Puglia Italy Near Quotes

They spent their first night in America sleeping on the floor of a tavern on Mulberry Street, in Manhattan's Little Italy. Then they ventured west, eventually finding jobs in a slate quarry ninety miles west of the city near the town of Bangor, Pennsylvania. The following year, fifteen Rosetans left Italy ~ Malcolm Gladwell

St. Fidgeta is the patroness of nervous and unmanageable children. Her shrine is the church of Santa Fidgeta in Tormento, near Fobbio in southern Italy. There one may see the miraculous statues of St. Fidgeta, attributed to the Catholic Casting Company of Chicago, Illinois. The statue has been seen to squirm noticeably on her feast day, and so on that day restless children from all over Europe have been dragged to the shrine by equally nervous, worn-out, and half-mad parents. ~ John Bellairs

Forcing women in or near land combat will hurt recruiting, not help. ~ Phyllis Schlafly

Modest, conventional expectations weren't enough to lure Adam Brown away from the power of drug addiction that ensnared him. Instead, the college dropout already in his mid-twenties found only the big, near-impossible dream of being a Navy SEAL captivating enough to consistently draw him to different choices. ~ Eric Blehm

Now that is a sword," Freddy said in awe as he went to look at an impressive saber hanging from the hat rack near the door.
"Stay away from it," she cautioned. "I'm sure it's sharper than yours."
As usual, Freddy ignored her. "Just think what I could do with this," he said as he lifted it off its hook.
"So far I haven't seen you do anything with a sword, my boy," Oliver remarked dryly. "Though I shudder to think what your cousin would attempt."
Maria glared at Oliver, which only made him laugh. Meanwhile, Freddy unsheathed the saber with a flourish.
"Curse it, Freddy, put it back," Maria ordered.
"What a fine piece of steel." Freddy swished it through the air. "Even the one Uncle Adam gave me isn't near so impressive."
Maria appealed to Oliver. "Do something, for pity's sake. Make him stop."
"And get myself skewered for the effort? No, thank you. Let the pup have his fun."
Freddy cast him a belligerent glance. "You wouldn't call me a pup if I came at you with this."
"No, I'd call you insane," Oliver drawled. "But you're welcome to try and see what happens."
Don't encourage him," Maria told Oliver.
The door opened suddenly, and Freddy whirled with the sword in hand, knocking a lamp off the desk. As the glass chimney shattered, spilling oil in a wide arc, the wick lit the lot, and fire sprang to life.
Maria jumped back with a cry of alarm while Oliver leaped out of his chair to stamp it out, first with his boots a ~ Sabrina Jeffries

Outside, Her Ladyship coaxed her dog back toward the house, lifting both dog and cart up the few steps to her door. Gabe turned away from the window, rubbing his temples.
"The situation is untenable, and that makes the house unsellable. No one wants to live next to a barnyard. I've tried reasoning with her, but when it comes to those animals, she's surprisingly tenacious."
Tenacious, indeed. And sufficiently reckless to trespass in a house after midnight and recover a parrot from a near-naked stranger's shoulder.
However, even that degree of tenacity had poor odds against sheer ruthlessness. Lady Penelope Campion had a softness for animals. ~ Tessa Dare

A Rakshasi did not live here.
A princess did.
I was staring into the most dazzling garden I had ever seen. Cobblestone pathways meandered between rows of salmon-hued hibiscus, regal hollyhock, delicate impatiens, wild orchids, thorny rosebushes, and manicured shrubs starred with jasmine. Bunches of bougainvillea cascaded down the sides of the wall, draped across the stone like extravagant shawls. Magnolia trees, cotton-candy pink, were interspersed with coconut trees, which let in streaks of purplish light through their fanlike leaves. A rock-rimmed pond glistened in a corner of the garden, and lotus blossoms sprouting from green discs skimmed its surface. A snow white bird that looked like a peacock wove in and out through a grove of pomegranate trees, which were set aflame by clusters of deep orange blossoms. I had seen blue peacocks before, but never a white one.
An Ashoka tree stood at one edge of the garden, as if on guard, near the door. A brief wind sent a cluster of red petals drifting down from its branches and settling on the ground at my feet. A flock of pale blue butterflies emerged from a bed of golden trumpet flowers and sailed up into the sky. In the center of this scene was a peach stucco cottage with green shutters and a thatched roof, quaint and idyllic as a dollhouse. A heavenly perfume drifted over the wall, intoxicating me- I wanted nothing more than to enter. ~ Kamala Nair

I love writing about the military, as I live near an air force base and am inspired by the sacrifices our soldiers make for us. I like to give them a lot of challenges to beat, and show how they live with intrigue and danger. ~ Franny Armstrong

I write in a very strange way. Things are very fragmentary for a very long time, and then they come together very quickly near the end of the process. ~ Todd Rundgren

It was painful to have him so near, yet beyond my reach. ~ Lynne Stringer

I try whistling to fill in the silence. The soprano sax from Coltrane's "My Favorite Things," though of course my dubious whistling doesn't come anywhere near the complex, lightning-quick original. I just add bits so what I hear in my head approximates the sound. Better than nothing, I figure. ~ Haruki Murakami

She had golden blazing sun kissed hair, which hung down in loose, lazy spirals, a heart shaped pouted mouth, which was pink tinged with violet blushing, wide, spangled blue eyes that glimmered sparks to flicker and ember in the vivid intelligence of the moon's love, and a yielding body, that seem to tangle in loose rhythm as I walked near to her. ~ Keira D. Skye

The Line makes itself felt,
thro' some Energy unknown, ever are we haunted by that Edge so precise, so near. In the Dark, one never knows. Of course I am seeking the Warrior Path, imagining myself as heroick Scout. We all feel it Looming, even when we're awake, out there ahead someplace, the way you come to feel a River or Creek ahead, before anything else,
sound, sky, vegetation,
may have announced it. Perhaps 'tis the very deep sub-audible Hum of its Traffic that we feel with an equally undiscover'd part of the Sensorium,
does it lie but over the next Ridge? the one after that? We have mileage Estimates from Rangers and Runners, yet for as long as its Distance from the Post Mark'd West remains unmeasur'd, nor is yet recorded as Fact, may it remain, a-shimmer, among the few final Pages of its Life as Fiction. ~ Thomas Pynchon

He started with the rascal's questions.
Where was he?
dangling fifty feat above ground choking to death
Were there friends near by?
He could hear his sister strugling by the stairs, but she was too far to help
Were there weapons nearby?
His fishhook was lying useless on the ground below, leaving him only his hands.
But his were no ordinary hands. ~ Jonathan Auxier

Were the Inhabitants of Italy charming as their Country, all other Regions would be depopulated I think. ~ Bill Vaughan

Ready to have some fun?" She didn't give him time to answer. Weighed down with the chains, she flashed to a busy street in New York - fingers crossed he would be run over - then to a gay strip club in Italy - fingers crossed he would be groped - then to a zoo in Oklahoma - fingers crossed the elephant shit was ripe.
"Enjoy," she muttered with relish.
Anya flashed one final time, back to where she'd begun: his home in Greece. Lucien was still following her trail. Lightning-quick, she hid the chains under the bed and palmed her Taser.
When she straightened he was there, just in front of her. Her breath caught. He was still scowling, teeth bared and sharp, Death glowing in his eyes. He had a bleeding cut on his leg and he smelled like shit.
Her nose wrinkled. "Step in something?" she asked innocently.
"That, I did not mind." He took a menacing step toward her. "What I did mind was being hit by a cab, then landing on the lap of a naked man. With an erection, Anya. He had an erection."
She grinned. She just couldn't help herself. ~ Gena Showalter

Using the dagger next to him on the nightstand, Dante scored a fresh line on his wrist. He pressed the bleeding cut to Tess's lips, waiting to feel her respond, wanting to curse to the rafters when her mouth remained unmoving, his blood dripping down, useless, onto her chin.
"Come on, angel. Drink for me." He stroked her cool cheek, brushed a tangle of her honey-blond hair from her forehead. "Please live, Tess . . . drink, and live."

A throat cleared awkwardly from the area near the bedroom doorjamb. "I'm sorry, the uh . . . the door was open."

Chase. Just fucking great. Dante couldn't think of anyone he'd like to see less right now. He was too entrenched in what he was doing - in what he was feeling - to deal with another interruption, particularly one coming from the Darkhaven agent. He'd hoped the bastard was already long gone from the compound, back to where he came from - preferably with one of Lucan's size-fourteens planted all the way up his ass. Then again, maybe Lucan was saving the privilege for Dante instead.
"Get out," he growled.

"Is she drinking at all?"

Dante scoffed, low under his breath.

"What part of 'get out' did you fail to understand, Harvard? I don't need an audience right now, and I sure as hell don't need any more of your bullshit."
He pressed his wrist to Tess's lips again, parting them with the fingers of his blood by mild force. It wasn't happening. Dante's eyes stung as he stare ~ Lara Adrian

Not knowing how near the truth is, we seek it far away. ~ Hakuin Ekaku

In the middle section of the book Mirabelle breaks into not one, but two houses near Belgravia Books. I had fun scoping these out - checking which windows looked least secure and figuring out how to scale the mews houses to the rear to get her inside. A man came out at one point, 'What are you doing?' he questioned me. 'The thing is, I'm writing a book,' I started with a smile. He waved me off, his hand as wide as a tennis racket. 'Everyone is writing a book, my dear,' he said. Between you and I, it's his house that MIrabelle ends up breaking into. ~ Sara Sheridan

Okay. I don't know if I have the right words, but love is this feeling I get when I look at you. A feeling that as long as you're near me, or in the world even, then everything will be okay. That everything has meaning. It's as if the world was all shades of sepia - like an old movie reel - and that everywhere I looked I saw suffering and pain. Then I heard your voice, I saw your face, and somehow the color came into everything. ~ Ryan Winfield

You want me to have feelings?" he said. "I already told you that I love you. What else should I say? That I long to be near you every second of every day? I see colors, only around you ... I smell perfume, only around you. God, it's like ... like I'm alive again. Sometimes I go crazy just wondering if I imagined it all, and I wait to see when it ... you ... will be taken away from me."
"I feel all these things, Abbey," he continued on. "Rage that I can't run my fingers through your hair. Sorrow that I can't lay my face next to yours. Agony that I can't steal the breath from your lips. I can't eat or breathe or sleep for wanting to touch you, and yet I don't eat or breathe or sleep. I'm just here. Stuck in between. ~ Jessica Verday

...sin does not deal its consequences evenly upon men and women... ~ Joyce DiPastena

In Europe, where human relations like clothes are supposed to last, one's got to be wearable. In France one has to be interesting, in Italy pleasant, in England one has to fit. ~ Sybille Bedford

The blues is an impulse to keep the painful details and episodes of a brutal experience alive in one's aching consciousness, to finger its jagged grain, and to transcend it, not by the consolation of philosophy but by squeezing from it a near-tragic, near-comic lyricism. As a form, the blues is an autobiographical chronicle of personal catastrophe expressed lyrically. ~ Ralph Ellison

Pigpen pulls off the gravel road near the house and severs the engine. I go to open the door and he stops me. "Talk to me a second, and I don't mean me talking and you nodding your head like that's acceptable conversation. ~ Katie McGarry

The taxonomy of medical error is vast, colorful, and at times confusing. There are slips, lapses, harmless hits, and near misses; errors of omission and of commission; operator errors, system errors, accidents, complications, and bad outcomes. ~ Nancy Berlinger

An overwhelming, possessive instinct flashed through him. With dread, he realized he wanted to mark her. Mark her as his. He wanted that special scent all over her so no other male would come near her. So that they would know whom she belonged to. So that they would fear the repercussions of wanting to possess her for themselves. Except ~ J.R. Ward

As for describing the smell of a spaniel mixed with the smell of torches, laurels, incense, banners, wax candles and a garland of rose leaves crushed by a satin heel that has been laid up in camphor, perhaps Shakespeare, had he paused in the middle of writing Antony and Cleopatra - But Shakespeare did not pause. Confessing our inadequacy, then, we can but note that to Flush Italy, in these the fullest, the freest, the happiest years of his life, meant mainly a succession of smells. Love, it must be supposed, was gradually losing its appeal. Smell remained. Now that they were established in Casa Guidi again, all had their avocations. Mr. Browning wrote regularly in one room; Mrs. Browning wrote regularly in another. The baby played in the nursery. But Flush wandered off into the streets of Florence to enjoy the rapture of smell. He threaded his path through main streets and back streets, through squares and alleys, by smell. He nosed his way from smell to smell; the rough, the smooth, the dark, the golden. He went in and out, up and down, where they beat brass, where they bake bread, where the women sit combing their hair, where the bird-cages are piled high on the causeway, where the wine spills itself in dark red stains on the pavement, where leather smells and harness and garlic, where cloth is beaten, where vine leaves tremble, where men sit and drink and spit and dice - he ran in and out, always with his nose to the ground, drinking in the essence; or with his nose in ~ Virginia Woolf

The Barry Goldwater movement excited the depths because the apocalypse was brought more near, and like millions of other whites, I had been leading a life which was a trifle too pointless and a trifle too full of guilt and my gullet was close to nausea with the empty promises of an empty liberal center. ~ Norman Mailer

In years since he has rarely gone back to those old memories. As he does now, in the tavern near Harvard College, he's startled to find that the muddy whirl has been swept away. The mental pan has been churning for fifty years, sorting the dirt and sand to the periphery and throwing it off. Most of the memories are simply gone. All that remain are a few wee nuggets. It's not plain to Daniel why these impressions have stayed, while others, which seemed as or more important to him at the time they happened, have gone away. But if the gold-panning similitude is faithful, it means that these memories matter more than the ones that have flown. For gold stays in the pan's center because of its density; it has more matter (whatever that means) in a given extent than anything else. ~ Neal Stephenson

All the radiance of April in Italy lay gathered together at her feet. The sun poured in on her. The sea lay asleep in it, hardly stirring. Across the bay the lovely mountains, exquisitely different in color, were asleep too in the light; and underneath her window, at the bottom of the flower-starred grass slope from which the wall of castle rose up, was a great cypress, cutting through the delicate blues and violets and rose-colors of the mountains and the sea like a great black sword.

She stared. Such beauty; and she there to see it. Such beauty; and she alive to feel it. Her face was bathed in light. ~ Elizabeth Von Arnim

The stars seemed near enough to touch and never before have i seen so many.
i always believed the lure of flying is the lure of beauty, but i was sure of it that night. ~ Amelia Earhart

She had a right to his arm, though it was without feeling. He would give her, who was so simple, so impulsive, only twenty-four, without friends in England, who had left Italy for his sake, a piece of bone. ~ Virginia Woolf

There are few of us but who have been touched somehow by death. Some may not have been touched closely by it nor yet have kept vigil with it, but somewhere along our lives, most of us are sorely bereft of someone near and deeply cherished - and all of us will some day meet it face to face. ~ Richard L. Evans

The feeble clavichord did not carry far; the harpsichord was only a little stronger; but Cristofori in Italy was working at these defects; he built a machine he called clavicembalo piano e forte - a keyboard instrument to play "soft and loud." Contrary to all experience, we now call it simply "a soft. ~ Jacques Barzun

If the world's population had the productivity of the Swiss, the consumption habits of the Chinese, the egalitarian instincts of the Swedes, and the social discipline of the Japanese, then the planet could support many times its current population without privation for anyone. On the other hand, if the world's population had the productivity of Chad, the consumption habits of the United States, the inegal-itarian instincts of India, and the social discipline of Argentina, then the planet could not support anywhere near its current numbers. 9 NO ~ Laurie Ann Mazur

I catch movement from the corner of my eye. A tell slender boy stands near us, just a few feet away. Adrenaline bangs through my system. I shove Abel behind me and whip my knife from where I'd hidden it in my boot. Who the hell are you? ~ Georgia Clark

I relaxed my cheek against her hair. She always smelled so good, felt so good. Being near her was like a sedative. My entire body relaxed, and I was suddenly so tired, I didn't want to move. We sat together, our arms around each other, her head tucked in against my neck, for the longest time. Nothing beyond that moment was guaranteed, so I stayed there inside of it, with Pigeon. ~ Jamie McGuire