Quotes About Defiance

As the illness attempts to diminish you, destroy you, or distract you, you've got to rely on your sense of style to help you to divert it, to defeat it and transcend it . . . . "illness style." A good synonym might be "strategy" except the word is too cold to describe something that's about being as alive and vibrant as possible.

I've never, ever, ever -- in my entire life -- fought over a man. I've fought women who've hit me because of a man, but then I was fighting to bust her ass, not defend his.

He raised a brow. 'Petunia, Ms. Lane?' I scowled. "Ass, Barrons.

Deals with the devil, Ms. Lane, never go well. That's a given. You will not make one again. Do you understand me? If I have to chain you to a fucking wall to protect you from your own stupidity, I will!" He glared at me. I rattled my chains. "Wrists. Beam. Chained already, Barrons. Come up with a new threat." I glared back.

Try a rocket launcher. Think maybe you could manage to hit me with that?

Like a horse, honey, somebody's gonna break you.' 'Never. Going. To. Happen.

Bedevil the devil and devil be dammed. I fear no devil and bow to no man. - Adam Black

You've mistaken me for someone else. Do not wait on me, Ms. Lane. Do not construct your world around mine. I'm not that man." "Screw you, Barrons." "I'm not that man, either.

I would wear pink because I knew my future was anything but rosy. I would accessorize myself to the hilt, and I would wear flirty shoes because my world needed more beauty to counter all the ugliness in it. I would wear pink because I hated gray, I didn't deserve white, and I was sick of black.

I hammered him with my fists. He just stood and took it. He didn't suffer graciously, he looked pissed off to no end. But he let me hit him. And he didn't hit me back.

Who says we need the walls back up? You're roaches, we're Raid. We'll get rid of you eventually.

Leave it alone, I'm handling this," Barrons told Ryodan. "I suggest you do a better job." "And I suggest you go fuck yourself.

He sees her like I do: at seventeen, twenty, thirty. Superimposed over the fourteen-year-old, he sees the woman she'll become. And he's staking claim. Over. my. Dead. Fucking. Body. And I can't die.

Get back on the bike and tell me where to go." "I'll tell you where to go," I muttered sourly, and he laughed.

No way. I'm not going in there. I draw the line at grave-robbing, Barrons. It's not your pen.

I wake up every day with a single imperative: live. By any means necessary. The only way Death will ever get his slimy bastard hands on me is over my dead body.

For the record, Irish," he informed her tightly, just in case she got the wrong idea, "I kneel to no one.

So what's the big picture about our lust for sex? We're not trying to acquire something. We want to feel something: Alive. Electrically, intensely, blazingly alive. Good. Bad. Pleasure. Pain. Bring it on--all of it. For people who live small, I guess enough of that can be found in sex. But for those of us who live large, the most alive we ever feel is when we're punching air with a fist, uncurling our middle finger with a cool smile, and flipping Death the big old bird.

At the very last moment, just before its lips claimed hers, its grip on her face relaxed slightly and she did the only thing she could think of: She head-butted it. Snapped her head back, then forward again, and bashed it square in the face as hard as she could. So hard, in fact, that it made her woozy and gave her an instant migraine, making her wonder how Jean-Claude Van Damme always managed to coolly continue fighting after such a stunt. Obviously, movies lied.

I can either be a victim—or a winner. Fuck victimhood. I don't wear it well; it clashes with my wardrobe. I'm ready. Only one of us is getting out alive. It's going to be me.

I'll give you until nine P.M. tomorrow to get the bloody hell out of this country and out of my way. The nerve. I'd had to bite my tongue on the juvenile impulse to snap, Or what? -you're not the boss of me, second only to an even more juvenile impulse to call my mom and wail, Nobody likes me here and I don't even know why!

If I were a character in a novel, I'd snipe the bitch who wrote my life this way.

Nothing touches her. To be touched is weakness.

I don't convince nobody of nothing. You take me or leave me just the way I am! But I ain't changing for you or nobody else and I ain't faking either, and if you think breaking my bones one by one is going to accomplish a thing besides, like, breaking my bones, good luck with that!