Skins Quotes - Page 10

• That's the beauty of the cure. No one mentions those lost, hot days in the field, when Thomas kissed Rachel's tears away and invented worlds just so he could promise them to her, when she tore the skin off her own arm at the thought of living without him.

  Lauren Oliver

  Promise, Tears, Hot

  Lauren Oliver (2015). “Delirium Trilogy: Delirium, Pandemonium, Requiem”, p.129, Hachette UK

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• I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness.

  Herta Muller

  Hurt, Eye, Differences

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• I told you once before,” I said, the words husky from remembrance. “Everyone holds their sins close to their skin.” Fangs gleamed for an instant before Vlad bit into his wrist, pooling up two deep crimson holes. “Then come,” he said, holding it out. “And taste mine.

  Jeaniene Frost

  Two, Remembrance, Taste

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• Sage?" Adrian lightly touched my arm, and I jumped at the feel of his fingertips against my skin. "You okay?" "I don't know," I said softly. "I just thought of something crazy." "Welcome to my world.

  Richelle Mead

  Crazy, Sage, World

  Richelle Mead (2012). “The Golden Lily: A Bloodlines Novel”, p.249, Penguin

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• I want to be inside you so badly, Grace,” he whispered. “I want to feel your legs wrapped around me, feel your breasts against my chest, hear you moaning as I make slow, sweet love to you. I want your smell on my body, your breath on my skin.

  Sherrilyn Kenyon

  Sweet, Smell, Grace

  Sherrilyn Kenyon (2009). “Fantasy Lover”, p.155, Hachette UK

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• Doctors don’t seem to realize that most of us are perfectly content not having to visualize ourselves as animated bags of skin filled with obscene glop.

  Joe Haldeman

  Doctors, Bags, Realizing

  Joe Haldeman (2014). “The Forever War”, p.78, Open Road Media

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• Once again the absurdity of my inner thoughts overwhelms me, and I want to crawl out of my skin, escape my ugly, awkward flesh and be a skeleton, naked and anonymous.

  Isaac Marion

  Skeletons, Awkward, Naked

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• Something stirred beneath my skin, some being inside I'd only suspected existed, demon or angel, I couldn't say.

  Ellen Hopkins

  Angel, Demon

  Ellen Hopkins (2008). “Burned”, p.327, Simon and Schuster

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• We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed by our own seed & hairy naked accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening sitdown vision.

  Allen Ginsberg

  Beautiful, Blessed, Sunset

  Allen Ginsberg, “Sunflower Sutra”

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• A man doesn't grow old because he has lived a certain number of years. A man grows old when he deserts his ideal. The years may wrinkle his skin, but deserting his ideal wrinkles his soul.

  Brennan Manning

  Men, Wrinkles, Years

  Brennan Manning (2008). “The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out”, p.120, Multnomah

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• He felt his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out.

  Ray Bradbury

  Long, Burning, Stuff

  Ray Bradbury (2016). “Fahrenheit 451”, p.5, Hamilton Books

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• But there is a beauty every girl has—a gift from God, as pure as the sunlight, and as sacred as life. It is a beauty that all men love, a virtue that wins all men's souls. That beauty is chastity. Chastity without skin beauty may enkindle the soul; skin beauty without chastity can kindle only the eye. Chastity enshrined in the mold of true womanhood will hold true love eternally.

  David O. McKay

  Girl, Eye, Winning

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• There are no words for how much I will miss her, but I try to kiss her so that she'll know. I try to kiss her to tell her the whole story of my love, the way I dreamed of her when she was dead, the way that every other girl seemed like a mirror that showed me her face. The way my skin ached for her. The way that kissing her made me feel like I was drowning and like I was being saved all at the same time. I hope she can taste all that, bittersweet, on my tongue.

  Holly Black

  Girl, Kissing, Mirrors

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• This is the God of the gospel of grace. A God who, out of love for us, sent the only Son He ever had wrapped in our skin. He learned how to walk, stumbled and fell, cried for His milk, sweated blood in the night, was lashed with a whip and showered with spit, was fixed to a cross, and died whispering forgiveness on us all.

  Brennan Manning

  Son, Night, Blood

  Brennan Manning (2008). “The Ragamuffin Gospel: Good News for the Bedraggled, Beat-Up, and Burnt Out”, p.26, Multnomah

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• I was fine with that. The very idea of Death knowing my name made my skin crawl. Even if this particular Death was only one of many, and almost too pretty to look at.

  Rachel Vincent

  Names, Ideas, Knowing

  Rachel Vincent (2009). “My Soul to Take”, p.139, Harlequin

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• I'm losing my mind without you.” His lips were gliding down my neck, his tongue stroking over my racing pulse. He sucked on my skin and pleasure radiated through me. “I can’t think. I can’t work or sleep. My body aches for you. I can make you want me again. Let me try.

  Sylvia Day

  Sleep, Thinking, Racing

  FaceBook post by Sylvia Day from Apr 23, 2013

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• The brown blotches of the benevolent skin cancer the sun brings from its reflection on the tropic sea were on his cheeks. The blotches ran well down the sides of his face and his hands had the deep-creased scars from handling heavy fish on the cords. But none of these scars were fresh. They were as old as erosions in a fishless desert.

  Ernest Hemingway

  Cancer, Reflection, Erosion

  Ernest Hemingway (1995). “The old man and the sea”, p.5, Hueber Verlag

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• Nothing in the world is so soft and pleasing to the touch, as the skin of a woman's thigh. No flower, feather or fabric, can match that velvet whisper of flesh. No matter how unequal they may be in any other ways, all women, old and young, fat and thin, beautiful and ugly, have that perfection. It's a great part of the reason why men hunger to possess women, and so often convince themselves that they do possess them: the thigh, that touch.

  Gregory David Roberts

  Beautiful, Flower, Men

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• The collision was impending and electric, but the moment was soft and sweet: She positively glowed as she looked up at him. "What," she whispered, palming his face. Vin took a moment to memorize her features and the way she felt beneath him, seeing her not just through his eyes, but feeling her with his skin and his heart. "Hello, lovely lady...hello.

  J.R. Ward

  Sweet, Eye, Heart

  J.R. Ward (2009). “Covet: A Novel of the Fallen Angels”, p.371, Penguin

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• Well, I get under people's skins. It's a gift I have, what can I say?

  James Patterson

  People, Wells

  James Patterson (2010). “Maximum Ride Boxed Set #1”, p.614, Hachette UK

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• Every night in my dreams, a man appeared from the darkest recesses of my mind, as if he'd been waiting for me to fall asleep. His mouth, full, masculine, would sear my flesh. His tongue, like flames across my skin, would send tiny sparks quaking through my body. Then he would dip south, and the heavens would open and a chorus singing hallelujah would ring out in perfect harmony.

  Darynda Jones

  Dream, Fall, Night

  Darynda Jones (2011). “First Grave on the Right”, p.9, Macmillan

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• When did creating a flawless facade become a more vital goal than learning to love the person who lives inside your skin?

  Ellen Hopkins

  Creating, Goal, Flawless

  Ellen Hopkins (2013). “Perfect”, p.1, Simon and Schuster

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• The two of us warmed by a bold beam of light that wicks the moisture from my dress, my hair, and my skin—returning it to the sky where it promises to find me again in the form of dew, snow, or rain.

  Alyson Noel

  Rain, Two, Light

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• But technology is the real skin of our species. Humanity, correctly seen in the context of the last five hundred years, is an extruder of technological material. We take in matter that has a low degree of organization; we put it through mental filters, and we extrude jewelry, gospels, space shuttles. This is what we do. We are like coral animals embedded in a technological reef of extruded psychic objects. All our tool making implies our belief in an ultimate tool. That tool is the flying saucer, or the soul, exteriorized in three-dimensional space.

  Terence McKenna

  Real, Technology, Animal

  Terence McKenna (1998). “True Hallucinations: And, the Archaic Revival”, M J F Books

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• The smell of her hair, the taste of her mouth, the feeling of her skin seemed to have got inside him, or into the air all round him. She had become a physical necessity.

  George Orwell

  Romantic, Hair, Smell

  George Orwell, A.M. Heath (2003). “Animal Farm and 1984”, p.234, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

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