A Quote by Victor Hugo
Here we stop. Upon the threshold of wedding nights stands an angel smiling, his finger on his lip.
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Oh, who would choose to be a traveler? --That anxious railway-guide unravelerWho spends his nights in berths and bunks,His days in chaperoning trunks;Who stands in line at gates and wicketsTo spend his means on costly ticketsTo Irkutsk, Liverpool and YapAnd other dots upon the map.
A long-dead angel who thought to own me,” was his enigmatic answer, the silver in his eyes almost liquid. “I tore out his throat. After that, I ate his liver and his heart. The remaining internal organs weren’t as tasty so I gave them to his other creatures.” Elena’s hand tightened on the handle of the knife, conscious Naasir carried gleaming blades of his own in the sheaths strapped to his arms. “I wouldn’t think a vampire who killed an angel would be permitted to live.” A slow, feral smile. “I didn’t say I killed him.
Stop smiling. Every time you smile, an angel dies.
I'm serious, Harry, don't go." But Harry only had one thought in his head, which was to get back in front of the mirror, and Ron wasn't going to stop him. That third night he found his way more quickly than before. He was walking so fast he knew he was making more noise than was wise, but he didn't meet anyone. And there were his mother and father smiling at him again, and one of his grandfathers nodding happily. Harry sank down to sit on the floor in front of the mirror. There was nothing to stop him from staying here all night with his family. Nothing at all.
He tried to pull me against him, and I bit him on the lip. He licked his lip with the tip of his tongue. 'Did you just bite me?
Not one of the orthodox ministers dare preach what he thinks if he knows a majority of his congregation think otherwise. He knows that every member of his church stands guard over his brain with a creed, like a club, in his hand. He knows that he is not expected to search after the truth, but that he is employed to defend the creed. Every pulpit is a pillory, in which stands a hired culprit, defending the justice of his own imprisonment.
This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceived a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing from Paradise; it has got caught in his wings with such violence that the angel can no longer close them. This storm irresistably propels him into the future to which his back is turned, while the pile of debris before him grows skyward. The storm is what we call progress.
In order to even begin to learn how to play his instrument, it takes the guitarist weeks to build calluses on his fingertips; it takes the saxophonist months to strengthen his lip so that he might play his instrument for only a five-minute stretch; it can take the pianist years to develop dual hand and multiple finger coordination. Why do writers assume they can just “write” with no training whatsoever-and then expect, on their first attempt, to be published internationally? What makes them think they're so much inherently greater, need so much less training than any other artists?
Jem put the full force of himself into each smile, so that he seemed to be smiling with his eyes, his heart, his whole being.
Today, the Lord lets me see the cloud of His glory. It comes down, and I preach in it; and I can see His glory with my eyes open or closed. ... An angel stands by my side and directs me in every miracle service, and he even tells me things that are going to happen ahead of time.
The four rings on my wedding finger are all very significant - my wedding ring, my mum's wedding ring and the engagement rings of my granny and mother-in-law.
... being perpetually charmed by his familiar siren, that is, by his geometry, he neglected to eat and drink and took no care of his person; that he was often carried by force to the baths, and when there he would trace geometrical figures in the ashes of the fire, and with his finger draws lines upon his body when it was anointed with oil, being in a state of great ecstasy and divinely possessed by his science.
Imagine Him smiling down on you right now. Embrace His love. Remember, you are His most prized possession, the apple of His eye!
A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.
Pressed up against him, I can feel the thud of his heart against mine, his ribcase expanding and contracting rapidly against my chest, the warm whisper of his breath tickling the side of my neck, the brush of his leg against my thigh. Resting my arms on his shoulders, I pull back a little to get a look at his face. But he isn't smiling any more.
In New York, I have a photo of my parents on their wedding day in 1947. They're beaming at home plate in Houston's Buffalo Stadium. I love the photo because my dad is smiling. He didn't smile much in his later years.
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