Best 77 quotes in «gypsy quotes» category

Most people that work in [show] business, if they're not gypsies by nature, become gypsies, just because of the reality of this business.

My own personal favorite Cher song is the unforgettable Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves.

Say what you will about Gypsy women, but they are remarkable assessors of blues guitar talent.

One of the biggest questions to me was whether or not Gypsy the person was capable of loving anyone or anything beyond Gypsy Rose Lee the creation, and even that was a conflicted, tortured relationship.

The advantage of the gypsy language, even though I don't understand it that much, the language is perfect melody. So if you propose the movie the way I do, then the language is just one part of the melody. Orchestrating all inside, and the language is following the meaning of what they say, and it's never the same as written.

Some words live in my throat breeding like adders. Others know sun seeking like gypsies over my tongue to explode through my lips

The music of the Gypsies belongs in the sphere of improvisation rather than in any other, without which it would have no power to exist.

The flamenco of the Gypsy has nothing to do with the flamenco for tourists. Real flamenco is like sex.

Was it a light only she could see? A gypsy's spell? A mystery?

This week, I'm a gypsy. Maybe next week it'll be glitter rock.

For all that, I don’t think Gypsies ought to be likened to birds of ill-omen. They return evil for evil, and good for good. One hundredfold. Their powers seem to exceed them. I knew some in Spain who could read the stars; in Germany, who could heal burns; in the Camargue, who tended horses and could lessen the birthing pains of both women and beasts. There are some human beings who are not bound by human laws. The sad thing is perhaps they’re not all aware of it. Meanwhile, here’s an idea I volunteer: the day when the borders of Europe and elsewhere become, as they once were, open to the movement of nomadic tribes that some regard as ‘worrisome’, it would be interesting if researchers qualified in astronomy (yes, indeed), with calenders and terrestrial and celestial maps to hand, were to examine the routes travelled by wandering Gypsies. Maybe they’ll discover that these slow and apparently aimless journeys are related to cosmic forces. Like wars. And migrations. The Gypsies were persecuted, in France and elsewhere, with cyclical regularity in a vicious, inept and stupid manner. Almost as much as the Jews.

And because I’m a widow, you assume I’m ripe to your trickery and silver tongue.” “I’m a Roma. You describe my specialty.

And then she learnt to be a little wild she had to be a little less afraid.

Be an individual, let out the self that hides away at the expense of others approval.

Born at Letterman Army Hospital. I never actually lived in San Francisco. It's not my home town, but then, I don't have one. I'm a nomad...a gypsy...an Army Brat. Put me on an airplane, send me anywhere. That's where I belong...anywhere.

Don't compare her to sunshine and roses when she's clearly orchids and moonlight.

Finding her voice at last, she asked, “What dreams are you having, sir?” “I dreamt I was in a spring field and a woman stands in the shadows just at the edge of the nearby forest. I haven’t yet seen her face, only her long beautiful hair. I always wake too soon.” He reached up to touch the hawk touchstone around his throat as he described his dream, rubbing it absently between his fingers. Lily lowered her lashes to hide her astonishment. “When you see someone in a dream but cannot see their face, it means you haven’t met them yet,” she explained. “Then perhaps I’ll dream of her again tonight and this time I’ll see her face.” He smiled, reaching across the table to take her left hand and lift it to his lips. “My name is Ian Kelly, and it would give me the greatest pleasure to know yours.” “Lily Evans. Around here I go by Raven.” She raised a shoulder, indicating the gypsy tent. “Lily--indeed, a most beautiful name. Now tell me,” he stared pointedly at her hand, “I see no ring that another has claimed you as his, so my confidence is strengthened. Look at your cards again, milady, and tell me if you see me in your future…

Hair tangled with the wind Sun kissed face Lover of the forest the sea the sky and anything wild and free She’s a gypsy goddess.

He’d been toting it, and checking it, and packing and unpacking, all the way since fate was on the river - that’s how long - the Big River” - Fate Marable and his riverboat caliope (Cleo seemed to recall), who hadastonished the landings between New Orleans and St. Louis with the wild, harsh, skirling Gypsy music, and left there, echoing in the young and restless even as it dies off round the bed; to linger with them thereafter, in the pelting roar of November midnights and the clickety-clack of lonesome valley freights, until they up one night and go after it in a battered bus, following the telephone wires that make a zigzag music staff against the evening sky - some variation of that basic beginning could be told for everyone who jazz has touched and altered.

Her love is rare but she'll keep you wild.

Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.

I am an artist, my hair is rarely tamed & sometimes I sleep till noon, My house is messy and I speak to the moon. I care less about the materials that I share with my world and more about the passion inside myself. Im an artist, what more can you expect? i am full of soul, love and all the rest.

I likened her to the slender PSYCHÉ and judged that the perfection of her face ennobled everything unclean around her: The dusty hems of her bunched-up skirt, the worn straps of her nightshirt; the blackened soles of her bare feet [...] All this and the pungent air! Ô this night, sweet pungent night! "HÉBÉ" may come but a season. But this girl's season would know a hot spring and an Indian summer.

I think it's important as a women to know who you are and what you deserve. We, ourselves set the boundaries of what we choose to accept. Instead of complaining about the men who's actions don't fit your own & move on and find one that does.

LOVE IS NOMADIC AND I'M A GYPSY SOUL SO LOVE GOES WHEREVER I GO

Many speak to her but she's looking for the one who knows her souls language.

Will: I say we sell her to the Gypsies on Hampstead Heath. I hear they puchase spare women as well as hoses. Charlotte: Will, stop it. That's ridivulous. Will:You're right. They'd never buy her. Too scrawny.

I am running and singing and when it’s raining I’m the only one left on the open street, smiling with my eyes fixed on the sky because it’s cleaning me. I’m the one on the other side of the party, hearing laughter and the emptying of bottles while I peacefully make my way to the river, a lonely road, following the smell of the ocean. I’m the one waking up at 4am to witness the sunrise, where the sky touches the sea, and I hold my elbows, grasping tight to whatever I’ve made of myself.

I am wild, untameable, the storm and the eye within An unpredictable gypsy, with passion beyond your wildest dreams and unquenchable desires for you and you alone... Persistent and fiercely loyal, today I choose to be all of these and more… Will you still be here tomorrow?

I don't paint what people expect, I paint what my heart yearns to express.

I don't want fleeting friendships or relationships or passion in life, give me fleeting moments in coffee shops and walks by the water but I will never be satisfied with empty kinships that are fleeting & undecided. Those connections are what make us all human and I dare not settle my wild little heart for something of so little depth.

I like being full of mystery and wonder, people always know im up to something but never know exactly what.

I'm not a girl that will lay in diamonds but I will run through the flowers of the seeds we plant together.

I was gypsy when gypsy wasn't cool.

She's a gypsy girl living in a materialistic world, Unattached to most things but in love with life itself.

Maybe she saw the sweet persimmon sunrise─or maybe she was already too far gone.

Sally's head plopped into the shallow water and rolled face up. For a while, the changing shades of pinks and oranges reflected across the surface of her dead eyes.

She is of the strangest beauty and the darkest courage, and when she walks with intent the earth trembles beneath her feet.

The world is a big place for a little heart like mine, I have kept it locked away until I meet warrior that tames my wild.

Well, at least this is what I told myself every day as I fell asleep with the fire still burning and the moon shining high up in the sky and my head spinning comforting from two bottles of wine, and I smiled with tears in my eyes because it was beautiful and so god damn sad and I did not know how to be one of those without the other.

With a horse and cart, a ferret, a dog and a gun, who could not be happy?

She was always fighting a battle but her smile would never tell you so.

She was a gypsy, as soon as you unravelled the many layers to her wild spirit she was on her next quest to discover her magic. She was relentless like that, the woman didn't need no body but an open road, a pen and a couple of sunsets.

She was drawn to the wild warriors, they had to have a little gypsy in their veins.

Some are born to play it safe Others are born to live it wild.

The boughs of trees stretched high overhead, leaves of dappled green and black mottling the sky. It was called the black forest for more reasons than the inky-black foliage. The wise and cautious seldom travelled by night along its poorly-tended roads, and banditry wasn’t the main reason. In the minds of many, shadows of a threat lurked in wait, seeking an opportunity to strike during a moment of weakness. It was known among the old folk that not all who dwelled within the black forest were of human or animal-kind. Some beings were much older and believed far more dangerous.

The Gypsies are living poetry

The Gypsy heart is full of wonder, their souls deep with dreams and their inspiration full of mystery.

There's something about kindred spirits, you meet them and for a moment this world no matter ugly, makes sense. They bring a sense of freedom and clarity to one conversation; just enough to remind you of who you are.

The world stopped fighting for me long ago, I had to rely on self and pave a path on my own. Some of us women are fierce beyond our means, We are raised by warriors to be nothing but queens.