Bones Quotes
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And a softness came from the starlight and filled me full to the bone.
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I'm going to stop smoking. I'm not such a good smoker, anyway. It's not in my bones. I'm gonna drop it.
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Hope sleeps in our bones like a bear waiting for spring to rise and walk.
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May I write words more naked than flesh, stronger than bone, more resilient than sinew, sensitive than nerve.
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Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I've heard you've bin givin' out signed photos. How come I haven't got one?
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Stories are like that. Like cities, they are built on the stones and bones of the past.
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Lay your life down. Your heartbeats cannot be hoarded. Your reservoir of breaths is draining away. You have hands, blister them while you can. You have bones, make them strain - they can carry nothing in the grave. You have lungs, let them spill with laughter.
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I have dangerous bones in my body.
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My arm bones looked like chicken bones.
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My partner has to have good sized bones.
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I know for sure that I have an instinct for color, and that it will come to me more and more, that painting is in the very marrow of my bones.
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There's more to life than cheek bones.
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He pressed himself into me and kissed my neck, and it was as if everything strong and solid inside me, heart and bones and muscle and gut, softened and melted from the heat of him.
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Folk is bare bones music.
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'No Bones' has some reverb that I kick around.
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Reinforced concrete buildings are by nature skeletal buildings. No noodles nor armoured turrets. A construction of girders that carry the weight, and walls that carry no weight. That is to say, buildings consisting of skin and bones.
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Put your hands on your hip, let your back bone slip. Do the Watusi, like my little Lucy.
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Scripts are kind of a bare bones type of reading material.
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The sandy cat by the Farmer's chair Mews at his knee for dainty fare; Old Rover in his moss-greened house Mumbles a bone, and barks at a mouse. In the dewy fields the cattle lie Chewing the cud 'neath a fading sky; Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.
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The very spot where grew the bread that formed my bones, I see. How strange, old field, on thee to tread, and feel I'm part of thee.
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Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!
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How intense could you be? Can you be intense enough to pick this 500Lbs off the floor? Are you intense enough to pick this 700Lbs up? Squat down to the floor and stand back up? So what if your eyes are bloodshot! So what if your bones feel like snapping! WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO!
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My caddie 'Stovepipe' tried to talk me into hitting a 3-wood. But I took out the turf rider (4-wood) instead. The moment I hit it, I felt something in my bones. Walter Hagen was playing with me and Bobby Jones was on the green. 21 people were behind the green. The sun was going down. I wasn't sure it had gone in the hole until I saw all 21 people jumping up and down.
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I am constantly trying to communicate something incommunicable, to explain something inexplicable, to tell about something I only feel in my bones and which can only be experienced in those bones. Basically it is nothing other than this fear we have so often talked about, but fear spread to everything, fear of the greatest as of the smallest, fear, paralyzing fear of pronouncing a word, although this fear may not only be fear but also a longing for something greater than all that is fearful.
