Best 3417 quotes in «blood quotes» category

It is never over until you are greatly rewarded for all your blood, sweat and tears.

It made my blood boil so hot, my brain stopped working right.

It is not by blood, anyhow, that man's true continuity is established: Alexander's direct heir is Caesar, and not the frail infant born of a Persian princess in an Asiatic citadel; Epaminondas, dying without issue, was right to boast that he had Victories for daughters.

I took a glass retort, capable of containing eight ounces of water, and distilled fuming spirit of nitre according to the usual method. In the beginning the acid passed over red, then it became colourless, and lastly again all red: no sooner did this happen, then I took away the receiver; and tied to the mouth of the retort a bladder emptied of air, which I had moistened in its inside with milk of lime lac calcis, (i.e. lime-water, containing more quicklime than water can dissolve) to prevent its being corroded by the acid. Then I continued the distillation, and the bladder gradually expanded. Here-upon I left every thing to cool, tied up the bladder, and took it off from the mouth of the retort.— I filled a ten-ounce glass with this air and put a small burning candle into it; when immediately the candle burnt with a large flame, of so vivid a light that it dazzled the eyes. I mixed one part of this air with three parts of air, wherein fire would not burn; and this mixture afforded air, in every respect familiar to the common sort. Since this air is absolutely necessary for the generation of fire, and makes about one-third of our common air, I shall henceforth, for shortness sake call it empyreal air, [literally fire-air] the air which is unserviceable for the fiery phenomenon, and which makes abut two-thirds of common air, I shall for the future call foul air [literally corrupted air].

I try to grasp the colour of my blood and all I feel is life slipping through the colourless veins.

Its culture: the fruit of its life, the product of its own efforts in thought and art. This culture is not international. It is the expression of the national genius, of the blood. The culture is international in its brilliance but national in origin. Someone made a fine comparison: bread and wheat may be internationally consumed, but they always bear the imprint of the soil from which they came.

It's a thin line between what we're calling acceptable and not acceptable. As a leader, you're supposed to know when not to cross it. But how do you know? Does the army teach us how to control our emotions? Does the army teach us how to deal with a friend bleeding out in front of you? No.

It is something that cannot be explained or even understood until you’ve lived it; a man can’t know or fully appreciate his life until he’s been close enough to taste the end of it, and the bonds forged in battle are some of the strongest a man could ever have. We are brothers, the men of ODA 022, and though we didn’t have the same blood running through our veins, we had all shed the blood of others together, and knew that none of us would hesitate to step in the way of fate and take a round or jump on a grenade to save one another.

It takes a lot of faith, courage, persistence, and perseverance to live the life of a winner. But in the end, it will surely worth every blood, sweat, and tears.

It's not about blood," says Lucius. "It's about who you share your life with. Where you feel you really belong.

It smells of blood and honey, of sex and song.

It was Brian's blood, and for some reason I knew it was pure. No other man I'd held in my arms -and now, not even I- had blood this pure.

I’ve read about this in books, imagined it in my mind countless times since I’ve been here, but to actually witness it is something entirely different. I thought I was prepared, but nothing—no amount of book learning or supposed life experience or bravado—can make you invulnerable to the sight of a vampire drinking blood.

It you taste nice I may bite!

It was the smell that hit her first. It was a sterile, antiseptic and very distinctive medical smell, a smell with an underlying metallic reek of blood beneath it. Disturbing as this was, Selena wasn’t necessarily shocked. It was a hospital, after all. Just like schools had a tendency to smell like chalk dust and sweat and cafeteria mystery meat, just like auto shops stank of gasoline and rust, hospitals had an odour reflecting their whole purpose, and it was sort of redundant to try and hide it.

I walked until the water lapped against my chest, and then I kept walking until it kissed the underside of my jaw. I was surprised how cold it was. I closed my eyes and ducked beneath the surface. Thee was the wind and the clouds and the pure pool and the boy beneath its unsettled surface, and the blood, the boy's and monster's, defiling the pool.

I wanted blood to signify life, not death.

I've spent too much of my life trying to leave the past behind. But the past is a leech. Digs its head into you and sucks your blood until it leaves you dry.

I wanted to thank Trent, but all I could do was give him a faint smile before I lost consciousness. Everything had worked flawlessly. I had planned the perfect murder - my own.

I was tainted. With her blood. Their blood. And the disease of my despair. There was no cleansing something so tainted. This was who I was now. This was War.

I watched life and death unfold like a dance on the side of that road. My son was born with a bloodstained face and he died with blood from the accident covering that same face.

I will come,' the priest answered, 'for I have read in old books of these strange beings which are neither quick nor dead, and which lie ever fresh in their graves, stealing out in the dusk to taste life and blood.

I will write your name in the ruin of them. I will paint you across history in the color of their blood.

I was born to create things and solve problems. It’s in our blood. Ask my brother Stephen. Our lineage goes back to ancient China when our ancestors were the first to invent firepower, the kite, and even noodles.” - Auntabelle, Amazon Lee and the Ancient Undead of Rome by Kira G. and Kailin Gow

I was drawn to horses as if they were magnets. It was in my blood. I must have inherited from my grandfather a genetic proclivity toward the equine species. Perhaps there's a quirk in the DNA that makes horse people different from everyone else, that instantly divides humanity into those who love horses and the others, who simply don't know.

I was a coward. I've been a coward. So have you. We've both got blood on our hands. We're not the heroes who saved the world, we're the villains who survived it. I've made my peace with that. You should, too, because guilt is a weight you'll never swim away from.

Love in your heart is good medicine for long live. Hatred in your blood is the major cause of heart failure! Love people, get transfused with a fresh blood and you'll live long!

I was born and raised in America. However, I am not red or blue. I am red, white and blue. Those are the same colors in my body (my heart, blood and veins). I am only human, and the human race is the only race in which I am an active participant - mind, body and soul.

Love is like that. It's like a wildfire in my blood.

Love is God’s first word, the first thought that sailed through his mind. When he said: Let there by light! there was love. And he was well-pleased with what he had made, nor did he wish any of it unmade. And love was the world’s origin and the world’s ruler; but all its ways are filled with flowers and blood, flowers and blood.

…Man’s heart is a ditch full of blood. The loved ones who have died throw themselves down on the bank of this ditch to drink the blood and so come to life again; the dearer they are to you, the more of your blood they drink.” - The Narrator.

Looking at her always reminded me of a rose that was dripping blood. I always felt it was drawing all the life from inside. Just to look beautiful on the outside.

Making Disciples through the Transforming Power of Jesus Christ in the Spirit of Excellence!

Mi tiene il polso alzato, controllando che non perda ancora. Lui è caldo, stranamente caldo in confronto a tutto il resto. La notte è fredda, come il cemento su cui sono sdraiato, come il mio sangue sparso un po’ dappertutto. Lui è caldo. Cerco di ridere, ma non mi viene.

Men feel about sex the way vampires feel about blood. They don't just like it, they crave it. That's why vampire stories always have strong sexual undercurrents. A vampire's hunger is simply a metaphor for a man's lust. And if a guy is paying attention to you, he wants to have sex with you.

—¡¿Me buscabais?! —Así es, Gryal Ibori. —¡Pues aquí me tenéis! —gritó furioso, con el alma ardiente y la voz quebrada. Estaba cansado de todo y de todos. Sólo quería ver a Lorette, reunirse con ella y estar a su lado. Y corrió hacia sus enemigos, como un león herido y rodeado, como un hombre que sólo tiembla por frío y sólo llora por amor. Su capa negra se deslizó en el viento, cual triste bandera, y Gryal cortó el aire con su espada ensangrentada.

More people have died in the name of religion than any other cause on earth. Is massacring God's creations really serving God - or the devil? And what father would want to see his children constantly divided and fighting? What God would allow a single human life to be sacrificed for monetary gain? Again, the Creator or the devil?

My dreams are bloody and bleeding and blood is bleeding all over my mind and I can’t sleep anymore.

My Electromagnetic Hypersensitivity (EHS) appeared to be caused by blood clots in the brain which had to be flushed out to cure it. The mystery was why I had the blood clots there, which recently was solved by the medical profession as I have a hole in my heart that creates them. It is estimated that 25% of the population have a hole in their heart and Atrial Septal Defect (ASD) may be one of the triggers for the onset of EHS in a person.

My healthy blood was powerless to cure the sick blood of my beloved. That was beyond understanding. And so is death.

My knee struck a tree root as my vision went black. Suddenly, I was in a building at Haven Crest, kneeling on the floor. Blood, thick and clotted like canned cherries, crept down the walls. The lights above my head flickered off then on with a menacing hum.

My heart has always beat thunderstorms instead of blood.

My vengeance needs blood.

My love, I'm here. I'll wait my whole life through until you're done, there in the cove at Kamouraska. Until you wash your blood-soaked hands and make your way back to me

No blood at all. I could hear that phrase repeat itself in my head, louder each time. No sticky, hot, messy, awful blood. No splatter. NO BLOOD AT ALL. Why hadn't I thought of that?

No death is sweeter than this, and no rose redder than the blood that flows.

Night after night I inflict abuse on myself, even drawing blood. It's strangely calming. I know the pain will stop whenever I want. I was the one who decided when it should start; I will be the one to decide when it stops. However much it hurts, I draw some comfort from the idea that I'm in control.

No one's place in this world is guaranteed. Not everyone is going to get a happy ending. But life isn't about how it ends. It's about the moments between. It's about the small things. The way our loved ones laugh. The sight of a butterfly in the sunlight after a year or two in the darkness. The love and support of an old friend. They might not be with us in body, but they are with us in spirit. The feeling of something we'd thought lost to us forever returned in a single, life-changing moment. Yes, that is simple, even though it might be momentous to us as individuals. Because every day, on this planet, people are born and people die and stranger things happen. But I know my place now, and my purpose. And no matter what trial you have to endure to find that out... It's worth it.

No. That would not be him. He would not die on a battlefield, choking on blood and honor without making any difference at all.

N O T H I N G I would like to write one of those sophisticated stories in which even though nothing much happens there’s lots to write about. That can’t be done in Kashmir. It’s not sophisticated, what happens here. There’s too much blood for good literature. Q 1: Why is it not sophisticated? Q 2: What is the acceptable amount of blood for good literature? y