#paris

Paris is a place in which we can forget ourselves, reinvent, expunge the dead weight of our past. ↗

— Michael Simkins

#traveling #education

By the time it came to the edge of the Forest, the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and, being grown-up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going, and it said to itself, “There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.” But all the little streams higher up in the Forest went this way and that, quickly, eagerly, having so much to find out before it was too late. ↗

— A.A. Milne

#life #wisdom #life

No one said finding Paris would be easy; I only said it would be worth it. ↗

— Con.Template

#kwon-taehyun #love #paris #underworld- #love

The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn. The French language, like Paris, has attempted, through its Academy, to retain its purity, to fight the advancing tides of Franglais and international prefabrication. English, by comparison, is a shameless whore. ↗

— Stephen Fry

#french #humour #language #london #paris

What can an eternity of damnation matter to someone who has felt, if only for a second, the infinity of delight? ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#delight #paris

I should go to Paris and jump off of the Eiffel Tower. If I took the Concorde, I could be dead three hours earlier. ↗

— Woody Allen

#paris

You chose to come to Paris, of all places,” Mencheres replied. So what? Got something against the French? ↗

— Jeaniene Frost

#destined #early #grave #mencheres #paris

I am a cemetery by the moon unblessed. ↗

— Charles Baudelaire

#moon #paris

Dangerous as a lightning strike, as lethal as a pair of crisscrossing short swords, William whispered, “You’re about to find out how your liver tastes, my friend.” “I have tasted it already,” Zacharel said, his voice its usual monotone. The snowflakes began to fall in earnest, tiny at first, but growing in diameter. An arctic wind blustered around him. “It was a bit salty.” How the hell was a guy supposed to respond to that? Apparently William didn’t know, either, because he gaped at the angel. Then, “Maybe if you added a little pepper?” O-kay. It was official. William had an answer for everything. ↗

— Gena Showalter

#william-the-dark #zacharel #paris

Torn clothing littered the ground, more hung from bushes. Nick held up half a pair of white panties and grinned at me. "Wild dogs? Or just Clayton?" "Oh God," I muttered under my breath. I walked over to snatch the underwear from him, but he held it over his head, grinning like a schoolboy. "I see Paris, I see France, I see Elena's underpants," he chanted. "Everyone's already seen much more than that," Jeremy said. "I think we can safely resume the search." Peter plucked Clay's shirt from a low-hanging branch and held it up, peering through a hole in the middle. "You guys can really do some damage. Where's the hidden video when you need it?" "So this--uh--wasn't done by wild dogs?" one of the searchers said. Peter grinned and tossed the shirt to the ground. "Nope. Just wild hormones.

— Kelley Armstrong

#jeremy #nick #peter #torn-clothes #wild-hormones