Coated 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
michael-was-still-enigma-wrapped-in-riddle-coated-in-yum-only-now-enigma-was-little-less-mysterious-i-was-few-clues-closer-to-solving-riddle-but-damn-that-man-would-always-be-coa
life-is-not-sugar-coated-edna-stewart
his-words-were-coated-with-glorious-boredom-sarah-j-maas
flattering-words-are-but-honeycoated-poison
we-look-forward-to-seeing-all-your-vaseline-coated-smiles-terribly-soon-gitty-daneshvari
i-have-been-called-a-pollyanna-sugarcoated-idealist-i-like-to-think-of-myself-as-more-optimistic-than-that
id-rather-hear-the-bitter-truth-than-the-sugar-coated-lie
this-jeweled-coast-does-not-shine-for-its-gems-are-coated-with-grit-bryant-a-loney
disney-channel-is-celebrities-coated-in-sugar-everything-is-really-happy-everything-is-really-bright-emily-osment
you-see-lot-women-who-take-negative-things-that-come-their-way-let-it-slide-off-them-like-they-are-coated-with-teflon
this-deal-is-sugarcoated-satan-sandwich-if-you-lift-bun-you-will-not-like-what-you-see-emanuel-cleaver
in-olden-times-enemy-was-sometimes-poisoned-by-bouquetdeceit-sugarcoated-hugh-latimer
i-had-rather-have-plain-russet-coated-captain-that-knows-what-he-fights-for-loves-what-he-knows-than-that-which-you-call-gentle-man-is-nothing-else
i-had-rather-have-plain-russetcoated-captain-that-knows-what-he-fights-for-loves-what-he-knows-than-that-which-you-call-gentleman-is-nothing-else-oliver-cromwell
love-is-just-chocolatecoated-realization-youre-going-to-spend-rest-your-life-with-person-unfortunately-it-melts-in-your-mouth-josh-stern
if-youve-never-been-in-dumpster-coated-with-industrial-waste-while-someone-stabs-you-with-piece-sharpened-rebar-then-you-probably-wouldnt-understand-sg-browne
only-cat-lovers-know-the-luxury-of-furcoated-musical-hot-water-bottles-that-never-go-cold
i-gazed-up-at-stars-as-i-waited-they-twinkled-down-at-me-like-huge-handful-diamonds-someone-had-coated-in-glue-thrown-on-ceiling-kelly-batten
i-like-cast-iron-coated-with-enamel-for-longevity-and-forgiveness-if-i-happen-to-take-my-eyes-off-the-prize-while-pouring-chianti
animals-do-not-give-their-life-to-us-as-sugarcoated-lie-would-have-it-no-we-take-their-lives-they-struggle-fight-to-last-breath-just-as-we-would-do-john-robbins
but-when-she-could-hide-him-no-longer-she-got-papyrus-basket-for-him-coated-it-with-tar-pitch-then-she-placed-child-in-it-put-it-among-reeds-exodus-23
this-rose-pearlcoated-infinity-transforms-diseased-slums-broken-heart-into-palace-made-psalms-gold-aberjhani
coated-in-shit-i-give-all-you-desire-mystical-doorway-swimming-in-mire-well-use-plunger-if-blockage-wont-budge-its-door-through-plane-fudge-gwar
with-watchmen-comic-we-attempted-to-tell-it-in-accessible-way-i-deliberately-made-artwork-clear-deceptively-you-think-youre-sucking-on-sweetie-but-it-turns-out-to-be-sugar-coated
by-lunchtime-valley-was-lightly-coated-like-cake-with-confectioners-sugar-there-was-white-fur-on-antlers-iron-deer-on-melancholy-boughs-norway-spruce-elizabeth-enright
i-dont-try-to-be-candy-coated-i-dont-try-to-walk-on-eggshells-i-am-what-i-am-love-me-hate-me-pink
most-people-this-world-are-coated-round-round-with-self-esteem-theyre-afraid-to-admit-any-understanding-things-which-arent-good
i-pass-on-lot-teen-roles-that-get-sent-to-me-because-lot-time-it-doesnt-feel-real-its-sugar-coated-theres-no-depth-to-it
nothing-is-more-hateful-to-me-than-photography-coated-with-gimmicks-poses-false-effects-therefore-let-me-speak-truth-in-all-honesty-about-our-age-august-sander
so-we-went-to-bed-assaulted-by-sleep-that-fumed-at-us-from-medicine-glasses-was-wielded-from-small-sweetcoated-tablets-dainty-bricks-dream-wrapped-janet-frame
because-when-youre-23year-old-party-girl-who-has-to-pee-you-dont-really-think-about-possibility-that-your-nerdy-bouncer-friend-might-suddenly-start-acting-like-trenchcoated-pedop
so-we-went-to-bed-assaulted-by-sleep-that-fumed-at-us-from-medicine-glasses-was-wielded-from-small-sweetcoated-tablets-dainty-bricks-dream-wrapped-in-silk-stockings-oblivion-jane
teflon-coated-pain-reliever-the-cure-for-common-pain-in-ass-extra-strength-relief-from-anb-pharmaceuticals-incorporated-agoraphobic-nosebleed
down-they-went-into-darkness-down-ancient-worn-steps-coated-in-slippery-mildew-down-into-deep-recesses-earth-far-beneath-corridors-deepspire-sam-j-charlton
al-gore-has-all-positive-attributes-bill-clinton-but-is-saddled-with-none-his-negatives-hes-great-big-teddy-bear-political-figure-teflon-coated-road-tested-everyones-nice-guy
yeah-i-got-bushmill-shots-some-cops-that-give-me-props-i-got-motts-spike-i-got-motts-having-fun-with-my-gun-son-you-know-its-loaded-flc-is-raw-fun-lovin-criminals
civilization-has-made-life-humanized-jungle-sugar-coated-jungle-but-still-jungle-habyarimana-bangambiki
basketballs-eras-are-defined-by-teams-celtics-lakers-bulls-baseballs-epochs-are-defined-by-players-ruth-robinson-mantle-but-with-football-its-sideline-strategists-nutty-professor
then-weeks-rolled-by-in-sinister-psych-ward-haze-filled-with-whitecoated-orderlies-rocking-whackjob-patients-torn-straight-from-some-old-jack-nicholson-film-all-antipsychotic-med
jeffers-stretched-up-on-his-toes-to-see-back-mob-but-james-were-doing-all-this-for-you-we-need-this-gold-to-build-united-alba-we-need-it-to-fund-army-to-forge-decisive-leadership
but-clouds-bellied-out-in-sultry-heat-sky-cracked-open-with-crimson-gash-spewed-flame-ancient-forest-began-to-smoke-by-morning-there-was-mass-booming-fiery-tongues-hissing-crashi
I sprang toward him with the stake, hoping to catch him by surprise. But Dimitri was hard to catch by surprise. And he was fast. Oh, so fast. It was like he knew what I was going to do before I did it. He halted my attack with a glancing blow to the side of my head. I knew it would hurt later, but my adrenaline was running too strong for me to pay attention to it now. Distantly, I realized some other people had come to watch us. Dimitri and I were celebrities in different ways around here, and our mentoring relationship added to the drama. This was prime-time entertainment. My eyes were only on Dimitri, though. As we tested each other, attacking and blocking, I tried to remember everything he'd taught me. I also tried to remember everything I knew about him. I'd practiced with him for months. I knew him, knew his moves, just as he knew mine. I could anticipate him the same way. Once I started using that knowledge, the fight grew tricky. We were too well matched, both of us too fast. My heart thumped in my chest, and sweat coated my skin. Then Dimitri finally got through. He moved in for an attack, coming at me with the full force of his body. I blocked the worst of it, but he was so strong that I was the one who stumbled from the impact. He didn't waste the opportunity and dragged me to the ground, trying to pin me. Being trapped like that by a Strigoi would likely result in the neck being bitten or broken. I couldn't let that happen. So, although he held most of me to the ground, I managed to shove my elbow up and nail him in the face. He flinched and that was all I needed. I rolled him over and held him down. He fought to push me off, and I pushed right back while also trying to maneuver my stake. He was so strong, though. I was certain I wouldn't be able to hold him. Then, just as I thought I'd lose my hold, I got a good grip on the stake. And like that, the stake came down over his heart. It was done. Behind me, people were clapping but all I noticed was Dimitri. Our gazes were locked. I was still straddling him, my hands pressed against his chest. Both of us were sweaty and breathing heavily. His eyes looked at me with pride-and hell of a lot more. He was so close and my body yearned for him, again thinking he was a piece of me I needed in order to be complete. The air between us seemed warm and heady, and I would have given anything in that moment to lie down with him and have his arms wrap around me. His expression showed that he was thinking the same thing. The fight was finished, but remnants of the adrenaline and animal intensity remained.

Richelle Mead
i-sprang-toward-him-with-stake-hoping-to-catch-him-by-surprise-but-dimitri-was-hard-to-catch-by-surprise-and-he-was-fast-oh-fast-it-was-like-he-knew-what-i-was-going-to-do-before
And finally I saw that the very land itself had risen, that the sunbaked land had taken form as something vast and alive, and was in motion. The land walked as multitudes, their strides so utterly of the earth that they seemed the source of the very dust. The cloud they raised engulfed us, seeped into every pore, coated our teeth, seeped into our minds. Both flesh and metaphor. That big. And you could see their heads, like warriors' shields. Their great breaths, gushing in and out, resonant in the halls of their lungs. The skin as they moved, wrinkled with time and wear, batiked with the walk of ages, as if they lived within the creased maps of the lives they've traveled. Travelers across landscapes, and through timescapes. The skin moving like swishing corduroy, textured and rough but sensitive to the slightest touch. The grind of their cobblestone molars as, sheaf by sheaf and mouthful by mouthful, they acquire the world. All the while uttering the contented purring of mounds of memories. Their rumbles rolling through the air like distant thunder approaching, vibrating through the undulating ground and the roots of trees, rallying families and friends from the hills and rivers, sending among themselves greetings and recognitions and news of where they have been; sending to us a sign of something coming. A mind moves a mountainous mass of muscle and bone, the brown eyes light a landscape, and one elephant rumbles in. See her squared brow, trace the tracks of snake-size blood vessels. Heralded by her own trumpet, applauded by her own clapping ears, she strikes us as timeless and a bit sublime, aware and deliberative, peaceful and nurturing and deadly dangerous as needs arise. Wise only within the confines of her capabilities, like us. Vulnerable. As we all are. 'Delicate and mighty, awesome and enchanted, ' wrote Peter Matthiessen of them in The Tree Where Man Was Born, 'commanding the silence ordinarily reserved for mountain peaks, great fires, and the sea.' Silence. Watch. Simply listen. They will not speak to us, but to each other they say much. Some of it, we hear. The rest is beyond words.

Carl Safina
and-finally-i-saw-that-land-itself-had-risen-that-sunbaked-land-had-taken-form-as-something-vast-alive-was-in-motion-the-land-walked-as-multitudes-their-strides-utterly-earth-tha
If we are inclined to forget how much there is in the world besides that which we anticipate, then works of art are perhaps a little to blame, for in them we find at work the same process of simplification or selection as in the imagination. Artistic accounts include severe abbreviations of what reality will force upon us. A travel book may tell us, for example, that the narrator journeyed through the afternoon to reach the hill town of X and after a night in its medieval monastery awoke to a misty dawn. But we never simply 'journey through an afternoon'. We sit in a train. Lunch digests awkwardly within us. The seat cloth is grey. We look out the window at a field. We look back inside. A drum of anxieties resolves in our consciousness. We notice a luggage label affixed to a suitcase in a rack above the seats opposite. We tap a finger on the window ledge. A broken nail on an index finger catches a thread. It starts to rain. A drop wends a muddy path down the dust-coated window. We wonder where our ticket might be. We look back at the field. It continues to rain. At last, the train starts to move. It passes an iron bridge, after which it inexplicably stops. A fly lands on the window And still we may have reached the end only of the first minute of a comprehensive account of the events lurking within the deceptive sentence 'He journeyed through the afternoon'. A storyteller who provides us with such a profusion of details would rapidly grow maddening. Unfortunately, life itself often subscribes to this mode of storytelling, wearking us out with repetitions, misleading emphases[, ] and inconsequential plot lines. It insists on showing us Burdak Electronics, the safety handle in the car, a stray dog, a Christmas card[, ] and a fly that lands first on the rim and then the centre of a laden ashtray. Which explains the curious phenomenon whereby valuable elements may be easier to experience in art and in anticipation than in reality. The anticipatory and artistic imaginations omit and compress; they cut away the periods of boredom and direct our attention to critical moments, and thus, without either lying or embellishing, they lend to life a vividness and a coherence that it may lack in the distracting woolliness of the present.

Alain de Botton
if-we-are-inclined-to-forget-how-much-there-is-in-world-besides-that-which-we-anticipate-then-works-art-are-perhaps-little-to-blame-for-in-them-we-find-at-work-same-process-simpl
while epic fantasy is based on the fairy tale of the just war, that's not one you'll find in Grimm or Disney, and most will never recognize the shape of it. I think the fantasy genre pitches its tent in the medieval campground for the very reason that we even bother to write stories about things that never happened in the first place: because it says something subtle and true about our own world, something it is difficult to say straight out, with a straight face. Something you need tools to say, you need cheat codes for the human brain-a candy princess or a sugar-coated unicorn to wash down the sour taste of how bad things can really get. See, I think our culture has a slash running through the middle of it, too. Past/Future, Conservative/Liberal, Online/Offline. Virgin/Whore. And yes: Classical/Medieval. I think we're torn between the Classical Narrative of Self and the Medieval Narrative of Self, between the choice of Achilles and Keep Calm and Carry On. The Classical internal monologue goes like this: do anything, anything, only don't be forgotten. Yes, this one sacrificed his daughter on a slab at Aulis, that one married his mother and tore out his eyes, and oh that guy ate his kids in a pie. But you remember their names, don't you? So it's all good in the end. Give a Greek soul a choice between a short life full of glory and a name echoing down the halls of time and a long, gentle life full of children and a quiet sort of virtue, and he'll always go down in flames. That's what the Iliad is all about, and the Odyssey too. When you get to Hades, you gotta have a story to tell, because the rest of eternity is just forgetting and hoping some mortal shows up on a quest and lets you drink blood from a bowl so you can remember who you were for one hour. And every bit of cultural narrative in America says that we are all Odysseus, we are all Agamemnon, all Atreus, all Achilles. That we as a nation made that choice and chose glory and personal valor, and woe betide any inconvenient 'other people' who get in our way. We tell the tales around the campfire of men who came from nothing to run dotcom empires, of a million dollars made overnight, of an actress marrying a prince from Monaco, of athletes and stars and artists and cowboys and gangsters and bootleggers and talk show hosts who hitched up their bootstraps and bent the world to their will. Whose names you all know. And we say: that can be each and every one of us and if it isn't, it's your fault. You didn't have the excellence for it. You didn't work hard enough. The story wasn't about you, and the only good stories are the kind that have big, unignorable, undeniable heroes.

Catherynne M. Valente
while-epic-fantasy-is-based-on-fairy-tale-just-war-thats-not-one-youll-find-in-grimm-disney-most-will-never-recognize-shape-it-i-think-fantasy-genre-pitches-its-tent-in-medieval-
Moving on, while he wondered, the dark through which Mr. Lecky's light cut grew more beautiful with scents. Particles of solid matter so minute, gases so subtle, that they filtered through stopping and sealing, hung on the unstirred air. Drawn in with Mr. Lecky's breath came impalpable dews cooked out of disintegrating coal. Distilled, chemically split and reformed, they ended in flawless simulation of the aromas of gums, the scent of woods and the world's flowers. The chemists who made them could do more than that. Loose on the gloom were perfumes of flowers which might possibly have bloomed but never had, and the strong-smelling saps of trees either lost or not yet evolved. Mixed in the mucus of the pituitary membrane, these volatile essences meant more than synthetic chemistry to Mr. Lecky. Their microscopic slime coated the bushed-out ends of the olfactory nerve; their presence was signaled to the anterior of the brain's temporal lobe. At once, thought waited on them, tossing down from the great storehouse of old images, neglected ideas - sandalwood and roses, musk and lavender. Mr. Lecky stood still, wrung by pangs as insistent and unanswerable as hunger. He was prodded by the unrest of things desired, not had; the surfeit of things had, not desired. More than anything he could see, or words, or sounds, these odors made him stupidly aware of the past. Unable to remember it, whence he was, or where he had previously been, all that was sweet, impermanent and gone came back not spoiled by too much truth or exact memory. Volatile as the perfumes, the past stirred him with longing for what was not - the only beloved beauty which you will have to see but which you may not keep. Mr. Lecky's beam of light went through glass top and side of a counter, displayed bottles of colored liquid - straw, amber, topaz - threw shadows behind their diverse shapes. He had no use for perfume. All the distraction, all the sense of loss and implausible sweetness which he felt was in memory of women. Behind the counter, Mr. Lecky, curious, took out bottles, sniffed them, examined their elaborately varied forms - transparent squares, triangles, cones, flattened ovals. Some were opaque, jet or blue, rough with embedded metals in intricate design. This great and needless decoration of the flasks which contained it was one strange way to express the inexpressible. Another way was tried in the names put on the bottles. Here words ran the suggestive or symbolic gamut of idealized passion, or festive night, of desired caresses, or of abstractions of the painful allure yet farther fetched. Not even in the hopeful, miracle-raving fancy of those who used the perfumes could a bottle of liquid have any actual magic. Since the buyers at the counters must be human beings, nine of every ten were beyond this or other help. Women, young, but unlovely and unloved, women, whatever they had been, now at the end of it and ruined by years or thickened to caricature by fat, ought to be the ones called to mind by perfume. But they were not. Mr. Lecky held the bottle in his hand a long while, aware of the tenth woman.

James Gould Cozzens
moving-on-while-he-wondered-dark-through-which-mr-leckys-light-cut-grew-more-beautiful-with-scents-particles-solid-matter-minute-gases-subtle-that-they-filtered-through-stopping-
Faded icon of the gilded halo, Once illuminating, inspiring; Admirers, enemies, lovers, family, A distant memory trodden under foot. Evanescent existence; flickering fame, A quintessence of reflections Incidentally etched on ancient relics. Can we conjure your presence? We barely remember Joseph Warren as the person who dispatched Paul Revere on his famous ride, and as the hero of the Battle of Bunker Hill, where he was killed in action. It wasn't always that way. For almost a century Warren was one of the most important and remembered founders of the fledgling American nation. John Trumbull's painting 'Death of General Warren at the Battle of Bunker's Hill, ' a renowned icon of American history, dates from that period. In it scarlet uniformed British soldiers, heavily armed and personally led by their officers, have just overwhelmed American entrenchments atop Breed's Hill, within sight across the Mystic River of Boston. In the background loom the eponymous Bunker Hill and the village of Charlestown, its houses and churches aflame, a smoky cloud framing the battlefield. The Americans, a motley amalgam of raw militia, countrymen and workers, try unsuccessfully to fend off the onslaught. New England's Pine Tree flag still stands within the American dirt fort in the unseasonably hot and breezeless early summer afternoon. The red coated attackers, brandishing the colors of the United Kingdom, will take it down in a moment. It is June 17, 1775: The defenders of an embryonic American Liberty are about to be defeated in a British Pyrrhic victory. In the forefront, Colonel William Prescott commands the Americans while rotund General Israel Putnam vainly shouts orders in the background. British Generals Burgoyne and Clinton command the British attackers as Major John Pitcairn, leader of the marines falters, mortally wounded, yet still supported by a soldier. British and Americans have fallen indiscriminately on the field among the detritus of battle. In the foreground, a finely dressed figure lies prostrate, his sword dropped to the earth. Prescott wards off a bayonet thrust by an onrushing British infantryman. It is a thrust the enemy's own superior officer, Colonel Small, curiously appears to want deflected. But the targeted figure already lies supine, looking skyward in a saintly blank stare. He is suspended momentarily in a halo of tranquility amongst the mayhem. This dying man can no longer smell the acrid, dense black powder smoke that hangs low in the windless oppressive heat, obscuring the afternoon sun. He pays no heed to the shouts of men nor the eerie lull in the previously deafening gunfire. The animation, his admonishments of others to action, the thrill and fear of battle, all suddenly calm. A single bullet annihilates in an instant inspiring words, the force of personality, the martial spirit in action, the reality and complexity of a human being. Dr. Joseph Warren, the central figure, moves from life to legend. Trumbull's iconic painting raises unanswered questions about its subject. How did a physician come to assume such a responsible role in this engagement? How did he meet his fate within sight of his home town? Why was he famous throughout the young United States as a model for involved citizenship? Was there any truth to the cynicism of his political enemies? Most compelling of all-why has this once beloved leader been so long and unjustifiably forgotten? This biography of Joseph Warren answers these and other questions. It utilizes modern analytical methods, uncovers new material, and sheds new light on 'established' facts... Please join me in getting to know Joseph Warren, accompanying him on his lifetime's journey to Bunker Hill, and considering the fate of his reputation and memory long after his heroic demise.

Sam Forman
faded-icon-gilded-halo-once-illuminating-inspiring-admirers-enemies-lovers-family-a-distant-memory-trodden-under-foot-evanescent-existence-flickering-fame-a-quintessence-reflecti
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