Quotes About Throat

As a patient, he's as cooperative as a panther with a thorn in its paw. Eli and Tori have to hold his head steady or I might cut his throat by mistake. Or maybe it wouldn't be by mistake.

He laughed again: the horror of the world lay like infection in his throat.

Mr Chou cleared his throat, but it was only for an immense expectoration into a tin spittoon decorated with pink blooms. The baby rolled up and down among the tea-dregs and the cat leapt from a cardboard box on to a suitcase.

Evil is an act, not an appetite. How many haven't wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? Present company excepted of course. Everyone has the appetite. If you give in to it, it, that act is evil. The appetite is normal.

Horror fans need horror, okay? They don't need little worms squirming around going down your throat. To them, that's not horror.

My singing days have passed. My voice is gone. My throat is worn. And my lungs are going fast.

That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I dare say I would've cut his throat had not the unmentionables distracted me from doing so.

Ringo's chuckle got tangled up with a cough. He tossed back a shot, cleared his throat, and said, Politics, from the Latin. Poly , meaning 'many.' Ticks meaning 'bloodsucking little bastards.

Any nod on serious hallucinogens can become sagelike, and suddenly the group resembles some Bedouin tribe weary with ancient desert wisdom looking down on the scorpion-stung interloper whose tongue is slowly swelling his throat shut.

For a cookbook, Apicius has a markedly gladiatorial style. "Remove the entrails by the throat before the carcass hardens immediately after killing," begins one recipe.

Speech is a river of breath, bent into hisses and hums by the soft flesh of the mouth and throat.

Breaking up with a woman tends to be a lot harder if she can turn into a panther and rip out your throat.

It was queer how it all hurt you--how the odor of the night, the silver sheen of the moon, the moist feeling of the dew, the whispering of the night breeze, how somewhere down in your throat it hurt you.

My wife one time got a fishbone stuck in her throat and had to fly back to L.A. from Monte Carlo to have it taken out. I thought, 'Wow, what a great blues song!'

She had to turn her head away for an instant, clear her throat, blow her nose. Oh damn, tears, they burn like fire, she cried, suddenly in a fury, and ran for an old blanket to dab her eyes before the salty wetness could run down her cheeks.

I shook my head. "And I thought you were a genius when I saw your paintings." "Really?" She seemed caught off guard by the compliment. "Really." She cleared her throat. "And now that you see how deceptive I can be?" "I think you're a diabolical genius." Natalie liked that. "You can't fault me. That Lars guy is like human Ambien. He opens his mouth, I'm out." "I'm

Gruffly, he cleared his throat. 'Don't take this as a blanket approval of your tactics, Sarah, but if I'm ever unfortunate enough to get in trouble with the law, I want you to represent me.' Before I could respond to this startling and totally out-of-the-blue compliment, he opened the door and was nudging me inside. I caught a quick glance of his face before he walked off toward the dining room. He was actually blushing!

Through her, in microcosm, the wide earth sobbed. The starglobe sank in her; the colours faded. The death-dew rose and the wild birds in her breast climbed to her throat and gathered songless, hovering, all tumult, wing to wing, so ardent for those climes where all things end.

Machineries of reason, machineries of conduct, machineries of virtue. The machine that regulates instinct, keeps one's hands free of another man's throat, free of one's own. These machines have all, as someone said, gone too long in the elements. Gummed now, rusted, bloodless. I forget who said it and I no longer care.

oldest folk-music tradition in Europe. Yoik is shaped, in part, to convey a sense of place through the composition of its sounds. Along with the Sami, Tuvan throat singers from Central Asia and some Inuit groups who

It's all right! Simon said hoarsely. Hastily he cleared his throat and put his shoulders back, though it was hard to recover dignity in pajamas.

Why did joy bring the same tears as sadness? Why did the throat and chest ache with fire, regardless? Was it because, deep down, everyone knew it was fragile and ephemeral? Did the tears come from the knowledge that everything could turn in the blink of an eye?

The blood that covered the front of her dress hit her square in the eyes, like a ripe tomato hurled at her face. Forming a giant, angry fist, it reached into her throat and dragged forth a low, unwilling scream.

Of course. The team on your carriage was beautiful. They are yours, aren't they?" He ignored her and walked ahead until his foot connected with soft mushy ground. "Shit," he muttered. "Exactly." He glared at her, thinking himself a saint for not going for her throat.