A Quote by Mason Cooley

The morose one refuses to smile even when he has just had his teeth cleaned. — © Mason Cooley
The morose one refuses to smile even when he has just had his teeth cleaned.
His smile bore the same relation to a real smile as false teeth do to real teeth.
A lover makes you smile like children smile. That smile that was only meant for you. The half smile. The big shiny smile full of teeth and white enamel and pink gums. The smile that fades in the distance as I drive away in a taxi again.
The laughter in his deep-set black eyes, the feverish heat of his big hand around mine, the flash of his white teeth against his dark skin, his face stretching into the wide smile that had always been like a key to a secret door where only kindred spirits could enter.
If you get your teeth cleaned on Instagram live, it shows that you're just out of touch. That doesn't make you relatable or cool. It just makes you weird.
I wrote about a bird that cleaned a crocodile's teeth. The story was so good that my teacher could not believe that a ten-year-old could write that well. I was even punished because my teacher thought I'd lied about writing it! I had always loved to write, but it was then that I realized that I had a talent for it.
I had these fangs because I had jaundice when I was a kid and I was put on so many antibiotics that my teeth rotted. They had to cut them out. So I never had milk teeth. That was tough, you know, being in school having photos taken while I was pretending I had teeth. It was hideous.
I talk slicker than a pimp from Augusta who just had his linen suit dry-cleaned
Oh my God, sociability is just a big smile and a big smile is nothing but teeth, I wish I could just stay up here and rest and be kind." But somebody brought up some wine and that started me off.
I was talking to a guy who was holding his 18-month-old daughter with the only limb he had left, and he had a smile on his face. I thought, 'I'm not even a 10th of this man.'
Another editor. That thing behind his ear is his pencil. Whenever he finds a bright thing in your manuscript he strikes it out with that. That does him good, and makes him smile and show his teeth, the way he is doing in the picture. This one has just been striking out a smart thing, and now he is sitting there with his thumbs in his vest-holes, gloating. They are full of envy and malice, editors are.
My tenth-ever gig was in an arena, which is mad... I remember being backstage with multiple artists there and someone had had their teeth done - like veneers - and I come from a very small village where people are lucky to even have all their teeth.
Putting down on paper what you have to say is an important part of writing, but the words and ideas have to be shaped and cleaned, cleaned as severely as a dog cleans a bone, cleaned until there's not a shred of anything superfluous.
He was sitting not far away, watching me, and I surprised a smile on his face, the first real smile I had ever seen him give, a smile that curved and softened the tight mouth, and warmed the ice-cool eyes; a smile that brought the blood to my face and made my heart turn over.
You can only hold a smile for so long, after that it's just teeth.
The moon had risen behind him, the color of a shark's underbelly. It lit the ruined walls, and the skin of his arms and hands, with its sickly light, making him long for a mirror in which to study his face. Surely he'd be able to see the bones beneath the meat; the skull gleaming the way his teeth gleamed when he smiled. After all, wasn't that what a smile said? Hello, world, this is the way I'll look when the wet parts are rotted.
There's a place in the world for the angry young man With his working class ties and his radical plans He refuses to bend, he refuses to crawl He's always at home with his back to the wall And he's proud of his scars and the battles he's lost And he struggles and bleeds as he hangs on the cross And he likes to be known as the angry young man.
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