Quotes About Throat

Today Mrs. Beasley began by clearing her throat. Again, this isn't a worrisome sign. Librarians are not overly talkative so our throats can get froggy from lack of use.

island was full of them. What I really wanted was a wild strawberry, to slip sweetly down my irritable throat, and so I told that brown hull. It changed so fast my thumb sank into its soft, red body.

with Occam's old razor she could slit the throat of that idea.

an immense sea turtle, his forehead still sharp and intelligent but his jowls and throat gone froggy

I hate milk. Coats your throat as bad as okra. Something just downright disgusting about it.

Kai stepped close, circled to face his prey, and wrapped his hand around the ghoul's throat. "Do mortals just walk into your channel house all the time? Am I one? Am I stupid? The ghoul choked out, "I didn't know you were a..." "Say it." Kai smiled. "... a demon." "You idiot." Kai leaned closer to whisper, "I'm the demon.

Kai stepped close, circled to face his prey, and wrapped his hand around the ghoul's throat. "Do mortals just walk into your channel house all the time? Am I one? Am I stupid?" The ghoul choked out, "I didn't know you were a..." "Say it." Kai smiled. "... a demon." "You idiot." Kai leaned closer to whisper, "I'm the demon." —Martha Wells

Kai stepped close, circled to face his prey, and wrapped his hand around the ghoul's throat. "Do mortals just walk into your channel house all the time? Am I one? Am I stupid?" The ghoul choked out, "I didn't know you were a..." "Say it." Kai smiled. "... a demon." "You idiot." Kai leaned closer to whisper, "I'm the demon.

The isolation of this place tightened like a vise around her throat.

Come quickly with me. Inhale the divine that swoops from nostril to blunted throat then sneaks past guarded doors into the hallway of your heart where the lamplight grows.

I have mugs of hot water every morning because the studio is cold, and also because it makes my throat sound clearer.

Time snapped and Hagerty found himself speeding toward the woman in the straitjacket. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he pulled her off the corpse and held her at arm's length. He caught a glimpse of Kalish's face and the shredded mess where his throat should have been.

I was looking for...the mountain cult," he barks out at last. His throat is dry and his head aches. She laughs. "Yea, well. You found it. So that was a bloody stupid idea, wasn't it?

He felt a sudden sadness, hanging like a stone pendant within his throat, the cold, smooth mass preventing him from speaking.

As the sun went down and left candlelight wavering over brow and throat, wrist and mouth, it seemed for a moment that they could be almost the same age: two women enjoying a conversation.

She leaned back, the very picture of ease and Anglisc wealth with her smooth honey hair, fine-draped dress, and gold winking at throat and wrist.

Yet the voice could take fright . This Kathy Kerouac foresaw only too well when syllables suddenly started coming out of her mouth like little fragments of oblivion giving her the impression she was contradicting herself. It was in these moments, when words were both true and false, solemn and light, on the tip of her tongue and deep in the throat, that space shrank in her mouth like a hard-felt blow.

I am trying to imagine language without light, as though I wanted to understand how things were before language, when, deep in the throat, syllables and vowels were not yet organized and it was necessary to tilt one's head back to allow sounds to fly through the open air, terrifying, guttural or strident.

Bran was always a deceptive bastard, gentle and mild right up until he ripped your throat out. He had many other fine qualities as well.

That was Bran, quiet and calm until he ripped out your throat.

What do we do with these huge gifts of the throat and tongue? How do we manage? — Related to the Buttercup, Blooms in Spring

I could feel the insidious fingers of memory rustling through the underbrush like the dismembered hand of the pianist scrabbling toward Peter Lorre's throat in The Beast with Five Fingers.

The knives I keep in my apartment are just sharp enough to open envelopes with. Cutting a slice of coarse bread is on the borderline of their capacity. I don't need anything sharper. Otherwise, on bad days, it might easily occur to me that I could always go and split my throat. Against such a contingency it's nice to have the added security of needing to go downstairs and borrow a decent knife from a neighbour.

For not a word they speak can be trusted; destruction lies within them. Their throats are open graves; their tongues practice deceit.