2
" Suffice to say, the dream writer had a way of phrasing things. She could depict the curve of a cucumber, the shape of a sunbeam, the endearing, velvety tilt of a peach, in just such a way that she earned her living selling dreams. One simply made a selection, read it in solitude, and let it percolate till sleep. People swore they fell directly into her renderings, and one even asked if the dream writer could write a dream of dreaming forever. The dream writer could not do this, but she hired dream apprentices to expand the reach of her dreams and she wrote dreams for herself in which she would sit at a desk, pen in hand, and write even more dreams. This nearly doubled her output. "
― Meia Geddes , Love Letters to the World
4
" There's one big difference between the poor and the rich,' Kite says, taking a drag from his cigarette. We are in a pub, at lunch-time. John Kite is always, unless stated otherwise, smoking a fag, in a pub, at lunch-time.
'The rich aren't evil, as so many of my brothers would tell you. I've known rich people -- I have played on their yachts -- and they are not unkind, or malign, and they do not hate the poor, as many would tell you. And they are not stupid -- or at least, not any more than the poor are. Much as I find amusing the idea of a ruling class of honking toffs, unable to put their socks on without Nanny helping them, it is not true. They build banks, and broker deals, and formulate policy, all with perfect competency.
'No -- the big difference between the rich and the poor is that the rich are blithe. They believe nothing can ever really be so bad, They are born with the lovely, velvety coating of blitheness -- like lanugo, on a baby -- and it is never rubbed off by a bill that can't be paid; a child that can't be educated; a home that must be left for a hostel, when the rent becomes too much.
'Their lives are the same for generations. There is no social upheaval that will really affect them. If you're comfortably middle-class, what's the worst a government policy could do? Ever? Tax you at 90 per cent and leave your bins, unemptied, on the pavement. But you and everyone you know will continue to drink wine -- but maybe cheaper -- go on holiday -- but somewhere nearer -- and pay off your mortgage -- although maybe later.
'Consider, now, then, the poor. What's the worst a government policy can do to them? It can cancel their operation, with no recourse to private care. It can run down their school -- with no escape route to a prep. It can have you out of your house and into a B&B by the end of the year. When the middle-classes get passionate about politics, they're arguing about their treats -- their tax breaks and their investments. When the poor get passionate about politics, they're fighting for their lives.
'Politics will always mean more to the poor. Always. That's why we strike and march, and despair when our young say they won't vote. That's why the poor are seen as more vital, and animalistic. No classical music for us -- no walking around National Trust properties, or buying reclaimed flooring. We don't have nostalgia. We don't do yesterday. We can't bear it. We don't want to be reminded of our past, because it was awful; dying in mines, and slums, without literacy, or the vote. Without dignity. It was all so desperate, then. That's why the present and the future is for the poor -- that's the place in time for us: surviving now, hoping for better, later. We live now -- for our instant, hot, fast treats, to prep us up: sugar, a cigarette, a new fast song on the radio.
'You must never, never forget, when you talk to someone poor, that it takes ten times the effort to get anywhere from a bad postcode, It's a miracle when someone from a bad postcode gets anywhere, son. A miracle they do anything at all. "
― Caitlin Moran , How to Build a Girl (How to Build a Girl, #1)
5
" What is the use of beauty in woman? Provided a woman is physically well made and capable of bearing children, she will always be good enough in the opinion of economists.
What is the use of music? -- of painting? Who would be fool enough nowadays to prefer Mozart to Carrel, Michael Angelo to the inventor of white mustard?
There is nothing really beautiful save what is of no possible use. Everything useful is ugly, for it expresses a need, and man's needs are low and disgusting, like his own poor, wretched nature. The most useful place in a house is the water-closet.
For my part, saving these gentry's presence, I am of those to whom superfluities are necessaries, and I am fond of things and people in inverse ratio to the service they render me. I prefer a Chinese vase with its mandarins and dragons, which is perfectly useless to me, to a utensil which I do use, and the particular talent of mine which I set most store by is that which enables me not to guess logogriphs and charades. I would very willingly renounce my rights as a Frenchman and a citizen for the sight of an undoubted painting by Raphael, or of a beautiful nude woman, -- Princess Borghese, for instance, when she posed for Canova, or Julia Grisi when she is entering her bath. I would most willingly consent to the return of that cannibal, Charles X., if he brought me, from his residence in Bohemia, a case of Tokai or Johannisberg; and the electoral laws would be quite liberal enough, to my mind, were some of our streets broader and some other things less broad. Though I am not a dilettante, I prefer the sound of a poor fiddle and tambourines to that of the Speaker's bell. I would sell my breeches for a ring, and my bread for jam. The occupation which best befits civilized man seems to me to be idleness or analytically smoking a pipe or cigar. I think highly of those who play skittles, and also of those who write verse. You may perceive that my principles are not utilitarian, and that I shall never be the editor of a virtuous paper, unless I am converted, which would be very comical.
Instead of founding a Monthyon prize for the reward of virtue, I would rather bestow -- like Sardanapalus, that great, misunderstood philosopher -- a large reward to him who should invent a new pleasure; for to me enjoyment seems to be the end of life and the only useful thing on this earth. God willed it to be so, for he created women, perfumes, light, lovely flowers, good wine, spirited horses, lapdogs, and Angora cats; for He did not say to his angels, 'Be virtuous,' but, 'Love,' and gave us lips more sensitive than the rest of the skin that we might kiss women, eyes looking upward that we might behold the light, a subtile sense of smell that we might breathe in the soul of the flowers, muscular limbs that we might press the flanks of stallions and fly swift as thought without railway or steam-kettle, delicate hands that we might stroke the long heads of greyhounds, the velvety fur of cats, and the polished shoulder of not very virtuous creatures, and, finally, granted to us alone the triple and glorious privilege of drinking without being thirsty, striking fire, and making love in all seasons, whereby we are very much more distinguished from brutes than by the custom of reading newspapers and framing constitutions. "
― Théophile Gautier , Mademoiselle de Maupin
7
" She said, I'm going to miss you when you when I wake up.Don't wake up, he answered.But he did.Kestrel, beside him on the grass, said. " Did I wake you? I didn't mean to." It took him a velvety moment to understand that this was real. The air was quiet. An insect beat it's clear wings. She brushed hair from his brow. Now he was very awake." You were sleeping so sweetly," she said." Dreaming" He touched her tender mouth." About what?" " Come closer, and I will tell you." But he forgot. He kissed her, and became lost in the exquisite sensation of his skin becoming too tight for his body. He murmured other things instead. A secret, a want, a promise. A story, in its own way.She curled her fingers into the green earth "
9
" as if a round apple presented itself to my hand, a ripe, golden apple with a soft, cool, velvety skin - thus the world presented itself to me - as if a tree nodded to me, a wide-branching, strong-willed tree, bent for reclining and as a footstool for the way-weary: thus the world stood upon my headland - as if tender hands brought me a casket - a casket open for the delight of modest, adoring eyes: thus the world presented himself before me today - not so enigmatic as to frighten away human love, not so explicit as to put to sleep human wisdom - a good, human thing was the world to me today, this world of which so many evil things are said! "
13
" No one ever said aloud any of the kinds of things he was so constantly thinking, because no one in the parish, not Alice, not Lady Higgs, not anybody, ever seemed to see the things he saw. If they thought as he did, if they saw what he did, they never mentioned it; and to have things which are precious to one eternally unmentioned makes one, he had long discovered, lonely. These August nights, for instance--quite remarkably and unusually beautiful, warm and velvety as he had never known them, ushered in each evening by the most astonishing variety of splendid sunsets--nobody had said a single word about them. They might have been February ones, for all the notice they got. Sometimes he climbed up to the top of Burdon Down towards evening, and stood staring in amazement at what looked like heaven let loose in flames over England; but always he stood alone, always there was no one but himself up there, and no one afterwards, when he descended from his heights, seemed to be aware that anything unusual had been going on. "
14
" This is an education on seduction,” Delilah said in a reverent tone…
Ariana let her gaze skim across the silk wall hangings and shrugged. “I’ve not ever kissed a man.” ... Truthfully, she had not. She’d been so fixed on her attempts to placate her parents in the hopes they might pay her the slightest bit of positive attention, she had not so much as considered kissing any man.
Delilah’s fingers touched Ariana’s chin, feather light, and tilted her face toward hers. “It is the most delicious thing. Close your eyes and I will tell you of it.”
Obediently, Ariana closed her eyes, hoping if she did as she was told, the lesson would end sooner.
It was an awkward sensation to sit in the ridiculous pillow-laden room with one’s eyes closed.
“Relax,” Delilah said in a velvety tone. “Listen.”
Ariana let her muscles slacken.
“Imagine a man, tall and lean with muscle.” Delilah’s voice was quietly intimate. Hypnotic. “He’s staring at you as if you were the only women he’d ever seen. Truly seen. The only woman he’s ever wanted. The desire for you burning in his eyes.”
Hazel eyes rose to the forefront of Ariana’s mind, a sharp jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard.
Connor.
She swallowed.
“His arms come around you,” Delilah continued. “So strong, so warm. They offer you a protection unlike anything you’ve ever felt and make you wish you could melt into his embrace for the rest of your life.”
In Ariana’s mind, Connor’s arms wrapped around her. But she didn’t shy from his touch – she welcomed. It. The chill of the room ebbed into a pleasant heat.
“Your eyes meet. His fingers touch your face and his breath whispers over your lips. He lowers his head and you close your eyes just as his mouth touches yours, warm and demanding.”
Ariana’s heart quickened and her breathing went almost ragged. Her mouth was suddenly dry and she flicked her tongue over her lips.
“His body is a wall of strength against you, holding you upright, as your knees feel as though they will buckle. Then his tongue strokes yours, velvet fire and heady seduction.”
Ariana drew a shaky breath…. "
― Madeline Martin , Highland Spy (The Mercenary Maidens, #1)
16
" He smoothed his fingers along her jawline and lifted her chin, kissing her gently, testing.
Lindsey went light-headed with the rush of sensation, the touch of his lips leaving her longing for more. Clutching his shirt in her fingers - napkin and all - she pulled him closer, melting into his kiss. Carden took it from tentative to tender, then parted her lips with the velvety sweep of his tongue. She matched his languid rhythm, hypnotized. He was all chocolate and caramel, creamy cool and sweet.
'Sinfully delicious'.
No doubt he was 31 flavors of trouble, but resisting him seemed impossible. "
― Tracy March , Should've Said No (Thistle Bend, #1)
18
" SWEET POTATO BISQUE WITH CRABMEAT
GRAPEFRUIT ICE IN A SWEET TORTILLA CRISP
LAMB SEARED IN ANCHO CHILI PASTE ON POLENTA
TWO CHUTNEYS: PEAR & MINT
ASPARAGUS FLAN
AMERICAN GOAT CHEESE, EAST & WEST, WITH RED-WINE BISCUITS
AVOCADO KEY LIME PIE
PINON TORTA DE CIELO & CHOCOLATE MOCHA SHERBET
She'd invented the cake just for tonight; the sherbet came from Julia Child, a remarkably simple confection made with sour cream. Torta de cielo was a traditional wedding cake from the Yucatan, slim and sublime, light but chewy, where pulverized almonds stood in for flour. This time, instead of almonds, Greenie used the fat, velvety pignoli she ordered from an importer on Grand Street, mincing them by hand to keep them from turning to paste. She did not know whether you could tell the best Italian pine nuts from those grown in New Mexico, but, she caught herself thinking, and not without a touch of spite, she might soon find out. "
― Julia Glass , The Whole World Over
20
" I feel something on my chest. Ivy's resting her head on me. In fact, she's pulled herself so close that we're touching everywhere. My heart picks up speed again, but I'm surprisingly calm, seeing her beautiful face close to mine, her eyes closed in an expression of content bliss, and—the best part—feeling her own heart pound in time with mine. She's feeling what I'm feeling.That is when I know for sure." Ivy?" I know what I have to do." Mm?" Her songbird voice is a calm purr." I think...no. I really, really like you." Like moving through molasses, Ivy raises her head. Her eyes are enormous with bewilderment. But there's no fright, no dislike, no anything that discourages me, With that in mind, I don't hesitate as I move my face and my lips to her lips.Ivy's lips are cool like water but delicate and velvety and smooth like round pebbles. She smells like wildflowers, wet earth, and freshly cut grass, which only makes me want her more. I press my lips harder against hers, and a shiver of delight snakes through me when I feel her press back. Daring myself, I open my mouth. So does she, and the kiss deepens. My hand slides upward to caress her satin cheek, and the back of my neck tingles as her fingers play with my hair.This is it. Ivy's and my first kiss. I wouldn't have it any other way.Unhurriedly we pull our faces away, though we leave our foreheads touching." Ivy?" I peer into her eyes. She doesn't look upset, but more calm and curious.She meets my eyes and asks, " What was that?" " A kiss. You do it with people you like." To my amazement Ivy leans forward and kisses me again. It's incredible as the first time." That is my feeling towards you," she tells me as she leans back. She meets my eyes, her face flushed but determined. " I...am...really liking you, too." I smile and pull her to me, and we grasp each other like we never want to let go.She likes me. I like her.This can't get any better. "
