Quotes About Intrigue

But that doesn't stop me from moving about him like a junior high girl lingering by the lifeguard station

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what kind of creature Curzon Dax was, to weave so tangled a web.

She's beautiful. In the way she is.

it's doors I'm afraid of because I can't see through them, its the door opening by itself in the wind I'm afraid of.

It isn't the sort of thing you ask questions about, because the answers are not usually answers you want to know.

Perhaps they were looking for passion; perhaps they delved into this book as into a mysterious parcel - a gift box at the bottom of which, hidden in layers of rustling tissue paper, lay something they'd always longed for but couldn't ever grasp.

He could never get used to her, she was fresh every time, she was a casketful of secrets. Any moment now she would open herself up, reveal to him the essential thing, the hidden thing at the core of her life, or of her life, or of his life--the thing he was longing to know. The thing he'd always wanted.

From this distance it does resemble fun. Fun is not knowing how it will end.

I can't believe in my own sadness, I can't take it seriously. I watch myself crying in the mirror, intrigued by the sight of tears.

Kick in the door, and what did I tell you? Caught in the act, sinfully Scrabbling. Quick, eat those words.

Fuck , thinks Stan. She knows about the chickens.

There were pockets within pockets, with a CorpSeCorps hand in each one of them.

You didn't need it anyway, it attracted too much attention. Better with only a shadow. Someone wants your shadow.

Here comes his hand, planing slowly across the white tablecloth like a manta ray in one of those deep-sea documentaries. It's descending onto her own hand, which she shouldn't have left so carelessly lying around on the table.

I will press this, somewhere. Under the mattress. Leave it there, for the next woman, the one who comes after me, to find. But there's someone in the room, behind me. I

Everyone believed him of course, but you always knew with Salome that if anyone's head was going to roll it wouldn't be hers.

How could a person be caught that way, in an instant, by a glance, the lift of an eyebrow, the curve of an arm? But he was.

He could never get used to her, she was fresh every time, she was a casketful of secrets.

How potent was that word. With. He could never get used to her, she was fresh every time, she was a casketful of secrets. Any moment now she would open herself up, reveal to him the essential thing, the hidden thing at the core of life, or of her life, or of his life – the thing he was longing to know. The thing he'd always wanted. What would it be?

Mushrooms were the roses in the garden of that unseen world, because

Kick in the door, and what did I tell you? Caught in the act, sinfully Scrabbling. Quick, eat those words. Maybe

We would like to hear the story of Fuck," says Abraham Lincoln politely.

Anyway, you don't know what's going to happen. I'm only just thickening the plot. --I'd say it was pretty thick already. Thick plots are my specialty. If you want a thinner kind, look elsewhere.

you occupy me so completely run through my brain as warm chemicals and melted gold, spread out wings to the ends of my fingers reach my heart and stop, digging your claws in