Yquotes.com

 

The man sat watching the road, the weedstem twirling in his mouth and the threadthin shadow of it going long and short upon his face like a sundial's hand beneath a sun berserk.

 

Cormac McCarthy

» Cormac McCarthy - all quotes »

Similar quotes

 

I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.

 

Julio Cortazar

 

He lies on top of her, sweating, taking great breaths, watching her face turned 3/4 away, not even a profile, but the terrible Face That is No Face, gone too abstract, unreachable: the notch of the eye socket, but never the labile eye, only the anonymous curve of cheek, convexity of mouth, a noseless mask of the Other Order of Being, of Katje's being — the lifeless non-face that is the only face of hers he really knows, or will ever remember.

 

Thomas Pynchon

 

There's a cat that's a stray that's been coming around my house for the last couple of years. ... I noticed upon petting her for the very first time that beneath her fur, almost beneath my hand, was ripples and ripples of wounds — amazing — wounds upon wounds and scars upon scars — old, of course, but she had been through it a lot! Anyway, I named her "Has Wounds But Still Lives" ... Well a few days ago, she came by, and dry food that I'd put out there was falling from her mouth. And upon closer inspection, it was because this side of her face was practically gone! ... And it looked to me as if she could survive it, but it was grisly, it really was — and it brought you to tears, and made you nervous and afraid, and all kinds of things.

 

Ysabella Brave

 

Even in that pale light I could see that she was more beautiful than ever, the black shadow of her hair framing a face I had seen every night in the misery of sleep for so long. Those deep brown eyes still had that hungry look when they watched mine and the lush fullness of her mouth glistened with a damp warmth of invitation.

 

Mickey Spillane

 

In very other period of art history, the idea itself –the what – had been primary. Today (1961) the idea matters less than the way it is arrived at; it is the how that makes the work. This word brings us again face to face with the theme and its infinite variations. It is no longer a matter of knowing, of possessing the truth, but of approaching it.. ..knowing that the road is long, knowing that the road does not end, knowing that the road is the end in itself.

 

Michel Seuphor