Best 85 quotes in «staring quotes» category

God bless your soul, you're a horrible liar." Logan smiled as he leaned back on the door. "Answer me this Rachel?" he said placing his hands on his waist. "Why do you keep staring at me?

He stared for ten seconds or more, which, when eating a chocolate cake isn't much, but when staring, is.

Hey,.... bitch.... Sucker or whatever you are.... STOPP STARRRRINGGGG AT ME! It's so depressing!

Hey, why you are staring at me with a gaze like something I have done wrong, waiting wrong to be done by me...

His first thought – what felt like his first thought ever, it formed so slowly in his brain – was that she looked like a doll. Just like a doll. Her eyes were large and bright and feline; her hair was chestnut, brushed to a hardwood shine, parted sharply and flowing to her thighs; her lips were cupid’s-bow-cute; her head was tilted to one side on a long, long neck. She had skin that had never seen sunlight, and wore no expression at all. He noticed her. And she noticed, and kept on noticing, him. Stanley looked down for a third and longer time. It wasn’t polite to stare. Not at girls. Or anyone. But especially not girls. Not even girls who looked like perfect porcelain dolls.

I do love you.” He said it suddenly, raising his head so his black eyes could meet her startled green ones. “I mean it, Shea. I do not just need you, I love you. I know everything about you, I have been in your head, shared your memories, shared your dreams and your ideas. I know you think I need you and that is why I am with you, but it is much more than that. I love you.” He grinned unexpectedly, traced her lower lip with the tip of a finger. “What is more, I know you love me. You hide it from yourself, but I found it in a little corner, tucked away in your mind.” Shea stared up at the teasing smile on his face, then pushed at the solid wall of his chest. “You’re making that up.” Jacques moved off her, then reached down to pull her to her feet. His clothes were scattered everywhere, and he made no move to retrieve them. Shea’s shirt was still hanging open, and her jeans were down around her ankles. Blushing, she pulled them up. His hands stayed hers, preventing her from fastening them. “Do not bother, Shea. The pools are just ahead.” He walked a few feet, then looked back over his shoulder. “I did not make it up, and I know you are staring at my backside.” Shea tossed her mane of red hair so that it flew in all directions. “Any woman in her right mind would stare at your particular backside, so you don’t need to add that to your arrogant list of virtues. And stay out of my mind unless you’re invited.” She was staring, but she couldn’t help it. He was so beautifully masculine. Jacques reached behind him and captured her hand, lacing their fingers together. “But I find the most interesting things in your mind, my love. Things you do not have any intention of telling me.

I never get used to the faces--wide-eyed and full of possibility--staring bad at me.

In his worn blue jeans and a black T-shirt, the early-morning sun hits Isaiah just right, highlighting him like he’s a relaxed tiger bathing in the warmth. The light glints off his double rows of hoop earrings and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me feel like he has a secret, but not the type kept from me. No, it’s the type that suggests I’m in on it, and that it involves a lack of my clothes. And maybe some of his. As if I spoke the thought instead of keeping it internal, Isaiah lifts his shirt to scratch at a spot right above his hip bone. Good Lord, he’s pretty. I soak in the sight of the muscles in his abdomen like I’m a plant in the Sahara Desert, except it doesn’t quench my thirst. It only causes my mouth to run dry. Isaiah smiles like he knows what I’m thinking, and heat licks up my body and pools in my cheeks. What really causes my blood to curve into itself is the wicked gleam in his eye. It’s a spark that says he’s done very naughty things I’ve never even heard about.

She remembers standing at her locker, hearing the whispers. Whispers about her. And about Luke. She remembers turning and seeing Dani and Lynn with a group of girls they knew from Yearbook. She remembers not understanding right away. And then Dani stared her down, eyes narrowed to slits. When Hallelujah dropped her gaze, she heard Lynn’s peal of laughter. “So anyway,” Lynn went on, “Luke said . . .” She remembers the note, in English class. “You knew I liked him.” Dani’s clean cursive. Hallelujah stared at her friend’s back. Dani didn’t turn around. And she didn’t respond to calls or emails in the weeks that followed. By winter break, Dani was dating Luke. The rumors about Hallelujah had circulated and changed and circulated again. Still, on the first day of the new semester, she mustered up the courage to say something. To warn her former friend about who Luke really was. Dani laughed in her face. Called her jealous. Luke dumped Dani in February. Dani and Lynn still refused to speak to Hallelujah. It was like they’d never been friends at all.

It is reasonable to think that if you spend your days indoors under artificial lights, staring at a screen, sitting in computer electromagnetic interference (EMI) fields and exposed to radio waves, that you may eventually develop a strange form of radiation sickness.

He looks me to pieces … I realize now that I have been glimpsed and corner-of-the-eyed before, by the Chief and my sister and the yawning tourists. But I have never actually been looked at. Not like this.

Raven briefly pondered the phrase, "staring down the barrel of a gun". It wasn't really that accurate, he decided. After all, it was too dark to see any features down a barrel, only a black circle at the end of it.

Never keep staring at the dreams you have on the paper... Don't just live like a spectator. You have the power, you have the mine, you have the skills, you can dribble your obstacles to get your goals moving to the other

She gazed at him alluringly and grinned. No further words were necessary.

She lay outside in the courtyard, staring up at the raindrops… feeling them hit her body… trying to guess where one would land next. The nuns called again, threatening that pneumonia might make an insufferably headstrong child a lot less curious about nature.

The last time she was up here, she had been... staring up at the sky and dreaming of stars. Now, she looked down and plotted flames.

The task of the modern individual is to move appropriately and effectively from disengaged spectator to attentive perceiver in order to slide easily into the social order. The starer, in contrast, is an undisciplined spectator arrested in an earlier developmental stage or one resistant to the attentiveness of the modern networker. The starer is a properly attentive spectator befuddled, halted in mid-glance, mobility throttled, processing checked, network run amuck...So the challenge of proper looking is converting the impulse to stare into attention, which is socially acceptable. (21-22)

When I looked a little closer, I noticed a guy sitting in the dark, tapping his leg in slow, deliberate movements. His head was cast down, but his eyes...his eyes looked directly at me. My breath caught. I tried to focus on what was being said, but the penetrating gaze from the guy in shadows made my heart pound wildly. When my eyes found their way back to him, I noticed the scowl on his face and immediately looked away. My goodness, this was going to be a long meeting.

What are you thinking about?” he asked, a curious look on his face. “What?” I had been aware of the fact I was staring at him, but for some silly reason I didn't think he would notice. “Um, well...I was just asking myself why it is that everyone here is staring at us.” It was true. As I said it, I noticed that everyone dancing around us, and even some people eating at their tables, were sneaking glances over at us. He glanced around to see what I was talking about. “I think I can explain that.” “Oh yeah?” “Yeah.” He returned his gaze to mine. “Look around, Lex. Not one person in this entire restaurant is younger than our parents.” “So?” “So, we are reminding them of what it was like to be young and in love. They think it's sweet, and that's why they're looking at us.

Why am I impatient I am unsure for what is patience? And why should I ultimately feel that I am lacking in it. Is it timing? Waiting? Abstaining? Obligation? Longing? Torture? Perseverance? Discipline? Wanting? Someone recently referred to it as a staring contest between yourself, fate, god and chance. He also referred to it as a tease, a flirt. It's staring at her image when you want to hear her voice, feel her breath, taste her skin. Patience is the recovery from a really hot dream interrupted by the damn alarm clock. Patience is a hard cock with bound hands.

When you live on the edge of a cursed forest, you do a lot of staring into the dark.

Why are you staring at me?' the girl asked. The boy looked at her eyes. 'Because I wonder, of all the people in the world, why am I the lucky one who found you?

Yes, life is full of awkward moments! For example, that time you keep dazing off while staring at the same person you found yourself staring at five minutes ago. *gulp* So glad staring is still not illegal. Or, at least I'm glad for my own benefit.

And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for a while

A nomad I was even when I was very small and would stare at the road, that white spellbinding road headed straight for the unknown ... a nomad I will remain for life, in love with distant and uncharted places.

Bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... and won.

Face your potential. It's been staring at you for far too long.

Do we have to stare death in the face to make us stand up and confront Resistance?

Every morning I take out my bankbook, stare at it, shudder - and turn quickly to my typewriter.

Every time I step onto an airplane, I turn to the right and take a good, hard stare into the maw of the engine. I don't know what I'm looking for. I just do it.

Everywhere I go, somebody is staring at me. I don't know if people are staring because they recognize me or because they think I'm a weirdo.

Finally, I decided that the proper strategy was to stare back. Boys do not have a monopoly on the Staring Business.

Give me a window and I'll stare out it.

He passes, struck by the stare of truculent Wellington but in the convex mirror grin unstruck the bonham eyes and fatchuck cheekchops of Jollypoldy the rixdix doldy.

Heaven doesn't laugh. It just smiles and stares.

He stares at me so darkly, so hungily that I can only nod. Agree. Of course, I feel it. "I do", I admit.

I could only stare, any sense that maybe I understood him evaporating as it always did. I'd glimpse something underneath, and he'd snatched it away so fast it left bruises that called me a fool for hoping for more.

I felt like I was staring out across an ocean that I was going to have to swim from shore to shore before I could rest again.

How would I myself live in this proposed society? How long would it be before I went stark staring mad?

If you stare at an object, as you do when you paint, there is no point at which you stop learning things from it.

If you sit on, sleep on, stare at, or touch something for more than an hour a day, spend whatever it takes to get the best.

I get paranoid about people staring at me. Even now I don't deal with people looking at me. I can't do it sometimes. I can't go out. I don't know how to react when people stare.

I hurl the glass teapot to the ground. we both stare at it, stunned. "it was supposed to break," I explain after a pause, " and that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away . If I knew it wasn't right for me.

I just stood there staring, because while I've seen a lot of weird things, I hadn't ever seen that.

I kept staring into the blackness of the woods, drawn into the darkness as I always had been. I suddenly realized how alone I was. (But this is how you travel, the wind whispered back, this is how you've always lived.)

I can go to any restaurant without a reservation, but while I'm there, everyone's gonna be staring.

If you stare at the center of the universe, there is coldness there. A blankness. Ultimately, the universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we have to care about each other.

I see the children with their boredom and their vacant stares.

I stare at him coldly. "I do not care for needlework." I pause. "Unless it involves the base of the skull.

I stare at myself in the mirror and I think, 'Wow, I'm really great-looking.'... I think I'm the greatest, anyway.