Virginal 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
i-dress-sexily-but-not-in-obvious-way-sexy-in-virginal-way-victoria-beckham
white-thats-good-virginal-hell-be-reminded-this-is-first-for-you-hopefully-wont-just-impale-you-on-his-pork-sword-carmen-jenner
one-more-touch-bow-smell-virginal-green-one-more-my-bosom-feels-new-life-with-ecstasy-robert-louis-stevenson
he-desired-her-far-as-her-virginal-emotions-went-she-contemplated-surrender-with-equanimity-yet-she-knew-she-would-forget-him-half-hour-after-she-left-him-like-actor-kissed-in-pi
when-i-was-young-there-werent-any-teenage-girls-i-could-relate-to-in-film-they-were-all-put-in-boxes-virginal-good-girl-really-sarcastic-asexual-one-i-wanted-to-do-something-that
you-take-painting-you-have-white-virginal-piece-canvas-that-is-world-purity-then-you-put-your-imagery-on-it-you-try-to-bring-it-back-to-louise-berliawsky-nevelson
Reading Chip's college orientation materials, Alfred had been struck by the sentence New England winters can be very cold. The curtains he'd bought at Sears were of a plasticized brown-and-pink fabric with a backing of foam rubber. They were heavy and bulky and stiff. "You'll appreciate these on a cold night, " he told Chip. "You'll be surprised how much they cut down drafts." But Chip's freshman roommate was a prep-school product named Roan McCorkle who would soon be leaving thumbprints, in what appeared to be Vaseline, on the fifth-grade photo of Denise. Roan laughed at the curtains and Chip laughed, too. He put them back in the box and stowed the box in the basement of the dorm and let it gather mold there for the next four years. He had nothing against the curtains personally. They were simply curtains and they wanted no more than what any curtains wanted - to hang well, to exclude light to the best of their ability, to be neither too small nor too large for the window that it was their task in life to cover; to be pulled this way in the evening and that way in the morning; to stir in the breezes that came before rain on a summer night; to be much used and little noticed. There were numberless hospitals and retirement homes and budget motels, not just in the Midwest but in the East as well, where these particularly brown rubber-backed curtains could have had a long and useful life. It wasn't their fault that they didn't belong in a dorm room. They'd betrayed no urge to rise above their station; their material and patterning contained not a hint of unseemly social ambition. They were what they were. If anything, when he finally dug them out of the eve of graduation, their virginal pinkish folds turned out to be rather less plasticized and homely and Sears-like than he remembered. They were nowhere near as shameful as he'd thought.

Jonathan Franzen
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McKay had worn the wings in the world war with honor, flying first with the French and later with his own country's forces. And as a bird loves the trees, so did McKay love them. To him they were not merely trunks and roots, branches and leaves; to him they were personalities. He was acutely aware of differences in character even among the same species - that pine was benevolent and jolly; that one austere and monkish; there stood a swaggering bravo, and there dwelt a sage wrapped in green meditation; that birch was a wanton - the birch near her was virginal, still a-dream. The war had sapped him, nerve and brain and soul. Through all the years that had passed since then the wound had kept open. But now, as he slid his car down the vast green bowl, he felt its spirit reach out to him; reach out to him and caress and quiet him, promising him healing. He seemed to drift like a falling leaf through the clustered woods; to be cradled by gentle hands of the trees. He had stopped at the little gnome of an inn, and then he had lingered, day after day, week after week. The trees had nursed him; soft whisperings of leaves, slow chant of the needled pines, had first deadened, then driven from him the re-echoing clamor of the war and its sorrow. The open wound of his spirit had closed under their green healing; had closed and become scar; and even the scar had been covered and buried, as the scars on Earth's breast are covered and buried beneath the falling leaves of Autumn. The trees had laid green healing hands on his eyes, banishing the pictures of war. He had sucked strength from the green breasts of the hills. ("The Women Of The Woods")

Abraham Merritt
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