#elle

There is a great superficiality in today's evangelical world. Many Bible-believing Christians share the contemporary case for self-gratification, emotionalism, and anti-intellectualism. Many people who believe in the Bible have never read it. ↗

— Gene Edward Veith Jr.

#superficiality #love

I sat taller, to suppress my impatience. It was infuriating, this waiting. I was thirty-seven years old. And like a child, an infant, really, I was at the mercy of others. Hour after hour of my life was spent waiting. ↗

— Rosie Sultan

#waiting #life

Of course I want the moon. And, were you to offer it, I'd propose as a trade the stars in my eyes. ↗

— Richelle E. Goodrich

#moon #richelle #richelle-goodrich #stars #sweet-talk

He will not take her.” Sabelle turned toward the booming declaration. Ice. His protective gaze was as tangible as a caress. She swallowed. “Of course not,” Duke assured. “Sabelle is too important to our cause.” Ice stormed around the table until he hovered beside her, mere inches away, his body heat pouring over her. “If there is a breath left in my body, he will not take her. ↗

— Shayla Black

#love

If I can't read, if I can't make a simple Indian pudding, then I don't see the point in living much more, really. Because aside from a good book, and perhaps, a fresh morning in a dew-covered garden, few things in life give me as much pleasure as magic of making a truly spectacular dessert. ↗

— Sarah Strohmeyer

#life

Kaldar smiled at her. Now there was a work of art. If she were just a girl and he were just a man, and they met at a party, that smile would've guaranteed him a date. The man was hot. There was no doubt. But right now, all it would get him was a solid punch in those even teeth. Audrey laughed. "Aren't you sweet? Tell me, do girls usually throw their panties at you when you do that?" He grinned wider, and she glimpsed the funny evil spark in his eyes. "Do men throw money when you do your little Southern belle? ↗

— Ilona Andrews

#fate-s-edge #ilona-andrews #kaldar #southern-belle #the-edge

Dove sono le notti passate con così tante stelle e così tanta luna accese contemporaneamente in un cielo senza luna e senza stelle? Dimmi dove e quando ho iniziato a perderti dove e quando hai iniziato a perdermi dove e quando se non in questo letto di spine in una casa che non so e che non oso ascoltare mentre respira col mio respiro dove e quando potro dormire di nuovo senza incontrarti ancora e ancora e ancora. Dove e quando potrò smettere di ucciderti per ricominciare a vivere? ↗

— Giorgio Faletti

#love-hurts #sogno #stelle #love

Life, it has been agreed by everyone whose opinion is worth consulting, is the only fit subject for novelist or biographer; life, the same authorities have decided, has nothing whatever to do with sitting still in a chair and thinking. Thought and life are as the poles asunder. Therefore — since sitting in a chair and thinking is precisely what Orlando is doing now — there is nothing for it but to recite the calendar, tell one’s beads, blow one’s nose, stir the fire, look out of the window, until she has done… Surely, since she is a woman, and a beautiful woman, and a woman in the prime of life, she will soon give over this pretence of writing and thinking and begin at least to think of a gamekeeper (and as long as she thinks of a man, nobody objects to a woman thinking). And then she will write him a little note (and as long as she writes little notes nobody objects to a woman writing either) and make an assignation for Sunday dusk… She was kind to dogs, faithful to friends, generosity itself to a dozen starving poets, had a passion for poetry. But love — as the male novelists define it — and who, after all, speak with greater authority? — has nothing whatever to do with kindness, fidelity, generosity, or poetry. Love is slipping off one’s petticoat and — But we all know what love is… If then, the subject of one’s biography will neither love nor kill, but will only think and imagine, we may conclude that he or she is no better than a corpse and so leave her. ↗

— Virginia Woolf

#d #h-lawrence #intellectualism #sexism #writing

Her gaze follows my every move. I think she can feel something is weird but hasn’t put her finger on it yet. Maybe she’s seen my fangs and written them off as gimmick. I fucking love gimmicks. They’re so convenient to hide behind. ↗

— Carrie Clevenger

#xan-marcelles #love

I can't tell them what to do!" "Why not?" the other girl demanded. "Honestly, Clary, if you don't start utilizing a bit of your natural feminine superiority, I just don't know what I'll do with you. ↗

— Cassandra Clare

#clary-fray #isabelle-lightwood #mortal-instruments #nature