Quotes – Page 291 | Just Great DataBase

An exquisite dulcet epithalame of most mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the odoriferous flambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal proscenium of connubial communion.

I found myself on Gatsby’s side and alone.

Lips kissed, kissing kissed.

Dust webbed the window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.

That people should love like this, that Mr. Bankes should feel this for Mrs. Ramsay (she glanced at him musing) was helpful, was exalting.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

He had only one thing to do and that was what he should think about and he must think it out clearly and take everything as it came along, and not worry. To worry was a bad as to be afraid. It simply made things more difficult.

As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

The April’s in her eyes: it is love’s Spring,And these the showers to bring it on..

Where souls do couch on flowers we’ll hand in hand…

How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only in his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can’t scare him—he has known a fear beyond every other.

My desolation does begin to make a better life.

Spanish girls make wonderful wives. I’ve never had one so I know.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

Alack, sir, no; her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report: this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

But yet let me lamentwith tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts […]that our stars, irreconcilable, should divideour equalness to this.

A region where grey twilight ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk, scattering a perennial dew of stars.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.

There isn’t anyone to help you. Only me. And I’m the beast.

I know what I want, I have a goal, I have opinions, a religion and love. If only I can be myself, I’ll be satisfied.