A Quote by Cynthia Voigt
She looked at her hand: Just some hand, holding a cheap pen. Some girls’ hand. She had nothing to do with that hand. Let that hand do whatever it wanted to.
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Even at the age of eight she would fall asleep by pressing one hand into the other and making believe she was holding the hand of the man whom she loved, the man of her life. So if in her sleep she pressed Tomas hand with such tenacity, we can understand why: she had been training since childhood.
She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.
My left hand is my thinking hand. The right is only a motor hand. This holds the hammer. The left hand, the thinking hand, must be relaxed, sensitive. The rhythms of thought pass through the fingers and grip of this hand into the stone.
That's the premise of the Saudi Arabians. He's holding the president's hand with one. In the other hand, he's got his hand in the pocket of American consumers.
That's the premise of the Saudi Arabians. He's holding the president's hand with one. In the other hand, he's got his hand in the pocket of American consumers
The hand of a bride becomes the hand of a mother. Ever so gently she cares for her precious child. Bathing, dressing, feeding, comforting-there is no hand like mother's. Nor does its tender care diminish through the years.
My mother-in-law's so fat that when she passes her handbag from hand to hand she throws it.
The hand of bone and sinew and flesh achieves its immortality in taking up a pen. The hand on a page wields a greater power than the fleshly hand ever could in life.
My left hand is my thinking hand (image), my right hand my doing hand (sequence).
It gripped her hand gently. 'Regret is for humans,' it said. She laughed. 'Really?' The machine shrugged and let go of her hand. 'Oh, no. It's just something we tell ourselves.
I don't think she [Marilyn Monroe] saw herself as victimized and a sex object. She knew how to contend with it. I'm sure she was no fool about it. On the one hand, it was very flattering and great; on the other hand, it was probably awful and could be very lascivious and very terrible. But I think a lot of women just wanted to be like her. And that's still true today.
And you won’t leave me?” “No.” Alec said. “No, we won’t ever leave you. You know that.” “Never.” Isabelle took his hand, the one Alec wasn’t holding, and pressed it fiercely. “Lightwoods, all together.” She whispered. Jace's hand was suddenly damp where she was holding it, and he realized she was crying, her tears splashing down crying for him, because she loved him; even after everything that had happened, she still loved him. They both did. He fell asleep like that, with Isabelle on one side of him and Alec on the other, as the sun came up with the dawn.
Corporations are legal fictions created by the State to shield executives from liability… It’s like if I had a little hand-puppet, and I went to rob a bank, and the hand-puppet held the little gun and told people to hand over all the money, and then the hand-puppet grabbed the money and ran out, and then I got caught and I handed the hand-puppet over the police and then the police tried the hand-puppet, put the hand-puppet in jail, and I get to keep all the money.
She had been looking all along for a friend, and it took her a while to discover that a lover was not a comrade and could never be - for a woman. And that no one would ever be that version of herself which she sought to reach out to and touch with an ungloved hand. There was only her own mood and whim, and if that was all there was, she decided to turn the naked hand toward it, discover it and let others become as intimate with their own selves as she was.
She stepped closer to one of the statues. It looked wide-eyed, almost afraid as she reached out her hand. One of the women reached out and snatched Aislinn's still uplifted hand. "No." The women spoke all at once, not to her or to Keenan, but softly-as if to themselves-in a sibilant whisper. "He's ours. Fair exchange. Not yours to interfere.
This hand is not very active always, because it was in this hand that I carried my books. My carrying hand was always my strongest. Now I think my other hand has developed more muscles from signing all those autographs.
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