girl

A woman does not marry with a man for his wealth, unless he is too rich and a man does not marry with a girl for her beauty, unless she is too beautiful.

Not everyone man is a lover, not every love is the love.

The front desk man is a spy for a famous French chef, hoping to stealing the pastry recipes of the shop down the street. And the lovely shop girl who just delivered a box of-- what is most certainly-- pastries is his secret accomplice. The note she passed him while blushing has a recipe for the perfect croissant.

He was no god, just an artist; and when an artist is a man, he needs a woman to create like a god.

What is a Wanderess? Bound by no boundaries, contained by no countries, tamed by no time, she is the force of nature__ course.

When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a heroic wanderer, and woman, a wanderess.

She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.

I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl.

But what I do believe is that if you're a girl who was born in Homsea, a girl who lives in a nothing kind of house with an ordinary kind of family, then you can't know everything about the world and that it's probably good to keep an open mind about things, just in case.

A woman must prefer her liberty over a man. To be happy, she must. A man to be happy, however, must yearn for his woman more than his liberty. This is the rightful order.

How are you going to forget him if you keep talking about him? Darling, when things go wrong in life, this is what you do. You lift your chin, put on a ravishing smile, mix yourself a little cocktail... and out you go.

I took her dress over to the closet and hung it up. It was funny. It made me feel sort of sad when I hung it up. I thought of her going in a store and buying it, and nobody in the store knowing she was a prostitute and all. The salesman probably just thought she was a regular girl when she bought it. It made me feel sad as hell- I don't know why exactly.

Those who live in retirement, whose lives have fallen amid the seclusion of schools or of other walled-in and guarded dwellings, are liable to be suddenly and for a long while dropped out of the memory of their friends, the denizens of a freer world. Unaccountably, perhaps, and close upon some space of unusually frequent intercourse__ome congeries of rather exciting little circumstances, whose natural sequel would rather seem to be the quickening than the suspension of communication__here falls a stilly pause, a wordless silence, a long blank of oblivion. Unbroken always is this blank; alike entire and unexplained. The letter, the message once frequent, are cut off; the visit, formerly periodical, ceases to occur; the book, paper, or other token that indicated remembrance, comes no more.Always there are excellent reasons for these lapses, if the hermit but knew them. Though he is stagnant in his cell, his connections without are whirling in the very vortex of life. That void interval which passes for him so slowly that the very clocks seem at a stand, and the wingless hours plod by in the likeness of tired tramps prone to rest at milestones__hat same interval, perhaps, teems with events, and pants with hurry for his friends.The hermit__f he be a sensible hermit__ill swallow his own thoughts, and lock up his own emotions during these weeks of inward winter. He will know that Destiny designed him to imitate, on occasion, the dormouse, and he will be conformable: make a tidy ball of himself, creep into a hole of life's wall, and submit decently to the drift which blows in and soon blocks him up, preserving him in ice for the season.Let him say, "It is quite right: it ought to be so, since so it is." And, perhaps, one day his snow-sepulchre will open, spring's softness will return, the sun and south-wind will reach him; the budding of hedges, and carolling of birds and singing of liberated streams will call him to kindly resurrection. Perhaps this may be the case, perhaps not: the frost may get into his heart and never thaw more; when spring comes, a crow or a pie may pick out of the wall only his dormouse-bones. Well, even in that case, all will be right: it is to be supposed he knew from the first he was mortal, and must one day go the way of all flesh, As well soon as syne.

The good ones put your character to the flame and burn away all the rest of the shit until you come out a better you.

She felt wild and unruly, determined and free.

In the dark behind the glare of the television, like a mannequin behind it, I could see a silhouette and it wasn__ moving. It was maybe six foot high with its shoulders hunched and I blinked to make sure it was real. The TV fuzzed grey and white and black and I had a lump in my throat that I couldn__ swallow away. __ory_ I whispered. Clawing out gently beneath the duvet cover, reaching for his hand. But I couldn__ find it. And he didn__ answer.

The chandelier was wearing on its rubber support and the crack at the side of the ceiling hold was getting bigger. __ne day that__ going to fall on us and spear you through the heart,_ he said. I turned to kiss him on the shoulder and closed my eyes.