Pleats Quotes

There were orchids for sale, for one and two and three and five hundred dollars, a madhouse of orchids in every color, in every shape, with wide leaves and skinny leaves and no leaves at all, with fat jutting lips and lips cupped like thimbles, and with blackish-red hoods and freckles, with ruffles, with pleats, with corkscrew curls, big as fists, small as fingernails, smelling of honey, grass, citrus, cinnamon, or of nothing, not a smell at all but just the heavy warm quality that air has after it has been sitting in a flower. ~ Susan Orlean

You see it in the many bouncing clothes that are not just pleats. To make them, two or three people twist them - twist, twist, twist the pleats, sometimes three or four persons twist together and put it all in the machine to cook it. ~ Issey Miyake

She was standing with her thin arms lifted in a pose of crucifixion as the white satin gown with its myriad pearl buttons, tucks and pleats and ingenious lace trim, was fitted onto her like an exquisite straitjacket. Mrs. Littrell had insisted upon the corset, Ariah could scarcely breathe. I take thee Gilbert. My lawfully wedded husband. A sneeze would have shattered the corset, and the wedding. At police headquarters, the bride of the "fallen" man was clearly to blame. Ariah ~ Joyce Carol Oates

Fashion is born by small facts, trends, or even politics, never by trying to make little pleats and furbelows, by trinkets, by clothes easy to copy, or by the shortening or lengthening of a skirt. ~ Elsa Schiaparelli

I never liked that ending either. More love streaming out the wrong way, and I don't want to be the kind that says the wrong way. But it doesn't work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats. There were some nice parts, sure, all lemondrop and mellonball, laughing in silk pajamas and the grain of sugar on the toast, love love or whatever, take a number. I'm sorry it's such a lousy story. ~ Richard Siken

I see so many guys, really athletic guys, wearing pleats and I just shake my head. Like, Tiger Woods used to wear pleated pants! I'm like, 'C'mon, Tiger!' ~ Tom Brady

Of course no one accused the old woman of being a witch. But she was foreign. Her words percolated up the tunnel of her throat , espresso-thick and strong. Bad weather had eroded her face. Some believed that the sun had crisped her skin into coriaceous pleats. Others blamed the chaw of a wintry climate. No one knew where she came from, though lots of people privately thought that perhaps she ought to go back. ~ Carys Bray

Think about it: If you have saved just enough to have your own house, your own car, a modicum of income to pay for food, clothes, and a few conveniences, and your everyday responsibilities start and end only with yourself… You can afford not to do anything outside of breathing, eating, and sleeping.
Time would be an endless, white blanket. Without folds and pleats or sudden rips. Monday would look like Sunday, going sans adrenaline, slow, so slow and so unnoticed. Flowing, flowing, time is flowing in phrases, in sentences, in talk exchanges of people that come as pictures and videos, appearing, disappearing, in the safe, distant walls of Facebook.
Dial fast food for a pizza, pasta, a burger or a salad. Cooking is for those with entire families to feed. The sala is well appointed. A day-maid comes to clean. Quietly, quietly she dusts a glass figurine here, the flat TV there. No words, just a ho-hum and then she leaves as silently as she came. Press the shower knob and water comes as rain. A TV remote conjures news and movies and soaps. And always, always, there's the internet for uncomplaining company.
Outside, little boys and girls trudge along barefoot. Their tinny, whiny voices climb up your windowsill asking for food. You see them. They don't see you. The same way the vote-hungry politicians, the power-mad rich, the hey-did-you-know people from newsrooms, and the perpetually angry activists don't see you. Safely ensconced in your tower of concrete, you retre ~ Psyche Roxas-Mendoza

Would you like to have dinner with me?"
"You mean go on a date?" I focused on stirring instead of my suddenly racing heart. "When?"
"Before the union. Have dinner with me and I'll take you to Blood Moon for a couple of hours until it's time for the ceremony." His fingers moved from the pleats to the hem of my sweater, his hand slipping under the pale blue cashmere to stroke the skin of my lower back.
I gasped, caught his wrist in my fingers, and pulled his hand away from its provocative exploration.
"We are in class," I hissed at him through clenched teeth. ~ Andrea Cremer

The first thing we do is sit around a table and discuss what we could pick up from daily life, from space. That's how it starts, completely abstract. There's no kind of, "Oh, let's do Peru," or "Let's do pleats," you know? ~ Rei Kawakubo

She already got the blue dress on I ironed this morning, the one with sixty-five pleats on the waist, so tiny I got to squint through my glasses to iron. I don't hate much in life, but me and that dress is not on good terms. ~ Kathryn Stockett

Verily, the best of husbands hath many raw edges, and many unnecessary pleats in his temper, and many wrinkles in his disposition, which must be removed. ~ Helen Rowland

When West returned, he was completely naked. Phoebe began to turn over, but he straddled her hips and pressed her back lightly to keep her facedown. She lay quietly, aware of the textures of him, the muscles and coarse hair of his thighs, and the silky weight of an erection that felt as long and hard as a raffling pole. There was the sound of a glass stopper in a flask. His warm, strong hands descended to her back, rubbing and massaging, while the scent of almond oil drifted to her nostrils.
He squeezed the muscles of her shoulders and worked his way down on either side of her spine, releasing tension and sending ripples of pleasure through her. Phoebe moaned softly. No one had ever done this to her before; she would never have guessed it would feel so lovely. As his palms glided up to her shoulders, the length of his aroused flesh slid along the cleft of her bottom and partly up her back. Clearly he also took pleasure in the massage, making no effort to hide it. He kneaded her lower back and the full curves of her buttocks with increasing pressure until the clenched muscles relaxed.
One hand reached down between her thighs to cup the soft pleats of flesh, his fingertips riding tenderly on either side of her swollen, half-hidden nub. A few exquisitely light and indirect strokes, back and forth, caused her breath to catch. He touched the opening of her body, circling into the wetness before one of his fingers- no, two- entered in a gradual but insistent thrust.
~ Lisa Kleypas

I am the happiest man in the world and here's why: I walk down a street and I see a woman, not tall but well-proportioned, very dark-haired, very neat in her dress, wearing a dark skirt with deep pleats that swing with the rhythm of her rather quick steps; her stockings, of dark color, are carefully, impeccably smooth; her face is not smiling, this woman walks down the street without trying to please, as if she were unconscious of what she represented: a good carnal image of woman, a physical image, more than a sexy image, a sexual image. --Francois Truffaut, "Is Truffaut the Happiest Man on Earth? Yes," 1970 ~ Francois Truffaut

THE HOUSE straightened up and then go on and fix some of that chicken salad now, say Miss Leefolt. It's bridge club day. Every fourth Wednesday a the month. A course I already got everthing ready to go - made the chicken salad this morning, ironed the tablecloths yesterday. Miss Leefolt seen me at it too. She ain't but twenty-three years old and she like hearing herself tell me what to do. She already got the blue dress on I ironed this morning, the one with sixty-five pleats on the waist, so tiny I got to squint through my glasses to iron. I don't hate much in life, ~ Kathryn Stockett

Guiding him between her thighs, she rubbed the head of his sex over soft feminine layers and pleats, circling the most sensitive part of him against her until it was glossed with moisture and they were both shaking.
Rhys pushed against the swollen opening, stretching her, coaxing her flesh to yield. She arched, helpless and overtaken, aware of nothing but the pleasure of him filling her. He grasped her hips, pushing and pulling her slowly on his hard shaft, and she made sounds she'd never made in her life, moaning and purring at the intense delight of his possession. ~ Lisa Kleypas

Golfers don't scream. Golfers just adjust the pleats in their pants and go from there. That's about as antagonistic as we get. ~ Gary McCord

I dressed like Leslie Caron as a teenager: soft school pleats, Peter Pan collars. ~ Mary Quant

John, you don't like me."

"I've never said I didn't like you."

"You don't have to say it. You just look at me and I know it's true."

His brows drew together. "How do I look at you?"

She sat back. "You scowl and frown at me as if I'd done something tacky, like scratch myself in public."

He smiled. "That bad, huh?"

"Yes."

"What if I promise not to scowl at you?"

"I don't think that's a promise you can keep. You are a very moody person."

He removed one hand from his pocket and placed it over the even pleats of his shirt. "I'm very easygoing."

Georgeanne rolled her eyes. "And Elvis is alive and raising minks somewhere in Nebraska. ~ Rachel Gibson

How much will you change?" Nella asked, uneasy.
"Oh, not too much. Enough so that your signature won't match the bots' programming. Outwardly, you'll never know the difference. Unless, of course, you'd like me to make some modifications." She ran an eye up and down Nella, like a dress designer trying to decide where to put more pleats or frills.
Rio's arms tightened around her. "Don't you dare change a thing. She's perfect the way she is."
Nella's face heated. "Not really."
"You don't believe me?" Rio said, his voice taking on a dangerous note.
"You're very flattering," she said.
His playfulness vanished. "Flattering? You mean I'm lying?"
"I didn't say that. I . . ."
He confused her. All her life Nella had been taught to be banally polite, to have the correct remark for the correct person at the correct time, always. Everything she said to Rio seemed to provoke a reaction opposite of what she'd been taught to expect. But then, Rio was nothing like any male - any human being - Nella had ever met before. He did nothing as expected. Maybe that was part of his attraction - his unpredictability.
Abruptly, Rio spun Nella around and lifted her over his shoulder. She squeaked in surprise as her world went upside down, too startled to do anything but gape at his tight, leather-clad buttocks. "You're still having a problem with trust," he said. "One I'm going to have to cure."
Planting his hand on her backside, Rio hauled N ~ Allyson James

Death and pain dominate this world, for though many are cured, they leave still weak, still tremulous, still knowing mortality has whispered to them; have seen in the folding of white bedspreads according to rule the starched pleats of a shroud. ~ Denise Levertov

Who is that in the glass? She sees herself for the first time. She doesn't require soft
light, not at her age, not with her looks, so the effect of three candles is excessively
ravishing. Her hair sparks at every brush stroke. The candlelight carves a grotto in
the gloom around her. The mirror is a sacred pool, in it she sees the future: her lips
swollen with kissing, eyes caressing, come with me to my home beneath the sea and
I will love you.
She unbuttons her nightgown. My beautiful throat. Bares a white shoulder, ohh.
Parts the fabric to reveal her breasts, sailor take warning. Her image floating just
beneath the twilight surface, tempting herself overboard.
She hovers her hand above a nipple that gathers and pleats to a point seeking heat.
Kisses her palm with one eye on the mirror. Again, this time with her tongue.
Experiments with the creation of cleavage. Arranges her hair: Gibson girl, milkmaid,
madwoman, dryad. And leaves it there, spilling over her shoulders.
It's a self-portrait and the artist is in love. ~ Ann-Marie MacDonald

I handed him a beaker and toyed with the pleats of my skirt. The folds kept rippling against my knees in a distracting way. It was one of Naomi's additions to my wardrobe. I quickly decided that I hated it. ~ Andrea Cremer