowning."
Fern smoothed out her face, realizing she was doing exactly what Bailey said she was doing. "I was thinking about a story I've been writing. I can't figure out how to end it. What do you think this face means?" Fern gave herself an underbite and crossed her eyes.
"You look like a brain-dead cartoon character," Bailey answered, snickering.
"What about this one?" Fern pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows while wincing.
"You're eating something super sour!" Bailey cried. "Let me try one." Bailey thought for a minute and then he made his mouth go slack and opened his eyes as wide as they could go. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth like a big dog.
"You're looking at something delicious," Fern guessed.
"Be more specific," Bailey said and made the face once more.
"Hmm. You're looking at a huge ice cream sundae," Fern tried again. Bailey pulled his tongue back into his mouth and grinned cheekily.
"Nope. That's the face you make every time you see Ambrose Young."
Fern swatted Bailey with the cheap stuffed bear she'd won at the school carnival in fourth grade. The arm flew off and ratty stuffing flew in all directions. Fern tossed it aside.
"Oh yeah? What about you? This is the face you make whenever Rita comes ~ Amy Harmon

As he teased her lips with his tongue, she palmed his erection. "Want to do something about this while we wait for the cleanup crew to arrive?" She sure as hell did. She didn't know if it was the adrenaline still coursing through her veins or just knowing that he wanted her, but she was already wet for him, her body tingling and desperate for his touch.
"That depends ," he whispered against her lips, leaning into her. "How do you feel about making love in front of an audience?"
"That's not my thing either," she admitted. She had never been an exhibitionist.
A throat cleared. "Then you might want to step away from my brother," Richart drawled behind them, "so I won't get an eyeful."
Krysta yanked her hand away so fast you'd think Étienne's crotch had caught fire.
Spinning around, she found Richart standing there with one eyebrow raised. ~ Dianne Duvall

I'm kissing Alyson Hannigan and I almost stuck my tongue in her mouth because we just got so into it at one point. ~ Amber Benson

I leaned out one last time and caught a snowflake on my tongue. They tasted so good, so pure and so divine, like nothing I had ever tasted from the sky. It was as if happiness spread through your body with the cold, but then disappeared and brought depression, all in less then two seconds. It was unbelievable, and yet, addicting. ~ Shannon A. Thompson

What Brahman is cannot be described. All things in the world - the Vedas, the Puranas, the Tantras, the six systems of philosophy - have been defiled, like food that has been touched by the tongue, for they have been read or uttered by the tongue. Only one thing has not been defiled in this way, and that is Brahman. No one has ever been able to say what Brahman is. ~ Ramakrishna

It is a fallacy to think that carping is the strongest form of criticism: the important work begins after the artist's mistakes have been pointed out, and the reviewer can't put it off indefinitely with sneers, although some neophytes might be tempted to try: "When in doubt, stick out your tongue" is a safe rule that never cost one any readers. But there's nothing strong about it, and it has nothing to do with the real business of criticism, which is to do justice to the best work of one's time, so that nothing gets lost. ~ Wilfrid Sheed

Yes, the sky was now a devastating, home-cooked red. The small German town had been flung apart one more time. Snowflakes of ash fell so lovelily you were tempted to stretch out your tongue to catch them, taste them. Only, they would have scorched your lips. They would have cooked your mouth. ~ Markus Zusak

How soft and gentle her name sounds when I whisper it. It lingers on the tongue, insidious and slow, almost like poison, which is apt indeed. It passes from the tongue to the parched lips, and from the lips back to the heart. And the heart controls the body, and the mind also. Shall I be free of it one day? ~ Daphne Du Maurier

He said there were two kinds of bitterness: one that takes away the appetite and one that stimulates it. Pepper, he said, was of the first kind - it burns the tongue and nothing more. But horse-radish, though bitter, sharpens the hunger and makes a man impatient for the good things of the meal. So, he said, if a man becomes only bitter and downcast he goes no further. But a little bitterness, a little horse-radish, may give one an appetite for perfection.
"How quaint," said Ogle, "how undeniably folksy. ~ Guy Vanderhaeghe

She stuck out her tongue at him, and he leaned forward and -- to her horror -- licked it. "Ewwww!"
"Then don't stick it out." Shane smiled. "If you're going to hang out in my room and tempt me, there's a penalty. One item of clothing per minute comes off."
"Perv."
He pointed to himself. "Male and eighteen. What's your point?"
"You are so -- "
"Say, you got any pleated miniskirts and knee socks? I really get off on -- ~ Rachel Caine