Quotes About Apartment

I love Domino's. I hold a regular Domino night in my apartment. I'll admit that I get a little too serious and I'm quite competitive. I don't like to lose.

But one day, in 1973, I was swimming in a pool in the apartment complex where I was staying in Mountain View, which is near Palo Alto and Menlo park where SRI is located. I had been wondering how we could identify a distant target in some other fashion than by its name.

I'm six. 1974. Somebody's New York apartment, white rug, many people. They say "schmatte." They say "schmooze," they say "schwarze." They wear bead necklaces, interesting belts, plastic white sunglasses propped on their heads. Nixon's resigning on black-and-white TV. He says nobody gave him anything except a dog.

Do you promise to help me pack up my apartment and get all my stuff? I have a lot of stuff. A lot. Shoes and purses and clothes and nail polish. I have way more purses than you brought and at least a gatrillion dresses. I can't live without them-' 'I promise to haul your shit around.

Frankly, I couldn't be more astonished that this guy was involved in something like this than if you came riding through my apartment on a hippopotamus.

Views are overrated; it's light that counts. I have an apartment in Miami's South Beach, and I get tired of looking at the ocean. Even that view gets old after a while. Sunlight streaming into a room - it never gets old.

I live in New York, but I still get the village gossip. My apartment is a crash pad for so many Singaporean cousins and friends.

My family collects vintage pinball machines, so I have a few in my apartment.

After student years of flat-sharing and living with other people's taste, I went into decorating overdrive when I acquired my first apartment - its floor plan not much bigger than the vintage Hermes scarves I then wore side-knotted on my head, pirate-style.

Books were everywhere in their large apartment. Histories, biographies, novels, studies on Quebec antiques, poetry. Placed in orderly bookcases. Just about every table had at least one book on it, and oftern several magazines. And the weekend newspapers were scattered on the coffee table in the living room, in front of the fireplace. If a visitor was the observant type, and made it further into the apartment to Gamache's study, he might see the story the books in there told.

He walked through the large apartment they'd bought in the Outremont quartier of Montreal when the children had been born and even though they'd long since moved out and were having children of their own now, the place never felt empty. It was enough to share it with Reine-Marie.

Those must be the Fullers, in 11-E," Irene said. "I knew they were giving a party this afternoon. I saw her in the liquor store. Isn't this too divine? Try something else. See if you can get those people in 18-C.

I started designing my handbags in my apartment and I had six samples made in satin-finished nylon. I displayed them at trade shows but they went unnoticed at first.

I am good at down grading - I have found I can live the same lifestyle in a two-bedroom apartment as in a five-bedroom house.

Don't get me wrong - I love London, and still have an apartment there.

Home, to me, is where I am and where I feel most comfortable. Obviously, Malaysia is home. In L.A., my home is my apartment because that's my Malaysia.

I get really manic on set, and then to just get myself to a place where I'm alone in my apartment again, it's like this recalibrating thing that happens.

At any rate, after five years Surak came out of the wilds, took a small apartment in the capital, near his parents' house, and began to write for the information networks.

There had been no noise from any other part of the apartment, but that didn't exclude the possibility of Paolo's presence, especially if she had given her soul over to reading. He sometimes told her that Attila could storm through the house and she'd not notice if she were reading. She had most recently disputed this by claiming that it would depend on the book. Her door was open, so he went in. And found her on the sofa, with Henry James.

There had been no noise from any other part of the apartment, but that did not exclude the possibility of Paola's presence, especially if she had given her soul over to reading. He sometimes told her that Attila could storm through the house and she'd not notice if she were reading. She had most recently disputed this by claiming that it would depend on the book.

How could the apartment have seemed so permanent and solid-looking when it was only a stage set, waiting to be struck and carried away by movers in uniform?

Even in some smoky post-catastrophe Manhattan you could imagine him swaying genially at the door in the rags of his former uniform, the Barbours up in the apartment burning old National Geographics for warmth, living off gin and tinned crabmeat.

Objects in the apartment wobbled with my fatigue: halos shimmered around the table lamp; the stripe of the wallpaper seemed to vibrate.

Dead flowers stood rotting in the massive Chinese vases and a shut-up heaviness overweighed the room: the air almost too stale to breathe, the exact, suffocating feel of our apartment when Mrs. Barbour took me back to Sutton Place to get some things I needed. It was a stillness I knew; this was a house closed in on itself when someone died.