Best 104 quotes in «small town quotes» category

Small towns are the worst for getting recognised.

On the Web we all become small-town visitors lost in the big city.

Small towns make up for their lack of people by having everyone be more interesting.

There’s a lot more business out there in small town America than I ever dreamed of.

There are things about growing up in a small town that you can't necessarily quantify.

There is a comfortable feeling in small towns. It is salubrious.

The art of living in a small town is one of the most difficult to acquire.

There is sort of a small town mentality on the east coast of Canada.

The small town smart set is deadly serious about its smartness.

Alice wondered if her mother was aware that she wasn’t the only one in town who’d come down with a bad case of Blueberry Fever.

You can't be an actor in a small town-you have to go to New York or L.A.

You know how gossip is. It's the toxic waste of small town

A derelict? Do I look like a derelict? Do you know how expensive this car is? These shoes probably cost more than your weekly paycheck." She'd never been so insulted. "Ma'am, I'm not disputing that you're foolish enough to spend that much money on a pair of shoes. I'm simply stating that you can't loiter in the parking lot." Small Town Hero, Kim Koby

As a rule, she didn’t like boys very much, but she had to admit, Charlie was actually pretty nice.

A scattering of pinpoint lights shows up in the blackness ahead. A town or village straddling the highway. The indicator on the speedometer begins to lose ground. The man glances in his mirror at the girl, a little anxiously as if this oncoming town were some kind of test to be met. An illuminated road sign flashes by: CAUTION! MAIN STREET AHEAD - SLOW UP The man nods grimly, as if agreeing with that first word. But not in the way it is meant. The lights grow bigger, spread out on either side. Street lights peer out here and there among the trees. The highway suddenly sprouts a plank sidewalk on each side of it. Dark store-windows glide by. With an instinctive gesture, the man dims his lights from blinding platinum to just a pale wash. A lunch-room window drifts by. ("Jane Brown's Body")

Being bigheaded can be as irritating and as dangerous as being small-minded.

As usual, small towns like this were full of those who needed entertainment and whilst money was difficult to earn, the philosophy of giving the people what they wanted, which Franco lived by, had paid dividends.

Before she could ponder what on earth he meant or come up with a proper response, he took their charade a step further. He kissed her.

Don't ever forget where you came from--especially if you don't even know where you are going.

Dance...even when you're alone; it makes you feel good.

Damn. It's still the Midwest around here, no matter how many open-minded people you surround yourself with.

Don’t go stargazing with anyone else. You want stars, I’ll give you stars.

Doubt filled her eyes. “What are we betting for, anyway?” He hadn’t thought about that, but it took his brain all of three seconds to come up with an answer. He knew damn well what he wanted from her. Had for years. “A kiss.” The words slipped from his lips before he could stop them, but once out, he didn’t want to take them back. “One kiss after you come back and see she’s all right.

I decide to make the most of the time we got left before she gets too big for this small town.

Fighting a Mardi-Gras-In-New-Orleans crowd for eight blocks from Trahan’s Tavern on St. Peter to Bourbon O on Bourbon was like a man being willing to swim the Nile, climb Mount Everest, and cross the Sahara for true love.

Holland surrendered to the Nazis. Belgium surrendered to the Nazis. The Germans marched into Paris. None of these catastrophes managed to shake the general feeling that war in Europe was not in Martin's business. A peacetime draft got the town's attention.

How old are you?” “Old enough to know better, but still young enough to do it again.

For the record, you would've been my first one night stand.

Fruit of the Poisonous Tree, The True Story of Murder in a Small Town, begins on a steamy August night with two teenagers, brother and sister, on an evil mission deep in a rural Michigan forest. For one desperate moment headlights appear on the lonely access road. Will they be found out? Thus the story of one of state’s strangest criminal cases unfolds. Girl breaks up with boyfriend. He turns violent. She disappears without a trace. Then state police investigators set out on what at first looks like a fool’s journey. The story is colored by a bizarre Ouija board death prophesy and the roles of two psychics, a former practicing witch and a handsome young artist who is suspected of Satanism. The canny and elusive suspect taunts police and seems always to be one step ahead of them. When a key witness is daunted by uncharacteristic injuries, a mysterious medium tells him he is the victim of black magic practiced by the suspect’s grandmother. And when, after eight years, the suspect finally is brought to trial, he is represented by a Roman Catholic priest.

Future Farmers of America. Group who take ag classes and are going to inherit the farm. Hot shit around here, they have a couple guys in every clique, and they stick together, 'cause they know they'll be seeing each other every week for the next sixty years.

[He] had to submit to the fate of every newcomer in a small town, where many tongues talk but few heads think.

I’d never met a “why not?” person before. In the city, there’s generally more of a “why should I?” kind of vibe.

If I was going to spend the next day in jail for obstruction of justice, I'd better get a good nights sleep.

If looks could kill, she’d be a dead woman.

I don’t want to go home yet.” He twisted at the waist and patted the seat behind him. “Take a walk on the wild side with me.

I’ll save a spot for you on the hood of my truck.

I know this place like I know the calluses on my hands.

It’s an immense night out there, wheeling and windy. The lights on the street and in the houses against the black wetness, little unilluminating glints that might be painted on it. The town seems huddled together, cowering on a high tiny perch, afraid to move lest it topple into the wind.

I’m a mother. You name it, I’ve seen it and probably had to mop it up,” said Lucy.

I’m not too big for this town, Dad. I never will be.

I must say, cowboy, I'm impressed. I was worried you could only handle eight seconds at a time.

In this town to know three languages is an unnecessary luxury. It's not even a luxury, but a sort of unnecessary addition, like a sixth finger. We have a great deal of superfluous knowledge.

I'm the girl who's desperate to get out of her small town because if she doesn't she knows she'll die. She knows her soul will start to rot, like fruit gone bad.

In a city the multiplicity of threads forced a whirling confusion on the loom but here the simple pattern and the slow weaving made purpose more discernible.

In a small town where everyone knows everyone it is almost impossible to believe that one of your acquaintance could murder anyone. For that reason, if the signs are not pretty strong in a particular direction, it must be some dark stranger, some wanderer from the outside world where such things happen.

Knowledge is currency here....

It was like hundreds of roads he'd driven over - no different - a stretch of tar, lusterless, scaley, humping toward the center. On both sides were telephone poles, tilted this way and that, up a little, down... Billboards - down farther an increasing clutter of them. Some road signs. A tottering barn in a waste field, the Mail Pouch ad half weathered away. Other fields. A large wood - almost leafless now - the bare branches netting darkly against the sky. Then down, where the road curved away, a big white farmhouse, trees on the lawn, neat fences - and above it all, way up, a television aerial, struck by the sun, shooting out bars of glare like neon. ("Thompson")

I’ve been to livelier funerals,” grumbled Herb.

It's one thing to develop a nostalgia for home while you're boozing with Yankee writers in Martha's Vineyard or being chased by the bulls in Pamplona. It's something else to go home and visit with the folks in Reed's drugstore on the square and actually listen to them. The reason you can't go home again is not because the down-home folks are mad at you--they're not, don't flatter yourself, they couldn't care less--but because once you're in orbit and you return to Reed's drugstore on the square, you can stand no more than fifteen minutes of the conversation before you head for the woods, head for the liquor store, or head back to Martha's Vineyard, where at least you can put a tolerable and saving distance between you and home. Home may be where the heart is but it's no place to spend Wednesday afternoon.

I wish I could run away,” Rudger told Jersey as they both rushed in and out of various patients’ rooms, darting around like little ants. “I can’t leave and be on my own though, not right now, anyway.” “Why?” asked Jersey, waving her flashlight in mid-air. Rudger froze for a second, a regretful haze emanating from his eyes. “It’d break her heart if I left.” “Ain’t that normal? For parents to have mixed feelings about their kids growin’ up?” “Not for me, it isn’t.” Jersey made a pitying face in his direction. “So, you wanna keep bein’ towed around with your mom, livin’ in a gross town like Danvers?” “Is there a choice?” “Yeah, there sure is. You can run away and try to be a whole person before it’s too late, or you can live with mommy dearest forever and turn into Norman Bates.