All Quotes By Tag: Book-lovers

“Lui mi dava e mi toglieva e volevo supplicarlo di smetterla.”

“Quando per tanti anni ti leghi ad una persona, tranciare il filo che ti tiene avvinta è impossibile. Il filo delicato diviene una catena con lucchetti a doppia mandata e non esiste modo per liberarsi del ricordo, del sentimento che ti fa battere il cuore, incendiare il sangue e amare il passato che ti fa sentire ancora viva.”

“Non ero pronta ad amare nessun altro.”

“Non c’era bisogno di parole, c’era bisogno di abbracci sinceri.”

“Stavo facendo impazzire tutte le persone che mi stavano intorno.”

“I want to read every book that’s writtenhear every song that was sungI want to gaze at every cloudand hold the zing of each fruit on my tongue.”

“I don’t care about the rules or anyone else. People are awful – they’re idiots – and if they try to hurt you, I won’t need the revolver. I care about you and all I ask is that you try not to make me feel like an idiot for it. You’re supposed to . . . you’re my partner.”

“America, my dear, I hope you find something, in this cage worth fighting for.”

“His fingers unhooked from hers, following that same path up her arm, and then back down it again. The feeling was so distracting, so good, so sweet against her clammy skin. She didn’t choose a piece from her repertoire; Etta gave herself over to the notes that started streaming through her mind, rising from somewhere deep inside of her.The melody of her heart had no name; it was quick, and light. It rolled with the waves, falling as the breath left his chest, rising as he inhaled. It was the rain sliding down the glass; the fog spreading its fingers over the water. The creaking of a ship’s great body. The secrets whispered by the wind, and the unseen life that moved below. It was the flame against the candle.Nicholas’s arm was a map of hard muscles and delicate sinews, heartbreakingly perfect. She wondered if he could hear her humming the piece against his skin over the droning roars overhead. Maybe. His free hand skimmed up her skin, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake.With the world blacked out around them, she could catalog all over her senses, capture this moment in the warm darkness forever. He brushed back the loose hair across her forehead, cheek, the corner of her lips, her jaw, and she knew it had to be the same for him, that they’d never been so aware of another person in their entire lives.She released his arm, and he drew it up around her, guiding both of them down so they were on their sides, their heads cushioned by the bag, his jacket drawn over them. Etta understood that here, in the darkness, they’d found a place beyond rules; a place that hung somewhere between the past and the future. This was a single moment of possibility. The clattering of the attack from above faded as he rested his forehead against hers, his thumb lightly stroking a bruise on her cheek. She traced his face – the straight nose, the high, proud cheekbones, the full curve of his lips. His hand caught her there, taking it in his own; he pressed a hard, almost despairing kiss to it. But when she tilted her face up, half – desperate with longing, her blood racing, Nicholas pulled back; and although Etta could feel him beside her, his heart pounding, his ragged breath, it was as if he had disappeared into the thundering dark.”

“Mark ran his fingers over the bindings and whispered words, written long ago, words that wriggled through the aged leather, trembled beneath his touch. What lives and loves, hopes and dreams, deaths and despair these volumes held.”

“Many writers write because they’ve been there, seen that, did it and burnt their fingers”

“If I can write, who possibly can’t. Even drawing a line in the sand is writing”

“Don’t believe in everything that is written. Not everything that is written is true”

“One author said “I write because I want to live a footprint in the sands of history.” It’s hard to live a footprint in the sands of history when giants are passing through the same sands unless you are one of the giants”

“The power of a writer is that he is a god of sorts. He can create his own worlds and populate them with his own people, all by the powers of his imagination. It’s the closest a man can come close to the gods. No wonder the most successful writers are considered immortals”