A Quote by Laurence Olivier
In spite of a heavy disguise, a few days' growth on my face, dark glasses, a beret and one of William's jackets that fitted me not at all, as I emerged from a hotel in Lecce, a young fisherman pointed me out to his friends and said "Lavrenche Olivaire." It was not all that amazing; if you're not known in Italy, you're not known anywhere.
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Sorry, but I have plans elsewhere,” William said darkly. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and I’ll be gone for a few weeks.” “What plans?” “Doesn’t matter why I kept you in the dark. I’m going and that’s final.” “You can’t go without me,” Gilly said. “I can and I will.” “You promised to protect me always. How can you protect me if you’re gone?” “I didn’t lie to you. I will always protect you,” William told her gently. He stood, reached for her, but realized what he was doing and dropped his arms to his sides. “You have to trust me on this.
You…you got rid of that dress fast," I pointed out between heavy breaths. "I thought you liked it." "I do like it," he said. His breathing was as heavy as mine. "I love it." And then he took me to the bed.
Dimitri. I hadn't known he was here. His eyes were on me too,dark and endless. Only I couldn't read what he was feeling. His face betrayed nothing, but there was something in his eyes...something intense and intimidating. The image of him ready to take down that group of guardians flashed through my mind,and something told me that if I asked,He would fight his way to me through this courtroom and do everything in his power to rescue me from it.
Actually, the original nickname that I was told - it scared me to death - was Heavy G. I think the last thing you want to be known as is Heavy anything. No offense to Heavy D - rest his soul. Worked for him, wasn't really my bag.
I can't disguise myself with a wig and dark glasses - the wheelchair gives me away.
Prince William's smiling hostility toward the press is his non-negotiable core value. I am told he is so protective of his privacy he has been known to plant false tips with friends he distrusts and watch the media to see if they play out.
The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of those depths.
I would like to thank the incomparable William H. Macy for taking a chunky 22-year-old with a bad perm and glasses out into a cow pasture and kissing me and making me his wife.
OK, I have a nickname. My family calls me 'Trey' because I'm William the third. My dad has the same name, which is always confusing because my dad is well known, and I'm also known.
"Take my own father! You know what he said in his last moments? On his deathbed, he defied me to name a man who had enjoyed a better life. In spite of the dreadful pain, his face radiated happiness," said Mother, nodding her head comfortably. "Happiness drives out pain, as fire burns out fire."
I challenged Coleman and he accepted, he said he'd fight me. I pointed at Baroni and challenged him too, he looked at me with a bewildered look on his face and asked: "Me?", I said "Thats right, You!!" I also challenged Quinton Jackson and he looked at me and said "Me too?", and I responded. If you want some, there is some for you too!
It's gotten to the point where I think my friends would rather hang out with their own kids than hang out with me. And I'm like, "Alright, but where's the loyalty, man. I've known you for twenty-five years. How long have you known your baby, like, a month?"
When I was young, anywhere I would go in Germany, I would see my father's posters. Everyone knew about him. And he had many friends who were artists who were also quite famous. So, for me, it seemed very natural to be an artist and be known.
I got involved in the underground world known as ballroom culture, and I used to walk a category called 'face,' and it was a very heavily Latino culture - it's black and Latino - and they used to call me 'cara,' which means face in Spanish, so I started putting 'cara' on everything: hats, jackets.
I see a few hands stretching out to me at the edge of the net, so I grabbed the first one I could reach and pull myself across. I roll off, and would have fallen face-first onto a wood floor if he had not caught me. "He" is the young man attached to the hand I grabbed. He has a spare upper lip and a full lower lip. His eyes are so deep-set that his eyelashes touch the skin under his eyebrows, and they are dark blue, a dreaming, sleeping, waiting color.
But lately, when I’m drunk, I feel a hostility that I’ve never known before. It is a tension deep in my gut that makes me want to yell until my face is red, knock over glasses with the back of my hand, and kick people I don’t know in the shins.
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