Buts Quotes (page 973)
We rest; A dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; One wandering thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but mutability!
Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Men go out with me, we break up and then they get married. And later they call me to thank me for teaching them what love is. That I tought them to care and respect women.(...)I wanna kill them! Why didn't they ask me to marry them? I would've said no, but at least they could have asked.
Julie Delpy


Now if we're finished jousting over sex-"Darling, I haven't even picked up my lance."That's a very weak double entendre."She had him there. "It's early. why don't you tell me why i'm having breakfast with you."I was up all night."The comment that occurred to him was not only weak, but crude. He let it pass.
Nora Roberts

Don’t you think the stairs are a good place for reading letters? I do. One is somehow suspended. One is on neutral ground - not in one’s own world nor in a strange one. They are an almost perfect meeting place. Oh Heavens! How stairs do fascinate me when I think of it. Waiting for people - sitting on strange stairs - hearing steps far above, watching the light playing by itself - hearing - far below a door, looking down into a kind of dim brightness, watching someone come up. But I could go...
Katherine Mansfield
love, n. A temporary insanity curable by marriage of by removal of the patient from the influences under which he/she incurred the disorder. This disease, like Caries and many other ailments, is prevalent only among civilized races living under artificial conditions; barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages. It is sometimes fatal, but more frequently to the physician than the patient.
Ambrose Bierce
He was a second too late. Ducking, the felt-capped man, muscles hard, dragged himself out of that grasp and, flinging off to one side, got his balance, glanced once at Jerott, and then darted off into the darkness. After the first step, breathing hard, Jerott stayed where he was, swearing. But he could hardly leave Lymond. He looked up. ‘Bravo,’ said Francis Crawford, sitting crosslegged on top of the wall, his hood shaken free on his shoulders. ‘You’re a credit to the bloody Order, aren’t...
Dorothy Dunnett