Yes Man Red Bull Quotes

The stormy black sky had faded to dark gray, and in the distance white, billowing clouds blew across the prairie. They began racing one another, tossed by the wind, and the sun shining on them made them appear a brilliant white against the evening sky.
Memories crowded about her:a French trader with laughing eyes; a long ride into Fort Kearney; and somewhere, far back,a little mound of stones receding into the wide plain as a wagon rumbled away.Then he came, a Lakota brave, one with his snow white pony. They bounded together across the sky,and with each leap Jesse's heart fluttered.She stood on the prairie,her long red braides decorated with feathers, the part dusted with ochre. She raised a trembling hand in greeting, but he was gone.
Her hand fell back against the quilt, and Jesse saw the clouds again and realized it had only been a memory. She was an old woman,too tired to help with the supper,perhaps even too tired to be of use to Lisbeth.
The clouds outside came closer,and the old heart fluttered at the memory of a man who rode on the wind long ago.Now it seemed that the rode again across the sky,into the room.He raised one hand in greeting.
"I will ask the Father," he had said, "and I will come for you."
Jesse sat up in bed,her face alive with a new light.Rides the Wind smiled and reached out to sweep her up behind him.
And the Father said, "Come home.

The lines are fallen unto me in pleasant places;
yes,I have a goodly her ~ Stephanie Grace Whitson

She's going to do nothing but try to trick information out of me that I shouldn't be giving her, Mac," I said.
"Ungh," Mac agreed.
"Why did I say yes?"
Mac shrugged.
"She's pretty," I said. "Smart. Sexy."
"Ungh."
"Any red-blooded man would have done the same thing."
"Hngh," Mac snorted.
"Well. Maybe not you."
Mac smiled a bit, mollified.
"Still. It's going to make trouble for me. I must be crazy to go for someone like that." I picked up my sandwich, and sighed.
"Dumb," Mac said.
"I just said she was smart, Mac."
Mac's face flickered into that smile, and it made him look years younger, almost boyish. "Not her," he said. "You. ~ Jim Butcher

I love this song, can you turn it up?"

I reached and turned the dial up on the Vance Joy song "Red Eye." Adam bobbed his head to the music. At the stoplight I looked over at him. He was wearing the black beanie my brother had given him, his black Wayfarers, and the hospital gown.

I laughed.

He turned to me and smiled. "What?" he said.

"You're cute."

"Oh yeah? Wanna fool around?" He grinned.

I was glad that Adam couldn't see my eyes welling up behind my sunglasses.

The car behind us honked. I hit the gas and my car lurched forward from the intersection. "How much time do we have?" I asked.

"What? Are you serious?"

"Yes, Adam, I am serious." He was having a good day.

He reached for my phone. "We have like an hour and a half before Leah freaks out."

I knew I was taking a big chance, but how could I say no to him? There was so much joy in him that day just because he got to go to the drive-thru at In-N-Out.

"Okay." I glanced over at him and flattened my lips. "You better not have a seizure on me."

"I can't think of a better place to have a seizure. Although I can see how that wouldn't be much fun for you."

I laughed hysterically. "Oh man, I didn't mean literally on me; I meant on my watch."

"Well, Charlotte, I don't have much control over that, but I'll try. You know what helps?"

"What?"

"Alcohol ~ Renee Carlino

So you realized that there were always women in tears, or a red-headed man, or something else to spoil your effects?"

"Yes, naturally. ~ Jean-Paul Sartre

I scooted out of the laundry room and skipped down the hallway, arms flaying around my head like one of the hot pink puppets from the movie Labyrinth. "A scent and a sound, I'm lost and I'm found. And I'm hungry like the wolf. Something on a line, it's discord and rhyme - whatever, whatever, la la la - Mouth is alive, all running inside, and I'm hungry like the - " Warmth spread down my neck.

"It's actually, 'I howl and I whine. I'm after you,' and not blah or whatever."


Startled by the deep voice, I shrieked and whipped around. My foot slipped on a section of well-cleaned wood and my butt smacked on the floor.

"Holy crap," I gasped, clutching my chest. "I think I'm having a heart attack."

"And I think you broke your butt." Laughter filled Daemon's voice.

I remained sprawled across the narrow hallway, trying to catch my breath. "What the hell? Do you just walk into people's houses?"

"And listen to girls absolutely destroy a song in a matter of seconds? Well, yes, I make a habit out of it. Actually, I knocked several times, but I heard your…singing, and your door was unlocked." He shrugged.

"So I just let myself in."

"I can see that." I stood, wincing. "Oh, man, maybe I did break my butt."

"I hope not. I'm kind of partial to your butt." He flashed a smile. "Your face is pretty red. You sure you didn't smack that on the way down?"

I groaned. "I hate you. ~ Jennifer L. Armentrout

On the flat expanse of pancake ice, War stood by the Pale Rider's side. Though their forms did not touch, their shadows intertwined, black on black, in a smoky caress.
"Knew you'd come," Death said cheerfully.
She smiled, and that slow motion of her lips hinted at many things. "The White Rider divided, and the world on the brink of destruction. How could I stay away?"
"I could set my watch by you."
"You don't have a watch." Her smile broadened into a grin. "An hourglass, maybe . . ."
"Please, not another joke about a scythe . . ."
She mimed zipping her mouth shut.
A pause, as they listened to the sounds of the boy healing and the man summoning doom.
"I like him," War said.
Even though she hadn't specified whether she meant the boy or the man, Death smiled and nodded. "Me too."
"You like everyone."
"Well, yes."
The two shared a quiet laugh, their voices mingling in perfect harmony.
A longer pause, and then War asked, "What of Famine?"
"What of her? She's not mine. Not yet, anyway. She will be soon enough."
The Red Rider slid him a look. "That's cold, even for you."
"Eh, just practical." A shrug. "Everyone comes to me eventually. It's the journey that makes it interesting."
"Such a people person!"
He flashed her a grin. "My best quality."
"Oh," said War, sliding her gloved hand into his pale one, "I can think of others that are better. ~ Jackie Morse Kessler

She was gauche in movement and in a sense, ugly of face, but with how small a twist might she not suddenly have become beautiful. Her sullen mouth was full and rich - her eyes smouldered.
A yellow scarf hung loosely around her neck. Her shapeless dress was a flaming red.
For all the straightness of her back she walked with a slouch.
"Come here," said Lord Groan as she was about to pass him and the doctor.
"Yes father," she said huskily.
"Where have you been for the last fortnight, Fuchsia?"
"Oh, here and there, father," she said, staring at her shoes. She tossed her long hair and it flapped down her back like a pirate's flag. She stood in about as awkward a manner as could be conceived. Utterly unfeminine - no man could have invented it. ~ Mervyn Peake

If I'd had a mirror I'd have looked at the whole of myself, though, as a matter of fact, I knew what I looked like already. A fat man of forty-five, in a grey herring-bone suit a bit the worse for wear and a bowler hat. Wife, two kids, and a house in the suburbs written all over me. Red face and boiled blue eyes. I know, you don't have to tell me. But the thing that struck me, as I gave my dental plate the once-over before slipping it back into my mouth, was that it doesn't matter. Even false teeth don't matter. I'm fat - yes. I look like a bookie's unsuccessful brother - yes. No woman will ever go to bed with me again unless she's paid to. I know all that. But I tell you I don't care. I don't want the women, I don't even want to be young again. I only want to be alive. And I was alive that moment when I stood looking at the primroses and the red embers under the hedge. It's a feeling inside you, a kind of peaceful feeling, and yet it's like a flame. ~ George Orwell

See that little black thing sticking up?" Gurgeh looked. There was a little black bulb poking up through the surface of the red mud. "Yes." "That's his dick." Gurgeh looked suspiciously at the other man. "How exactly is that going to help him?" "The Uhnyrchal can breathe through their dicks," Za said. "That guy's fine; he'll be fighting in another club tomorrow night; maybe even later this evening. ~ Iain M. Banks

Don't say 'hmm' to me, Mr. Holly. You can't come in here with your red hat and those shoes and play the wise man.""Yes, says the man wearing no shoes at all," says Holly. ~ Maggie Stiefvater

Jacques Doillon wanted me to be in his film, 'La Fille Prodigue,' and there I was, expecting, for some reason, this great bearded man, when a splendid looking red-Indian style man appeared at my door. I said no to his film because I knew that if I said yes, I would run off with him. ~ Jane Birkin

Oh my god."

He didn't turn or say anything even though the frustration in Honor's voice made it difficult.

"My pants are stuck. I don't think I can get them off without some help. Jesus, wet jeans are heavy and uncooperative."

A grin stretched across his face. "You want my help?"

She let out a deep breath. "Yes, but you have to close your eyes."

"You going commando tonight?" he teased.

"No, but…"

He shut his eyes and turned. She took his outstretched hand and tugged him down to the ground. Once there, she helped him latch on to the bunched up denim at her thighs, he guessed. Do not peek, Bishop. Do not peek.
"But?"

"My panties are white and now see-through and there's not a lot to them."

"Gotcha." There wasn't a red-blooded man alive who wouldn't peek. "Let's get these off you." He pulled, she pushed and wiggled, and he got the pants to her feet in no time.

"Thank you," she said, a little out of breath.

"No problem."

"Bryce!"

"What?" Christ, she had sexy legs, and the barely-there material at their juncture left little to the imagination, so his thoughts leaped to about a dozen dirty scenarios.

"Your eyes are open! ~ Robin Bielman

Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?"

She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab.

He went red, then white, then red again. "Christ! Lieutenant. Sir."

"Your hand's on my ass, McNab. I don't think you want it to be there."

He snatched it away as if scorched. "God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you. I mean..." He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she'd allow him to keep in his pocket. "I didn't know it was you. I thought... You look..." Words failed him.

"I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve." Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab's panicked eyes. "Weren't you, Ian?"

"Yeah. That is..."

"And if I believed he'd realized it was your ass he was fondling, I'd just have to kill him. Right here." Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab's snazzy red tie. "Right now."

"Oh, I'd have already taken care of that myself," Eve said dryly. "You look like you could use a drink,Detective."

"Yes, sir. I could."

"Roarke, why don't you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her."

"Delighted." Roarke draped an arm around McNab's shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed. ~ J.D. Robb

Just by imagining the clump it seemed to me that I could hear whispers secret surges smell the beating of hot blood under wild unsecret flesh watching against red eyelids the swine untethered in pairs rushing coupled into the sea and he we must just stay awake and see evil done for a little while its not always and i it doesnt have to be even that long for a man of courage and he do you consider that courage and i yes sir dont you and he every man is the arbiter of his own virtues whether or not you consider it courageous is of more importance than the act itself than any act otherwise you could not be in earnest and i you dont believe i am serious and he i think you are too serious to give me any cause for alarm you wouldnt have felt driven to the expedient of telling me you had committed incest otherwise and i i wasnt lying i wasnt lying and he you wanted to sublimate a piece of natural human folly into a horror and then exorcise it with truth ~ William Faulkner

She had curled up with those books on more than one occasion, and yes, she had dreamt of a handsome, red-haired man of action, but it hadn't been Dead-Eye Dan, drat it all. She'd dreamt of Daniel Barrett, the man who worked her father's cattle, who trained the finest mules in the county, and whose sky-blue eyes could melt her heart with a single glance. Daniel Barrett had stolen her heart before she'd ever even heard of Dead-Eye Dan. I ~ Karen Witemeyer

Freedom"

[Verse 1]
Hold on to me
Don't let me go
Who cares what they see?
Who cares what they know?
Your first name is Free
Last name is Dom
We choose to believe
In where we're from

[Chorus]
Man's red flower
It's in every living thing
Mind, use your power
Spirit, use your wings
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom
Freedom
Freedom

[Verse 2]
Hold on to me
Don't let me go
Killers need to eat
Don't let you lope
Your first name is King
Last name is Dom
We choose to believe
In everyone

[Chorus]
When a baby first breathes
When night sees sunrise
When the whale hunts in the sea
When man recognize us
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom
Freedom
Breathe in

[Verse 3]
We are from heat
The electric one
Does it shock you to see
He left us the sun?
Atoms in the air
Organisms in the sea
The son and, yes, man
Are made of the same things

[Outro]
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom!
Freedom
Freedom
Freedom
Freedom ~ Pharrell Williams

I remember Liz, her face white, delicate as an ash on the wind; her red lips staining the cigarette; her full breasts under the taut black jersey. She said to me, "But think how happy you can make a man someday." Yes, I'm thinking, and so far it's all right. But then I do a flipover and reach out in my mind to E., seeing a baseball game, maybe, perhaps watching television, or roaring with careless laughter at some dirty joke with the boys, beer cans lying about green and shiny gold, and ash trays. I spiral back to me, sitting here, swimming, drowning, sick with longing. I have too much conscience injected in me to break customs without disasterous effects; I can only lean enviously against the boundary and hate, hate, hate the boys who can dispel sexual hunger freely, without misgiving, and be whole, while I drag out from date to date in soggy desire, always unfulfilled. The whole thing sickens me. ~ Sylvia Plath

What is the total sum of autumn? What is its content, form purpose? Its style, certainly, has unity. But what does it amount to? Eh, but what did the summer amount to, with all its greenery and flowers and sun? Fountains of red and brown will shot out soon. That's what the summer amounted to.

And you ask me about movies. I don't know what any movie amounts to. I am looking more for some light behind it, behind the images; I am trying to see the man.

It was Barbara Wise who said to me the other day - and she was right: The film critic should not explain what the movie is all about, surely an impossible task; he should help to create the right attitude for looking at movies. That's what my rambling is all about, nothing more.

Where was I? Yes, rambling. I will tell you the real truth: All that I have learned in my life (and I have seen many movies) amounts to this: Leaves are falling every autumn. I will be there with my camera when they fall. ~ Jonas Mekas

You want it, boy?" He pulled his prick out of his jeans.
"God, yes. That's why I'm here."
"Good." He left his jeans open, left his prick hard and pushing out. "Come on. Shower."
"Turn around." He wanted to see it. Griff went a deep red, but the man turned to show the weird, stylized whip branded into one ass cheek. Groaning, Brian reached out and touched it, traced it with his fingers. He'd done that. He'd marked his boy.
"You still clean?" Brian kept rubbing his prick back and forth across Griff's hole.
"I am. I couldn't ... I couldn't get it up with anyone else."
"Good." He grabbed the shampoo and poured it over his fingers.
"Was not. You fucked me up"
"We fucked each other up." He was not in this alone.
He couldn't wait to be inside Griff again. His wild, desperate baby boy. His fingers traced the brand on Griff's ass. His. All fucking his. Marked permanently. And Griff had let him do it. The man knew it was true. ~ Sean Michael

She was one of those women that makes any red blooded male look at her and go, 'Ah yes … now I remember why I'm a man. ~ Tony Rattigan

Red light flickered behind her closed eyelids, and when she opened them, she discovered that they were surrounded by flames.
Let it burn ...
His sleek brow wrinkled, and he shook his head. Poor man looked conflicted, which was an interesting expression on a nightmare. "Your city is on fire."
She smiled languidly. "Ain't it grand? ~ Erin Kellison

One day, putting my finger on a spot in the very middle of the then white heart of Africa, I declared that some day I would go there ... It is a fact that, about eighteen years afterwards, a wretched little stern-wheel steamboat I commanded lay moored to the bank of an African river.

Everything was dark under the stars. Every other white man on board was asleep. I was glad to be alone on deck, smoking the pipe of peace after an anxious day. The subdued thundering mutter of the Stanley Falls hung in the heavy night air of the last navigable reach of the Upper Congo ... Away in the middle of the stream, on a little island nestling all black in the foam of the broken water, a solitary little light glimmered feebly, and I said to myself with awe, 'This is the very spot of my boyish boast.'

A great melancholy descended on me. Yes, this was the very spot. But there was no shadowy friend to stand by my side in the night of the enormous wilderness, no great haunting memory, but only the ... distasteful knowledge of the vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience and geographical exploration. What an end to the idealised realities of a boy's daydreams!... Still, the fact remains that I have smoked a pipe of peace at midnight in the very heart of the African continent, and felt very lonely there. ~ Joseph Conrad

So,Batman,eh?"
Effing St. Clair.
I cross my arms and slouch into one of the plastic seats. I am so not in the mood for this.He takes the chair next to me and drapes a relaxed arm over the back of the empty seat on his other side. The man across from us is engrossed in his laptop,and I pretend to be engrossed in his laptop,too. Well,the back of it.
St. Clair hums under his breath. When I don't respond,he sings quietly. "Jingle bells,Batman smells,Robin flew away..."
"Yes,great,I get it.Ha ha. Stupid me."
"What? It's just a Christmas song." He grins and continues a bit louder. "Batmobile lost a wheel,on the M1 motorway,hey!"
"Wait." I frown. "What?"
"What what?"
"You're singing it wrong."
"No,I'm not." He pauses. "How do you sing it?"
I pat my coat,double-checking for my passport. Phew. Still there. "It's 'Jingle bells, Batman smells,Robin laid an egg'-"
St. Clair snorts. "Laid an egg? Robin didn't lay an egg-"
"'Batmobile lost a wheel,and the Joker got away.'"
He stares at me for a moment,and then says with perfect conviction. "No."
"Yes.I mean,seriously,what's up with the motorway thing?"
"M1 motorway. Connects London to Leeds."
I smirk. "Batman is American. He doesn't take the M1 motorway."
"When he's on holiday he does."
"Who says Batman has time to vacation?"
"Why are we arguing about Batman?" He leans forward. "You're derailing us from the real topic.The fact that you, Anna Olip ~ Stephanie Perkins

And yet, in Raissa, at every moment there is a child in a window who laughs seeing a dog that has jumped on a shed to bite into a piece of polenta dropped by a stonemason who has shouted from the top of the scaffolding, "Darling, let me dip into it," to a young servant-maid who holds up a dish of ragout under the pergola, happy to serve it to the umbrella-maker who is celebrating a successful transaction, a white lace parasol bought to display at the races by a great lady in love with an officer who has smiled at her taking the last jump, happy man, and still happier his horse, flying over the obstacles, seeing a francolin flying in the sky, happy bird freed from its cage by a painter happy at having painted it feather by feather, speckled with red and yellow in the illumination of that page in the volume where the philosopher says: "Also in Raissa, city of sadness, there runs an invisible thread that binds one living being to another for a moment, then unravels, then is stretched again between moving points as it draws new and rapid patterns so that at every second the unhappy city contains a happy city unaware of its own existence. ~ Italo Calvino

You call me the unhuman," it might say to him, "and so I really am - for you; but I am so only because you bring me into opposition to the human, and I could despise myself only so long as I let myself be hypnotized into this opposition. I was contemptible because I sought my 'better self' outside me; I was the unhuman because I dreamed of the 'human'; I resembled the pious who hunger for their 'true self' and always remain 'poor sinners'; I thought of myself only in comparison to another; enough, I was not all in all, was not - unique.[102] But now I cease to appear to myself as the unhuman, cease to measure myself and let myself be measured by man, cease to recognize anything above me: consequently - adieu, humane critic! I only have been the unhuman, am it now no longer, but am the unique, yes, to your loathing, the egoistic; yet not the egoistic as it lets itself be measured by the human, humane, and unselfish, but the egoistic as the - unique. ~ Max Stirner

He remained on his knees, looking up at his fellow-prisoner with a lively look for a prison. A sunburnt, quick, lithe, little man, though rather thickset. Earrings in his brown ears, white teeth lighting up his grotesque brown face, intensely black hair clustering about his brown throat, a ragged red shirt open at his brown breast. Loose, seaman-like trousers, decent shoes, a long red cap, a red sash round his waist, and a knife in it. 'Judge ~ Charles Dickens

Oh yes, and compulsory ferret-legging down the pub on Tuesday evenings, for the tourist trade tha' knows." "Ferret-legging?" Rachel looked at him incredulously. "Yup. You tie your kilt up around your knees with duct tape - as you probably know, no Yorkshireman would be seen dead wearing anything under his sporran - and take a ferret by the scruff of his neck. A ferret, that's like, uh, a bit like a mink. Only less friendly. It's a young man's initiation rite; you stick the ferret where the sun doesn't shine and dance the furry dance to the tune of a balalaika. Last man standing and all that, kind of like the ancient Boer aardvark-kissing competition." Martin shuddered dramatically. "I hate ferrets. The bloody things bite like a cask-strength single malt without the nice after-effects. ~ Charles Stross

Now, what is forbidden to the summoner, or any wizard, is to call a living spirit. We can call to them, yes. We can send to them a voice or a presentment, a seeming, of ourself. But we do not summon them, in spirit or in flesh, to come to us. Only the dead may we summon. Only the shadows. You can see why this must be. To summon a living man is to have entire power over him, body and mind. No one, no matter how strong or wise or great, can rightly own and use another. ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

A friend of Diagoras pointed out an expensive display of votive gifts and said, 'You think the gods have no care for man? Why, you can see from all these votive pictures here how many people have escaped the fury of storms at sea by praying to the gods who have brought them safe to harbor.'
To which Diagoras replied, 'Yes, indeed, but where are the pictures of all those who suffered shipwreck and perished in the waves? ~ Diagoras Of Melos

I suppose we could make it work with a young man living in the house. But there would have to be rules--"
"Whatever they are, we'll follow them."
"There can be no hanky-panky--"
"Puh-lease!" Who said hanky-panky these days? "He won't be the one--"
"The one?" Mom asked, her eyes narrowing.
Why don't I just blow it here and now?
"We're just giving him a room, Mom. I promise. I wouldn't be interested in him if he turned out to be Johnny Depp." I gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Well, okay, if he was Johnny Depp, I'd be interested. But seriously, what are the odds?"
Mom's mouth quirked at that, because she had a thing for Johnny Depp, too.
"All right, then," she said, "you can have your ballplayer for the summer."
Yes! Deep inside I was doing a happy dance, but on the outside I did nothing more than smile. If my parents figured out the real plan was to get a boyfriend, they absolutely wouldn't go for it. ~ Rachel Hawthorne

I dispelled my invisibility for a few seconds in his full view, a finger resting provocatively on my lower lip, giving him a come-hither look under a streetlight. His jaw and the bottle of Żubrówka dropped at the same time. It shattered, drawing his eyes to the sidewalk, and I took the opportunity afforded by his distraction to disappear again.

"That was mean," Oberon said, watching the man look wildly around for me and pawing at his eyes as if to clear them.

Why? I asked. I've done him no harm.

"Yes, you have. You will haunt him for the rest of his life. I know from experience."

You're haunted by someone flashing you on a street corner?

"No. It was a dog park. Atticus and I were just arriving and she was leaving."

Oh, here we go.

"She was so fit and her coat was tightly curled and she had a perfect pouf on the end of her tail like a tennis ball. I saw her for maybe five seconds, until she hopped into a Honda and her human drove her away. And now I can't see a Honda without seeing her."

But that's a good thing, isn't it? Kind of romantic? A vision of perfection you can treasure forever, unspoiled by reality.

"Well, I don't know. In reality I'd like to try spoiling her, if she was in the mood."

Look, Oberon, that man is lonely. He's too skinny and sweaty, and I'm willing to bet you five cows that he's socially awkward or he wouldn't be staggering drunk at this hour. Bu ~ Kevin Hearne

Would you really have married the man who'd killed your brothers?

Well, first of all, I wouldn't have been given a choice. But yes, probably. Yes. I was a slave, and a slave will do anything, anything at all, to stop being a thing and become a person again.

I just don't know how you could do that.

Well, no, of course you don't. You've never been a slave. ~ Pat Barker

And I, the for­mer mys­tic, was think­ing: Yes, man is stronger, greater than God. When Adam and Eve de­ceived You, You chased them from par­adise. When You were dis­pleased by Noah's generation, You brought down the Flood. When Sodom lost Your fa­vour, You caused the heav­ens to rain down fire and damna­tion. But look at these men whom You have be­trayed, al­low­ing them to be tortured, slaugh­tered, gassed, and burned, what do they do? They pray be­fore You! They praise Your name! ~ Elie Wiesel

It always seems to me that one of the saddest things about the death of a literary man is the fact that the breaking-up of his collection of books almost invariably follows; the building up of a good library, the work of a lifetime, has been so much labour lost, so far as future generations are concerned. Talent, yes, and genius too, are displayed not only in writing books but also in buying them, and it is a pity that the ruthless hammer of the auctioneer should render so much energy and skill fruitless. ~ Stuart Dodgson Collingwood

I sit on the bench in front of Bell's Market and think about Homer Buckland and about the beautiful girl who leaned over to open his door when he come down that path with the full red gasoline can in his right hand - she looked like a girl of no more than sixteen, a girl on her learner's permit, and her beauty was terrible, but I believe it would no longer kill the man it turned itself on; for a moment her eyes lit on me, I was not killed, although a part of me died at her feet. (from the short story Mrs. Todd's Shortcut) ~ Stephen King

When somebody say no, it's a red flag to a bull to me. ~ Duncan Roy

It's also quite possible she still detests me."

Tyler dismissed this with a wave. "You're going to let a thing like that stop you?"

"I was thinking intense despisement might be an obstacle in pursuing her, yes."

"No, see, that's what makes it all the more interesting," Tyler said. He adopted a grandly dramatic tone. "'Does our fair Ms. Kendall truly loathe the arrogant Mr. Jameson as she so ardently proclaims, or is it all just a charade to cover more amorous feelings for a man she reluctantly admires?'"

Up front, the cabdriver snorted loudly. He appeared to be enjoying the show.

"Psych 101 again?" J.D. asked.

Tyler shook his head. "Lit 305: Eighteenth-Century Women's Fiction." He caughtJ.D.'s look and quickly defended himself. "What? I took it because of the girls in the class. Anyway, I see a bit of a P and P dynamic going on between you and Payton."

J.D. didn't think he wanted to know. Really. But he asked anyway. "P and P?"

Tyler shot him a look, appalled. "Uh, hello - Pride and Prejudice?" His tone said only a cretin wouldn't know this.

"Oh right, P and P," J.D. said. "You know, Tyler, you might want to pick up your balls - I think they just fell right off when you said that."

Up front, the cabdriver let out a good snicker. ~ Julie James

Perhaps down in his heart Okonkwo was not a cruel man. But his whole life was dominated by fear, the fear of failure and of weakness.
It was deeper and more intimate that the fear of evil and capricious gods and of magic, the fear of the forest, and of the forces of nature, malevolent, red in tooth and claw.
Okonkwo's fear was greater than these. It was not external but lay deep within himself. ~ Chinua Achebe