#or

El orgullo de quien se cree hermosa daba a su andar un ritmo insolente. ↗

— Isabel Allende

#love

Oh, fuck. He loved Mischa? Since fucking when did he fall in love on twenty-four hour’s notice? His heart shrugged, his dick applauded and his brain shriveled up and ran for a darker corner. That made his choice all the clearer, didn’t it ↗

— Lee Brazil

#love

Then you must tell them that love isn't something like a grindstone that's the same thing everywhere and do the same thing to everything it touches. Love is like the sea. It is a moving thing, but still and all, it takes its shape from the shore it meets, and its different with every shore." (written properly and not in slang) ↗

— Zora Neale Hurston

#janie #pheoby #to #wise #words

I'll let you in on a secret. I don't drink coffee." I genuinely gasped in horror. "The devil you say. Java is the nectar of the gods. I don't know if I can be with a man who doesn't drink coffee." I knew there was something sinister about him. I had no idea it would be that bad. ↗

— Charlie Cochet

#humor

What is important is not the specific manner in which God is worshiped but the degree to which the devotee is filled with love. (48-49) ↗

— Prem Prakash

#devotion #god #love #worship #love

Her feet were large, and she had a habit of whistling badly, but these things made her worthy of being loved. A goddess might be adored for a moment, but only a real person can speak forever to the rest of us. ↗

— Katherine Vaz

#love #worthy #love

A director is a general in charge of an army of traitors like any showman. An audience will love you, laugh with you and wait outside your stage door when you're hot and on a roll, but no audience is ever truly friendly. Not for long. Bore 'em or disappoint 'em - even once - and they'll turn on you and tear you to pieces, regardless of who you are or might once have been. ↗

— Richard Stanley

#director #traitor #love

Yet the roses are not less lovely for all that ↗

— Oscar Wilde

#the-picture-of-dorian-gray #love

They fought because they loved the dance, and the weight of a sword in their hands. The clash and spark of metal and hiss of flame was like music written just for them. They fought for glory, but not for blood. They were Weirlind, heirs of the warrior's stone. And they always slept better with blades beneath their beds. ↗

— The Warrior Heir Cinda Williams Chima pg.

#battle #blood #glory #heir #stone

Love doesn't make you run away. Love makes you come back. ↗

— Siri Mitchell

#the-cubicle-next-door #love