Bolted Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
His heart cracked, and he fell in love. He wondered if she would marry him. 'Tu sei pazzo, ' she told him with a pleasant laugh. 'Why am I crazy?' he asked. 'Perche non posso sposare.' 'Why can't you get married?' 'Because I am not a virgin, ' she answered. 'What has that got to do with it?' 'Who will marry me? No one wants a girl who is not a virgin.' 'I will. I'll marry you.' 'Ma non posso sposarti.' 'Why can't you marry me?' 'Perche sei pazzo.' 'Why am I crazy?' 'Perche vuoi sposarmi.' Yossarian wrinkled his forehead with quizzical amusement. 'You won't marry me because I'm crazy, and you say I'm crazy because I want to marry you? Is that right?' 'Si.' 'Tu sei pazz'!' he told her loudly. 'Perche?' she shouted back at him indignantly, her unavoidable round breasts rising and falling in a saucy huff beneath the pink chemise as she sat up in bed indignantly. 'Why am I crazy?' 'Because you won't marry me.' 'Stupido!' she shouted back at him, and smacked him loudly and flamboyantly on the chest with the back of her hand. 'Non posso sposarti! Non capisci? Non posso sposarti.' 'Oh, sure, I understand. And why can't you marry me?' 'Perche sei pazzo!' 'And why am I crazy?' 'Perche vuoi sposarmi.' 'Because I want to marry you. Carina, ti amo, ' he explained, and he drew her gently back down to the pillow. 'Ti amo molto.' 'Tu sei pazzo, ' she murmured in reply, flattered. 'Perche?' 'Because you say you love me. How can you love a girl who is not a virgin?' 'Because I can't marry you.' She bolted right up again in a threatening rage. 'Why can't you marry me?' she demanded, ready to clout him again if he gave an uncomplimentary reply. 'Just because I am not a virgin?' 'No, no, darling. Because you're crazy.

Joseph Heller
Take this message to your people, you obsequious little worm, ' I murmured. 'Anyone who lays a hand on Jordan Amador will have to answer to me. Now do me a favor and go to hell.' I removed my sword from his hand and then decapitated him. His severed head tumbled across the floor like a wayward bowling ball. Good riddance. I set my sword aside, found a stool in the corner, and climbed up in front of Jordan. Her handcuffs were attached to a huge meat hook bolted into the ceiling. I lifted her off of it with great care, unsure if she had the strength to stand. As soon as her arms were free, she looped them around my shoulders and pressed her face against my neck. She was trembling, but not crying. I sank to the floor and cradled her in my lap, breathing out the last of my anger now that she was safe. ''M sorry, ' she mumbled in a small voice. 'I'm so sorry, Michael.' I snorted. 'What the hell do you have to apologize for? You got kidnapped. Pretty sure that's not your fault.' She shook her head, her words partially muffled as she pressed her face against my shirt. 'Should've been stronger. I could've gotten you killed.' 'By Heckle and Jeckle here? Not likely.' A shaky laugh rattled through her. She slid her fingers into the hairs along the nape of my neck and hugged me tighter. I knew from experience she didn't want me to see her face because she knew she was only seconds away from breaking down. No one would ever accuse Jordan Amador of being a crybaby, not if she could help it. It was a ridiculous notion at best, but I indulged her anyway. 'Thank you.' 'Just doing my job. But you're welcome.' I smoothed the sweaty hairs away from her forehead enough to kiss it. She didn't move away. We stayed there for a while without speaking, just clinging to each other until we felt strong enough to separate.

Kyoko M.
In the park which surrounded our house were the ruins of the former mansion of Brentwood, a much smaller and less important house than the solid Georgian edifice which we inhabited. The ruins were picturesque, however, and gave importance to the place. Even we, who were but temporary tenants, felt a vague pride in them, as if they somehow reflected a certain consequence upon ourselves. The old building had the remains of a tower, an indistinguishable mass of mason-work, overgrown with ivy, and the shells of walls attached to this were half filled up with soil. I had never examined it closely, I am ashamed to say. There was a large room, or what had been a large room, with the lower part of the windows still existing, on the principal floor, and underneath other windows, which were perfect, though half filled up with fallen soil, and waving with a wild growth of brambles and chance growths of all kinds. This was the oldest part of all. At a little distance were some very commonplace and disjointed fragments of the building, one of them suggesting a certain pathos by its very commonness and the complete wreck which it showed. This was the end of a low gable, a bit of grey wall, all encrusted with lichens, in which was a common doorway. Probably it had been a servants' entrance, a backdoor, or opening into what are called "the offices" in Scotland. No offices remained to be entered-pantry and kitchen had all been swept out of being; but there stood the doorway open and vacant, free to all the winds, to the rabbits, and every wild creature. It struck my eye, the first time I went to Brentwood, like a melancholy comment upon a life that was over. A door that led to nothing - closed once perhaps with anxious care, bolted and guarded, now void of any meaning. It impressed me, I remember, from the first; so perhaps it may be said that my mind was prepared to attach to it an importance, which nothing justified. ("The Open Door")

Margaret Oliphant
Finding herself on the way to the village center again, she pulled over, intending to negotiate a three-point turn. The cottage was slightly out of the village, so she needed to get back onto the opposite side of the road and go back up the hill. Glancing over Hannah's instructions again, she swung the car to the right-straight into the path of a motorcyclist. What happened next seemed to happen in slow motion. The rider tried to stop but couldn't do so in time, although he did manage to avoid hitting her car. As he turned his handlebars hard to the right, his tires lost grip on the wet road and he flew off, sliding some way before coming to a halt. Layla sat motionless in her car, paralyzed temporarily by the shock. At last she managed to galvanize herself into action and fumbled for the door handle, her shaking hands making it hard to get a grip. When the door finally opened, another dilemma hit. What if she couldn't stand? Her legs felt like jelly, surely they wouldn't support her. Forcing herself upward, she was relieved to discover they held firm. Once she was sure they would continue to do so, she bolted over to where the biker lay, placed one hand on his soaking leather-clad shoulder and said, 'Are you okay?' 'No, I'm not bloody okay!' he replied, a pair of bright blue eyes meeting hers as he lifted his visor. 'I'm a bit bruised and battered as it goes.' Despite his belligerent words, relief flooded through her: he wasn't dead! 'Oh, I'm so glad, ' she said, letting out a huge sigh. 'Glad?' he said, sitting up now and brushing the mud and leaves off his left arm. 'Charming.' 'Oh, no, no, ' she stuttered, realizing what she'd just said. 'I'm not glad that I knocked you over. I'm glad you're alive.' 'Only just, I think, ' he replied, needing a helping hand to stand up. 'Can I give you a lift somewhere, take you to the nearest hospital?' 'The nearest hospital? That would be in Bodmin, I think, about fifteen miles from here. I don't fancy driving fifteen miles with you behind the wheel.' Feeling a little indignant now, Layla replied, 'I'm actually a very good driver, thank you. You're the first accident I've ever had.' 'Lucky me, ' he replied sarcastically.

Shani Struthers
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