Torpedo Ink Quotes

First game I win, I get your panties. The second game I win, I make you scream. ~ Christine Feehan

Steele knew Breezy wasn't going to be won over easily, but as far as he was concerned, there was no other choice. He 'had' to win her over for his own self-preservation. ~ Christine Feehan

She responded to him as if born for him-- and he was certain she was. More importantly, he was beginning to think he had been born for her. ~ Christine Feehan

They were coarse and crude. They made rude finger gestures to one another and they were their scars like badges. They were a family, unbreakable, loyal and absolutely powerful when they stood together. ~ Christine Feehan

Breezy laughed and the sound went through him the way it often did, lighting his world. She sounded bright and happy and she shed that light on him. She took him right out of the violence, the blood and death and vile world he lived in to draw into the sunshine with her. ~ Christine Feehan

She knew, more than any other reason, it was the way Steele touched her, the way his hands moved over her and the look on his face when he stared down into her eyes that kept her tied to him. He couldn't hide that. ~ Christine Feehan

Steele could be so completely still, it felt like he could disappear. His energy would get so low that you could forget he was in your space. He never missed anything when he was like that. He took in the smallest detail. ~ Christine Feehan

He thought about her laughter. The sunshine. He lived in a dark place. Just listening to the sound of her voice took him out of it. ~ Christine Feehan

He knew as much as he was deliberately seducing her, she was doing the same for him, although innocently. She wasn't in the least trying and his body was already hers and always would be. ~ Christine Feehan

[...]there was something human left in him after all. He could 'feel'. He hadn't believed it possible, and in a short time this angelic creature had turned his world upside down. ~ Christine Feehan

She was nothing. She'd thought he was her world, and all the while, he'd been plotting to take down her family's club. She'd loved him. He'd used her and then thrown her away, shattering every dream, every hope she'd ever had. ~ Christine Feehan

This woman could break him when nothing that had come earlier in his life ever had. ~ Christine Feehan

She might burn in hell for the things she was going to do this night, but she didn't care. Looking at him, she was certain every single thing would be worth it. ~ Christine Feehan

She was inside him, wrapped around his organs. His heart. Maybe his damn soul if he had one. He let himself smile. She was there.She wasn't going anyplace ~ Christine Feehan

It won't work that way. You know me, Bree. You 'know' me. I might have misled things at the club. But I gave you the real man. I don't back away from a fight and I win. ~ Christine Feehan

He stayed right where he was, planted against the door, afraid to move. He'd walked into a room filled with enemies, never flinching, and would do it over and over, but this woman held the power to ruin him. ~ Christine Feehan

Unfortunately, I'm not the greatest catch. None of us are. We're outcasts for a reason. ~ Christine Feehan

She could communicate love with just one caress of her fingers. This touch was natural to her and had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love. ~ Christine Feehan

He needed to know she wanted to be with him. He needed to know someone loved him. He didn't believe himself worthy of love, so he had a difficult time believing she really wanted to be with him. ~ Christine Feehan

He thought he was playing her. Seducing her. That was the play, but it felt all too real, and he'd never had real. ~ Christine Feehan

She did something to his insides, twisted and melted them until he sometimes felt he couldn't think straight. ~ Christine Feehan

He was the very devil stalking her, and she was an angel chased by demons straight to him. ~ Christine Feehan

She looked at him as if she could see inside him, past the glacier, penetrate deep and see the man he could have been ~ Christine Feehan

For whatever reason, she looked at him and saw something in him no one else did--but he needed it. ~ Christine Feehan

His mouth came down on hers and then he was just possessing her. Taking her over. Leaving her with nothing of herself because she burned up in the fire he generated. ~ Christine Feehan

She stood there looking up at him as if he were a good man and would save her. He was debating whether or not he was that good. Unfortunately for her, he didn't think so. ~ Christine Feehan

There it was, that note that told him in a minute the balance of power would shift from him to her, although, truthfully, she always had it. She just didnt know it. ~ Christine Feehan

And sometimes you meet someone who doesn't see you any differently if you tell them. That is everything. ~ Melissa Marr

A private meeting with Hoover is like sitting in a both of ink. ~ Henry L. Stimson

Like flies in amber, like corpses frozen in ice, that which according to the laws of nature should pass away is, by the miracle of ink on paper, preserved. It is a kind of magic. As one tends the graves of the dead, so I tend the books. And every day I open a volume or two, read a few lines or pages, allow the voices of the forgotten dead to resonate inside my head. ~ Diane Setterfield

For a failed state when the ink fades the sword comes into being and we love that way. ~ Ishan Khursheid

But my dear man, reality is only a Rorschach ink-blot, you know. ~ Alan W. Watts

It was just a magnificent, India-ink night of moonlit clouds below and glimpses of the shimmering sea. What century are you in? he longed to ask her. ~ Suzanne Stroh

The ink in the pen that writes success stories is "FOCUS" ... ~ Israelmore Ayivor

That language may be a compound code, and that the discovery of an enormous complexity beneath a simple surface may well be more dismaying than delightful. E.g.: the maze of termite tunnels in your joist, the intricate cancer in her perfect breast, the psychopathology of everyday life, the Auschwitz in an anthill casually DDT'd by a child, the rage of atoms in a drop of ink - in short, anything examined curiously enough. ~ John Barth

I don't even own a computer. I write by hand then I type it up on an old manual typewriter. But I cross out a lot - I'm not writing in stone tablets, it's just ink on paper. I don't feel comfortable without a pen or a pencil in my hand. I can't think with my fingers on the keyboard. Words are generated for me by gripping the pen, and pressing the point on the paper. ~ Paul Auster

It will be a battle, then. A siege. A hundred-thousand Ink-borne arrows, flying forth from my flaming pen to assault the walls of tyrannical Cold that hold this man in awful rapture.
It will be campaign for my friend's very soul. A war of Ice, Ink, and Ember.
So be it.
My pen scratches the icy parchment once more. A second Ember joins the first.
The War begins.
-The Penitent God ~ S.G. Night

I act as a sponge. I soak it up and squeeze it out in ink every two weeks. ~ Janet Flanner

Suppose you could pick up a turtle, dip his tail into coloured ink, place him on a piece of paper and make him walk around so that his tail paints a spiral shape, a pentagon or a noughts and crosses grid? This adventure introduces you to different ways that you can create shapes or line drawings using code. ~ Carrie Anne Philbin

My gut feeling is that paper and ink are going to be with us for a long time yet, and in substantial quantities, though certainly books are now going to be available in other forms. ~ Fred Saberhagen

Jess pushed herself up to sit next to him. "In case you didn't get the memo, it' s my turn to take care of you right now." Ike dropped his face into his hands on a groan, and Jess's cool hand massages his neck. "Oh, my God. You're so hot."
He chuffed out a small laugh. "Why, thank you."
Jess Chuckled. "You realize you don't have to fish for compliments, right? Not from me. Because I will straight-up tell you that the sight of your Ravens tat stretched over all these muscles gives me a lady boner." Her fingers traced the design across his shoulder blades - a spread-winged raven perches on the hilt of a dagger sunk into the eye socket of a skull. The block letters of the club's name arched over the menacing black bird.
He threw her some major side-eye. "I know I'm sick because the perverted part of my brain just heard you say my ink gives you a lady boner. ~ Laura Kaye

Son of a good goddamn holy motherfuck. ~ Laura Kaye

Good people?" Hangfire repeated. "Are you sure about that, Snicket? Would good people chop down a tree that was hundreds of years old, to erect a statue in honor of bloodshed? Would good people drain the sea, just so they could force ink out of the last few octopi? What do you think happened to the water that drained away? A whole valley was flooded. Countless creatures of Killdeer Fields were drowned, and an entire village was forced to leave their homes, just so the Knight family could add a few pennies to their ink fortune and the town could limp along for a little while longer. ~ Lemony Snicket

Love is the magic ink, which transform everyday life into a poetry. ~ Debasish Mridha

APPLES SCENT,
You arrive in the basement. Immediatly it catches you. Apples are here, lying on fruit trays, turned crates. You didn't think about it. You had no wish to be flooded by this melancholic wave. But you can't resist. Apple scent is a breaker. How could you manage without this childhood, bitter and sweet ?
Shrivelled fruits surely are delicious, from this feak dryness where candied taste seems to have wormed in each wrinkle. But you don't wish to eat them. Particularly don't turn into an identifiable taste this floating power of smell. Say that it smells good, strong? But not ..... It's beyond .... An inner scent, scent of a better oneself. Here is shut up school autumn, with purple ink we scratch paper with down strokes and thin strokes. Rain bangs against glasses, evening will be long ....
But apple perfume is more than past. You think about formerly because of fullness and intensity from a remembrance of salpetered cellar, dark attic. But it's to live here, stay here, stand up.
You have behind you high herbs and damp orchards. Ahead it's like a warm blow given in the shade. Scent got all browns, all reds with a bit of green acid. Scent distilled skin softness, its tiny roughness. Lips dried, we alreadyt know that this thirst is not to be slaked.
Nothing would happen if you bite the white flesh. You would need to become october, mud floor, moss of cellar, rain, expectation.
Apple scent is painful. It's from a stronger life, a slowness ~ Philippe Delerm

Caleb and Tris exchange a look. The skin on his face and on her knuckles is nearly the same colour, purple-blue-green, as if drawn with ink. This is what happens when siblings collide - they injure each other in the same way. ~ Veronica Roth

I had a tattoo once," said Kaidan. "Last year, just before we left England."
"What do you mean, you had one 'once'?"
"Bloody thing was gone by the morning!" His voice was indignant. "Sheets were black with ink. I put myself through all of that for hours, and my body just pushed it back out!"
And once again we were both in a fit of hysterics, sharing the world's best inside joke. We were doubled over, unable to breathe, and I accidentally snorted. Kaidan pointed at me and laughed harder, clutching his stomach.
"What was your tattoo?" I managed to push the words out.
"You had to ask. It was a deadly-looking pair of black wings on my shoulder blades."
Kaidan and I started roaring again, muscles clenching from the exertion.
We had no way of knowing it would be our last reason to laugh for a very long time. ~ Wendy Higgins

If I could sleep with my arms around you, the ink could stay in the bottle. ~ Shelly King

Action is the ink that writes what you think on the pages of life! ~ Constance Chuks Friday

The world has been printing books for 450 years, and yet gunpowder still has a wider circulation. Never mind! Printer's ink is the greater explosive: it will win. ~ Christopher Morley

I could write my name across the sky, and it would be in invisible ink. ~ Shaun David Hutchinson

Where are those tears in your eyes, my child?
How horrid of them to be always scolding you for nothing!
You have stained your fingers and face with ink while writing-
is that why they call you dirty?
O, fie! Would they dare to call the full moon dirty because
it has smudged its face with ink?
For every little trifle they blame you, my child. They are
ready to find fault for nothing.
You tore your clothes while playing-is that why they call you
untidy?
O, fie! What would they call an autumn morning that smiles
through its ragged clouds?
Take no heed of what they say to you, my child.
They make a long list of your misdeeds.
Everybody knows how you love sweet things-is that why they
call you greedy?
O, fie! What then would they call us who love you? ~ Rabindranath Tagore

I'll never let you go is scrawled three inches long down the side of my ribcage. The skin is still an angry red color, puffy and irritated looking. My gaze drifts up to Colin's in the mirror. I suck in a sharp breath as I'm caught up in a tornado of emotion. He has the same thing on his arm. They are simple, black ink only, but the meaning of the words are anything but. ~ K. Lars

Apart from the faint odor of ink that pervaded the scene, it might have been real. ~ Jasper Fforde

I am trying to get the hang of this new fangled writing machine, but I am not making a shining success of it. However, this is the first attempt I have ever made & yet I perceive I shall soon & easily acquire a fine facility in its use ... The machine has several virtues. I believe it will print faster than I can write. One may lean back in his chair & work it. It piles an awful stack of words on one page. It don't muss things or scatter ink blots around. Of course it saves paper. ~ Mark Twain

Three words were scrawled in black ink at the bottom of the page: Find the necklace. ~ Lindsay Marie Miller

When finally the sky grew ink-black, the trees were visible only as their swaying branches blotted out the stars that crossed in blazing showers, as sometimes they do. The language of the stars, seldom read and heeded less, told beautifully and in silence of all the victories that had ever been won and all the defeats ever suffered. In uncountable lines of light across the widest sphere, the stars spoke of everything notable even down to a leaf blowing rhythmically in the wind. ~ Mark Helprin

I record the events of my life, filling up one notebook after another. Maybe I'm not getting the details exactly right, but it doesn't matter. The strict facts hold no currency here. What counts is the saliva I just spat on this very sheet of paper. The thick gob slowly dissolves a small circle in the text and turns the words translucent. The ink starts to bleed. The fibers loosen. If you run your fingers along this paragraph, you'll find the site where I stabbed my thumb straight through the page. There is an entire world in that hole. ~ Jeff Jackson

Angels cry because they want to experience what you and I feel: the moment. They live in eternity. They dont know what it is like to read a newspaper and get ink on your fingers. They dont know what it is like to take your shoes off and wiggle your toes under the dinner table. ~ Carlos Santana

Unable and crippled I am
As I gaze into the vastness
The vastness that harbors your praise
And glories of the best of creation ...
If I tried to spell..
A drop of ink from your love
Ma quill would burn in shame
for your love match no words ... ya rasoolullah! ~ Anila Aboo

Write it down. Written goals have a way of transforming wishes into wants; cant's into cans; dreams into plans; and plans into reality. Don't just think it - ink it! ~ Michael Korda

We could see the parapet of Ryougoku Bridge, arching above the waves that flickered in the faint mid-autumn twilight and against the sky, as though an immense black Chinese ink stroke had been brushed across it. The silhouettes of the traffic, horses and carriages soon faded into the vaporous mist, and now all that could be seen were the dots of reddish light from the passengers' lanterns, rapidly passing to and fro in the darkness like small winter cherries. ~ Ryunosuke Akutagawa

I want to go home. Then he mentally underlined the last sentence three times, rewrote it in huge letters in red ink, and circled it before putting a number of exclamation marks next to it in his mental margin. ~ Neil Gaiman

I clench my teeth and push forward. My pen grinds out the first and eldest word: an Ink-borne lance of black fire, scratched into a sheet of ice.
-The Penitent God ~ S.G. Night

If the beginning of wisdom is in realizing that one knows nothing, then the beginning of understanding is in realizing that all things exist in accord with a single truth: Large things are made of smaller things.
Drops of ink are shaped into letters, letters form words, words form sentences, and sentences combine to express thought. So it is with the growth of plants that spring from seeds, as well as with walls built from many stones. So it is with mankind, as the customs and traditions of our progenitors blend together to form the foundation for our own cities, history, and way of life.
Be they dead stone, living flesh, or rolling sea; be they idle times or events of world-shattering proportion, market days or desperate battles, to this law, all things hold: Large things are made from small things. Significance is cumulative
but not always obvious.
Gaius Secondus ~ Jim Butcher

The Woman Poet // Die Dichterin

You hold me now completely in your hands.

My heart beats like a frightened little bird's
Against your palm. Take heed! You do not think
A person lives within the page you thumb.
To you this book is paper, cloth, and ink,

Some binding thread and glue, and thus is dumb,
And cannot touch you (though the gaze be great
That seeks you from the printed marks inside),
And is an object with an object's fate.

And yet it has been veiled like a bride,
Adorned with gems, made ready to be loved,
Who asks you bashfully to change your mind,
To wake yourself, and feel, and to be moved.

But still she trembles, whispering to the wind:
"This shall not be." And smiles as if she knew.
Yet she must hope. A woman always tries,
Her very life is but a single "You . . ."

With her black flowers and her painted eyes,
With silver chains and silks of spangled blue.
She knew more beauty when a child and free,
But now forgets the better words she knew.

A man is so much cleverer than we,
Conversing with himself of truth and lie,
Of death and spring and iron-work and time.
But I say "you" and always "you and I."

This book is but a girl's dress in rhyme,
Which can be rich and red, or poor and pale,
Which may be wrinkled, but with gentle hands,
And only may be torn by loving nails.

Gertrud Kolmar

Break something on the computer again with those big man hands?"

"Shut up, minion," he teased. ~ Carrie Ann Ryan

He looked at his foreword, written, as ever, in his customary green ink, with the simple, if guilty, hope that in the abyss that lay between his dream and his failure there might be something worth reading in which the truth could be felt. ~ Richard Flanagan

After I'd produced about two dozen pen and ink drawings, one evening I decided that they needed poems to accompany them. I still have no idea where that notion came from, but it took me about two hours to produce verses for these creatures. ~ Jack Prelutsky

This metropolitan world, then, is a world where flesh and blood is less real than paper and ink and celluloid. It is a world where the great masses of people, unable to have direct contact with more satisfying means of living, take life vicariously, as readers, spectators, passive observers: a world where people watch shadow-heroes and heroines in order to forget their own clumsiness or coldness in love, where they behold brutal men crushing out life in a strike riot, a wrestling ring or a military assault, while they lack the nerve even to resist the petty tyranny of their immediate boss: where they hysterically cheer the flag of their political state, and in their neighborhood, their trades union, their church, fail to perform the most elementary duties of citizenship.
Living thus, year in and year out, at second hand, remote from the nature that is outside them and no less remote from the nature within, handicapped as lovers and as parents by the routine of the metropolis and by the constant specter of insecurity and death that hovers over its bold towers and shadowed streets - living thus the mass of inhabitants remain in a state bordering on the pathological. They become victims of phantasms, fears, obsessions, which bind them to ancestral patterns of behavior. ~ Lewis Mumford