129 Quotes by Beatriz Williams

I consider delivering some nonsense about how the cat’s had a pretty long run, wouldn’t you say, I mean I’ve never heard of a cat living nineteen years. But that’s the last thing you want to hear about something you love. It doesn’t matter if it’s had a long life or a happy life; there’s never enough life.

Across the road, at the edge of the yellow beach, an especially large wave rises to the sky, gathering strength and power, until it can't bear the strain any longer and dives for shore in a long, elegant undulation, from north to south. An instant later, the boom reaches us, like the firing of a seventy-five-millimeter artillery shell -- a sound I know all too well. My nerves flinch obediently.

Here's the thing about New York, the thing I love most: there is no such substance as silence. If you ever stop talking, and he stops talking, the city takes over for you. A siren forms a distant parabola of sound. A door slams. The old couple in 4A argues over who will answer the telephone. The young lovers in 2C reach an animalistic climax. A million other lives play out on your doorstep, and not one of them gives a damn about your little problems. Life goes on and on and on.

I wanted the rattle of New York around me, I wanted stink and strangers and the sour dank air of the IRT clutching me to its bosom. I wanted hustle and bustle. I wanted to know that millions of lives were playing out at my doorstep, and not one of them gave a damn about my little problems.

Most of all, Violet will know the smile: a slow and confident widening of a too-abundant mouth. This woman is something more than beautiful, something alchemical, an unstable mixture of rare elements bound together by nerve and charm. Am I interrupting something dreadfully important? she asks, with the ironic warmth of a woman who knows in her bones that she is always the most important object in the room.

I must confess, it puzzles me. You Americans went to such trouble to rid yourself of our quaint little monarchy.""Oh we like to gossip about them, all right. Just not to let them rule over us and all that.

To Florida -- its dreamers, its builders, its mavericks, and its scoundrels. (Sometimes all four at.)

What would that be like, not to give a damn what the other women think?

Turn your head. No, the other way. Out the window.' I turn to the steamed-over plate glass, the shadowed buildings across the street. 'What, like this?' 'Now move your eyes and look at me. Just your eyes. Tilting up a bit. Yes.' He breathes out. 'Just like that. that, Miss Lily Dane, of only the best sorts of places, that is why I couldn't go back to sleep last night.