Sore Eyes Famous Quotes & Sayings
43 Sore Eyes Famous Sayings, Quotes and Quotation.
Well!" said John Slater, after having acknowledged his nose and his likeness; "I could laugh at a jest as well as e'er the best on 'em, though it did tell agen mysel, if I were not clemming" (his eyes filled with tears; he was a poor, pinched, sharp-featured man, with a gentle and melancholy expression of countenance), "and if I could keep from thinking of them at home, as is clemming; but with their cries for food ringing in my ears, and making me afeard of going home, and wonder if I should hear 'em wailing out, if I lay cold and drowned at th' bottom o' th' canal, there - why, man, I cannot laugh at aught. It seems to make me sad that there is any as can make game on what they've never knowed; as can make such laughable pictures on men, whose very hearts within 'em are so raw and sore as ours were and are, God help us." John— Elizabeth Gaskell
the sight of me is good for sore eyes— Charles Dickens
A letter from Jonathon Binns, a medical expert, written in 1772, advised the mother of a baby to "give him a little red or white wine every day. He may at different times take about one glass; but be very cautious of it if his eyes be somewhat sore and inflamed. Red port is preferable to white, provided he is sufficiently open in his belly."3— Janet Gleeson
The sight of you is good for sore eyes.— Jonathan Swift
How could I tell him that I now wanted what he had once wanted— Steve Toltz
to travel on trains and fall in love with girls with dark eyes and extravagant lips? It didn't matter to me if at the end of it I had nothing to show but sore thighs. It wasn't my fault that the life of the wanderer, the wayfarer, had fallen out of favor with the world. So what if it was no longer acceptable to drift with the wind, asking for bread and a roof, sleeping on bales of hay and enjoying dalliances with barefooted farmgirls, then running away before the harvest? This was the life I wanted, blowing around like a leaf with appetites.
Dani: "Warlock! You, pal, are the proverbial sight for sore eyes!"— Chris Claremont
Warlock: "Concern! Are selfriend's primary ocular sensors dysfunctional?
...And suddenly, from behind me, I hear the metaphysically abrupt arrival of the office boy. I feel like I could kill him for barging in on what I wasn't thinking. I turn around and look at him with a silence full of hatred, tense with latent homicide, my mind already hearing the voice he'll use to tell me something or other. He smiles from the other side of the room and says 'Good afternoon' in a loud voice. I hate him like the universe. My eyes are sore from imagining.— Fernando Pessoa
Hey, pretty child. You're a sight for sore fucking eyes.— Debra Anastasia
I pronounce you cured," he said. "My condition, however, is more critical. Alas. It's worsened considerably."— Lisa Dierbeck
"What condition?" said Alice, testing her foot out, stamping it on the ground to see how sore it was.
"Being in love," he said, "with you."
Alice didn't look at him. "Since when?" she asked after a minute.
"Who can say? I think, probably, since the first second I laid eyes on you.
Cas whistled. "You are a sight for sore eyes, Anna Banana.— Jennifer Rush
So, I took my 13 year-old niece Sungazing last night.— Sienna McQuillen
I'm finding that most people are really receptive to it!
I explain the whole thing about the Sun's energy entering to heal and grow you like it does a tree.
Even though I'm doing 5-6 mins, I make sure that everyone only does 15-20 secs to start, and at Sunset only.
If the clouds come in at Sunset, you might be out of luck.
In that case, still do your 45-min barefoot walk during bright Sun hours.
The Sun soaks in through your Crown and Third-Eye Chakras and your eyes, then travels down through you into the Earth.
That helps with the grounding, as does the barefoot walking.
My feet are really sore though, some of the paths are pebbly or rocky, but the feet are getting tougher.
Did you know that each of our toes relates directly to the 5 major glands in our bodies?
It's true, look into acupressure/puncture for the details.
Let's go over it again, shall we?"— Michele Bardsley
"We will not shape-shift in front of your children unless it's an emergency," said Drake.
"And if it is an emergency, we will try to find a place to hide, or, if that isn't possible, we will change so that they see our backsides," added Darrius.
I stared at Drake. He rolled his eyes. "I did not 'flop around' in front of Jenny. I was behind the couch and she was on the stairs. She saw only my head." He pointed at his skull. "This one! On mein shoulders!"
"I know." I waved at them. "Continue."
"We will keep shorts or jeans stashed in many locations so that when we shift back into human form, we'll be able to cover our woobies," said Darrius.
"Excellent." I looked at Drake and smiled benignly. "How's your rear end?"
"Sore," he groused. "Not even Brigid would heal the scratches from that damned cat.
I didn't bring my peremptory tone to bear in regard to what you'd just said about the unnecessariness of sleep but only, only, mind you, because of the fact that I absolutely, simply, purely and without any whatevers have to sleep now, I mean, man, my eyes are closing, they're redhot, sore, tired, beat ...— Jack Kerouac
What's wrong?" she began quietly, her large, liquid eyes illuminated with hysteria. She laughed like a loon and said, "Where shall we begin? I'm tired. I'm sore." Her voice began lilting and rising, getting louder with every sentence. Grabbing at her chest, she shouted, "I've got a corset wrapped so tightly over my breasts that I can hardly breathe! I lost both my socks and my shoes! My hands are a pulp of lacerations!" She lifted them up before her, fingers spread, and laughed again. "I've a gash -- a throbbing, bleeding gash on the back of my scalp! And let's not forget to mention that I'm surrounded by men of the most vile, disreputable character imaginable, stuck on board a ship, in the middle of the bloody Atlantic!— Gabriela Lawson
In Brohier's eyes, violence was not merely the last refuge of the incompetent. It was the gloating revenge of the sore loser.— Arthur C. Clarke
Every instant of every day we are bombarded by information. In fact, all complex organisms, especially those with brains, suffer from information overload. Our eyes and ears receive lights and sounds (respectively) across the spectrums of visible and audible wavelengths; our skin and the rest of our innervated parts send their own messages of sore muscles or cold feet. All told, every second, our senses transmit an estimated 11 million bits of information to our poor brains, as if a giant fiber-optic cable were plugged directly into them, firing information at full bore. In light of this, it is rather incredible that we are even capable of boredom.— Tim Wu
Men of the most robust make, observe that in looking upon sore eyes they often feel a very sensible soreness in their own, which proceeds from the same reason; that organ being in the strongest man more delicate, than any other part of the body is in the weakest.— Adam Smith
You're a parasite for sore eyes.— Gregory Ratoff
Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown; For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself; And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.— William Shakespeare
Yes, he said, taking her hand. And now I think I finally understand that old expression - a sight for sore eyes.— Justin Somper
The door clicked. She inhaled a tiny gasp.— Victoria Vane
"You should use the deadbolt."
"I was expecting you," she said.
"I was afraid you might change your mind."
"No, Reid. I haven't changed my mind. No games, right?"
His hot gaze raked slowly up and down her body. He doffed his hat and tossed it on the chair. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Haley Cooper. His voice was low and husky, inciting tiny ripples deep inside her sex. He was in tight control, but his desire was palpable, like some powerful force that was about to unleash. He extended his hand.
She approached with an intentional slow and seductive sway of her hips, shivering again as their gazes met and held. Oh dear God. All the foreplay she needed was right there, reflected in his blue eyes.
When a man's eyes are sore his friends do not let him finger them, however much he wishes to, nor do they themselves touch the inflammation: But a man sunk in grief suffers every chance comer to stir and augment his affliction like a running sore; and by reason of the fingering and consequent irritation it hardens into a serious and intractable evil.— Plutarch
The only way to meet affliction is to pass through it solemnly, slowly, with humility and faith, as the Israelites passed through the sea. Then its very ways of misery will divide, and become to us a wall, on the right side and on the left, until the gulf narrows before our eyes and we land safe on the opposite sore.— Dinah Maria Murlock Craik
I was at this guy's house. I met this girl who was hanging out there. She was real pretty, she had brown eyes and dark hair. She was soft-spoken and real nice. I know that everyone has their own life and they can do what they want and you shouldn't think anything of it or anything. But man, I couldn't help but flinch a little when I saw all those needle marks in her arm, they looked so sore. Hateful little holes. I wanted to say something, but I didn't.— Henry Rollins
"Hey, I skinned my palm," Tori said. "Ground it up pretty bad."— Kelley Armstrong
"You need to check Chloe's stitches, too," Derek said. "She got cut with glass a few days ago. They fixed her up, but it should be looked at."
Tori waved her injured palm. "Anyone? Anyone?" She rolled her eyes. "Guess not."
"It looks sore," I said. "We should get some iodine on it."
She gave me a wan smile. "I can always count on you, can't I? Guess I know who sent the cavalry back t rescue me."
When you can face reality without camouflage, yours is the face of compassion. What a sight for sore eyes!— Karen Maezen Miller
What happened to your lip?" Ravenna said to him. "It looks sore."— Katharine Ashe
Miss Feather's fingers darted to her mouth.
"Thank you for your kind concern, Miss Caulfield." His eyes were very dark blue and still rimmed with the longest lashed Ravenna had ever seen on a man. Beauty and virility and confidence and sheer privileged arrogance combined to remarkable effect. No wonder these silly girls stared. "It was bitten," he said.
"Oh, dear." Lady Penelope pouted sweetly. "That must have been alarming."
"Not terribly. I have been bitten by cats before." The corner of his mouth twitched. "This one," he said, turning his dark, laughing gaze upon Ravenna, "was otherwise charming."
-Ravenna, Vitor, & Lady Penelope
You were cut?" "Yeah, but I'm okay. Just a little sore." Devilishness shined in Malik's eyes. "What was the weapon again? Paring knife? Melon baller?" He squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. "One of those cinnamon-flavored toothpicks?— Chloe Neill
His thumb smoothed over the tiny red marks the pins had made on her palm, and he brought her hand to his face to kiss the little sore spots.— Lisa Kleypas
His voice curled hotly inside her palm. "Your hand smells like lemons."
She opened her eyes and stared at him gravely. "I scrub my hands with lemon juice to remove the ink stains."
The information seemed to amuse him, and lights of humor mixed with the heat in his gaze.
I have a conscience, but it's a feeble, withered shred of a thing. It couldn't protect you or anyone else from a stiff breeze.' Glokta sighed, long and hard. The room was too hot, too bright, his eyes were sore and twitchy and he rubbed at them slowly as he spoke. 'You could not even guess at the things that I have done. Awful, evil, obscene, the telling of them alone could make you puke.' He shrugged. 'They nag at me from time to time, but I tell myself I had good reasons. The years pass, the unimaginable becomes everyday, the hideous becomes tedious, the unbearable becomes routine. I push it all into the dark corners of my mind, and it's incredible the room back there. Amazing what one can live with.— Joe Abercrombie
Lincoln?" she asked.— Rainbow Rowell
"Yes?"
"Do you believe in love at first sight?"
He made himself look at her face, at her wide-open eyes and earnest forehead. At her unbearably sweet mouth.
"I don't know," he said. "Do you believe in love before that?"
Her breath caught in her throat like a sore hiccup.
And then it was too much to keep trying not to kiss her.
Hungry, tired, eyes sore, dying to pee, I would sit and take in every conceivable kind of movie. The only criterion for being shown at Canadian Images was that a movie be Canadian. It— Yann Martel
Lady, the sun's light to our eyes is dear, And fair the tranquil reaches of the sea, And flowery earth in May, and bounding waters; And so right many fair things I might praise; Yet nothing is so radiant and so fair As for souls childless, with desire sore-smitten, To see the light of babes about the house.— Euripides
On this site we're going to build an Eye and Ear Hospital. This is going to be a sight for sore eyes.— Morrie Ryskind
Now that's a sight for sore eyes, Sebastian. Maybe I should just leave you here: the hotel maids might appreciate that. Or, better still, maybe I'll take a photograph of you on my phone. Dont worry, I wont post it on the internet, it'll just be my screen saver.— Jane Harvey-Berrick
I was coughing and sneezing, my eyes were sore, my knees were shaky, I was as hungry as a bitch wolf, and I had exactly eight cents to my name. I didn't care. my history was longer by eleven thousand brand-new words, and at that moment I bet there wasn't a chairman of the board in all New York as happy as I.— Joseph Mitchell
I am aware of myself. And, of course, the only things that are aware of themselves and conscious of their individuality are irritated eyes, cut fingers, sore teeth. A healthy eye, finger, tooth might as well not even be there. Isn't it clear that individual consciousness is just sickness?— Yevgeny Zamyatin
Read. Read until your eyes are sore. Then read some more.— Lisa Bloom
You can talk the talk but you can't walk the walk."— Karina Halle
His eyes narrowed in challenge. "Oh, I can walk the walk. I can walk the walk so hard that you'll be sore for days.
Beckett pounded down the steps and smiled from ear to ear when he saw her. Eve tried to ignore the tremor she felt, the fracture in her shield.— Debra Anastasia
"You're a sight for sore fucking eyes. Are you trying to kill me, hotness?" He walked with a fake pimp limp as he got closer.
"Yeah, I am." If he only knew
Stop looking at me like that," I say, frowning and rubbing at my chest. He has this habit of making my heart sore, making my lungs feel like there's not enough air.— L. H. Cosway
He tilts his head attractively, which only makes matters worse. "Like what?"
"Like you're molesting me with your eyes," I blurt out.
His answering laugh is long and deep. I can barely handle the affection in his gaze. "Okay, I'll try to stop. But if it all gets to be too much for you, this apartment happens to have a very nice bathroom. You can go rub one out again to take the edge off. I'll come listen, too, if that will help."
There he goes again, pushing me.
I do a slow blink at him before coming out with a rather masterful comeback. And when I say "masterful," I mean shit. "Why don't you go and rub one out?"
He cocks an eyebrow. "I don't rub out, darlin'. I jack off.
Ye wake in a corner and stay there hoping yer body will disappear, the thoughts smothering ye; these thoughts; but ye want to remember and face up to things, just something keeps ye from doing it, why can't ye no do it; the words filling yer head: then the other words; there's something wrong; there's something far far wrong; ye're no a good man, ye're just no a good man. Edging back into awareness, of where ye are: here, slumped in this corner, with these thoughts filling ye. And oh christ his back was sore; stiff, and the head pounding. He shivered and hunched up his shoulders, shut his eyes, rubbed into the corners with his fingertips; seeing all kinds of spots and lights. Where in the name of fuck ...— James Kelman
Nothing had warned him that he might be overwhelmed by the swaying, shining vision of a girl he hadn't seen in years, a girl whose every glance and gesture could make his throat fill up with longing ("Wouldn't you like to be loved by me?"), and that then before his very eyes she would dissolve and change into the graceless, suffering creature whose existence he tried every day of his life to deny but whom he knew as well and as painfully as he knew himself, a gaunt constricted woman whose red eyes flashed reproach, whose false smile in the curtain call was as homely as his own sore feet, his own damp climbing underwear and his own sour smell.— Richard Yates
