Best 533 quotes in «paris quotes» category

...Quando Isabelle alzò lo sguardo ebbe l’impressione che il cuore le si fermasse. Stava risalendo insieme a Jeanne la scalinata che dall’Orangerie riportava al castello dopo avere verificato che per loro quella poteva essere la via di fuga perfetta la sera dello spettacolo. Era emozionata e non vedeva l’ora di fare ritorno alla locanda per potere parlare liberamente dei dettagli del piano che aveva in mente con l’amica, quando all’improvviso si era trovata a guardare un uomo il cui sguardo avrebbe riconosciuto in mezzo a mille. Jacques. Lui era lì a pochi passi da lei e quell’incontro non aveva senso. Perché mai Jacques si trovava lì a Corte,a Versailles e per giunta vestito da aristocratico? No, c’era qualcosa di sbagliato. L’uomo che aveva amato e che ancora non riusciva a dimenticare non era un semplice borghese che rientrava da un viaggio all’estero? Forse però quella era semplicemente l’idea che lei si era fatta di lui, dopotutto Jacques non le aveva mai detto chi fosse realmente. «Cosa c’è?» domandò Jeanne vedendo l’amica ancora immobile e visibilmente sconvolta. Poi alzò lo sguardo anche lei e vide quel giovane bellissimo e riccamente vestito che fissava l’amica. Se però a lei quel volto non diceva nulla, diversamente fu quando il suo sguardo si spostò sull’altro uomo che intanto aveva raggiunto Jacques e si era fermato accanto a lui. «Oh mio Dio» mormorò Jeanne. La situazione che si era creata aveva qualcosa di surreale. Isabelle, Jacques, Jeanne e Nicolas che si fissavano l’un l’altro lì, immobili su quella scalinata e con le prime fredde gocce di pioggia che cominciavano a cadere sui loro visi. Il rombo del tuono annunciò che il temporale era ormai arrivato. Sembrava che il tempo fosse congelato. Nessuno osava fare un gesto o pronunciare una parola. Infine fu Isabelle a parlare per prima. «Tu...qui?» riuscì a dire. Gli occhi azzurri di Jacques puntati in quelli verde smeraldo di lei. “Dio quanto è bella” pensò l’uomo avvicinandosi alla giovane che aveva lasciato due mesi prima. Vedere quegli occhi, quei lunghi capelli corvini legati in una treccia come ricordava di averli visti quella prima sera insieme alla locanda… e poi quel semplice vestito bordeaux che metteva in risalto il colore ambrato della sua pelle nonché le sue forme che ancora ricordava così bene. Il ricordo di loro due insieme era ancora troppo forte, troppo vivo in lui e quell’incontro non aveva fatto altro che riaccendere i suoi sentimenti e il suo desiderio. «Isabelle» fu tutto quello che l’uomo riuscì a dire. Aveva sceso gli ultimi gradini della lunga scalinata che ancora lo separavano da lei e se avesse allungato un braccio avrebbe potuto sfiorarle il viso con la mano...

Quantunque Plutarco dica: "Il tiranno non invecchia mai", Roma, sotto Silla come sotto Domiziano, si rassegnava e metteva volentieri l'acqua nel vino. Il Tevere era un Lete, se si deve credere all'elogio un po' dottrinario che ne faceva Varo Vibisco: "Contra Gracchos Tiberim habemus. Bibere Tiberim, id est seditionem oblivisci". Parigi beve un milione di litri d'acqua al giorno, ma ciò non gli impedisce, all'occasione, di battere la generale e di suonare a stormo.

Quand on aime vraiment quelqu'un, il faut accepter sa part de mystère... et c'est pour ça qu'on l'aime...

¿Quiere que vaya a la iglesia y me confiese? ¿Cree que los detectives nos rebajamos a hablar con sacerdotes? No existe para nosotros el arrepentimiento, la reconciliación ni el perdón. Somos filósofos de la acción, y solo nos miramos en el espejo de nuestros actos.

Random acts of kindness show that even amidst the hustle and bustle, Paris inhabitants are more welcoming that their reputation gives them credit for.

Religion, a mediaeval form of unreason, when combined with modern weaponry becomes a real threat to our freedoms. This religious totalitarianism has caused a deadly mutation in the heart of Islam and we see the tragic consequences in Paris today. I stand with Charlie Hebdo, as we all must, to defend the art of satire, which has always been a force for liberty and against tyranny, dishonesty and stupidity. ‘Respect for religion’ has become a code phrase meaning ‘fear of religion.’ Religions, like all other ideas, deserve criticism, satire, and, yes, our fearless disrespect." [I Stand With Charlie Hebdo, as We All Must (Wall Street Journal, January 7, 2015)]

Returning to Paris the day after the empire’s fall, Hugo was greeted by a huge crowd at the Gare du Nord. Never one to shy from an audience, he pushed his way through the mob and into a café, where he spoke from a balcony: “Citizens,” he told them, “I have come to do my duty.” He had come, he added, “to defend Paris, to protect Paris”—a sacred trust, given Paris’s position as the “center of humanity.”6 After that, he climbed aboard an open carriage, from where he spoke again to the fervent crowd before making his way to the house of a friend, near Place Pigalle. There the young Montmartre mayor, Georges Clemenceau, warmly welcomed him.

Reticence was clearly a national characteristic, even if the other person spoke French.

Rodolphe Salis was a tall, red-headed bohemian with a coppery beard and boundless charisma. He had tried and failed to make a success of several different careers, including painting decorations for a building in Calcutta. But by 1881 he was listless and creatively frustrated, uncertain where his niche might lie. More pressingly, he was desperate to secure a steady income. But then he had the ingenious idea to turn the studio which he rented, a disused post office on the resolutely working-class Boulevard de Rochechouart, into a cabaret with a quirky, artistic bent. He was not the first to attempt such a venture: La Grande Pinte on the Avenue Trudaine had been uniting artists and writers to discuss and give spontaneous performances for several years. But Salis was determined that his initiative would be different – and better. A fortuitous meeting ensured that it was. Poet Émile Goudeau was the founder of the alternative literary group the Hydropathes (‘water-haters’ – meaning that they preferred wine or beer). After meeting Goudeau in the Latin Quarter and attending a few of the group’s gatherings, Salis became convinced that a more deliberate form of entertainment than had been offered at La Grande Pinte would create a venue that was truly innovative – and profitable. The Hydropathe members needed a new meeting place, and so Salis persuaded Goudeau to rally his comrades and convince them to relocate from the Latin Quarter to his new cabaret artistique. They would be able to drink, smoke, talk and showcase their talents and their wit. Targeting an established group like the Hydropathes was a stroke of genius on Salis’s part. Baptising his cabaret Le Chat Noir after the eponymous feline of Edgar Allan Poe’s story, he made certain that his ready-made clientele were not disappointed. Everything about the ambience and the decor reflected Salis’s unconventional, anti-establishment approach, an ethos which the Hydropathes shared. A seemingly elongated room with low ceilings was divided in two by a curtain. The front section was larger and housed a bar for standard customers. But the back part of the room (referred to as ‘L’Institut’) was reserved exclusively for artists. Fiercely proud of his locality, Salis was adamant that he could make Montmartre glorious. ‘What is Montmartre?’ Salis famously asked. ‘Nothing. What should it be? Everything!’ Accordingly, Salis invited artists from the area to decorate the venue. Adolphe Léon Willette painted stained-glass panels for the windows, while Théophile-Alexandre Steinlen created posters. And all around, a disorientating mishmash of antiques and bric-a-brac gave the place a higgledy-piggledy feel. There was Louis XIII furniture, tapestries and armour alongside rusty swords; there were stags’ heads and wooden statues nestled beside coats of arms. It was weird, it was wonderful and it was utterly bizarre – the customers loved it.

Rylin’s arms fell to her sides as she turned slowly to face him. You can stop this, she reminded herself, but she didn’t, she couldn’t, or maybe she just didn’t want to. It seemed to Rylin that she was in a sort of trance, that time had halted and the whole world was holding its breath. Cord’s lips on hers felt like fire. Without another thought she was rising on tiptoe to kiss him back, clinging tight to his shoulders as the only solid thing in a dizzying world. She knew this was wrong, but everything else felt so far away, like something she’d imagined in another life. A splash sounded in the water behind them, as another pair of lovers tossed a key off the bridge and into the night.

Sandrine opened her eyes to the soft gray light of early dawn. Recollections of sensual pleasure seemed to caress her body, bringing a smile to her lips. She lay back in the pillow and listened to the breathing of Philippe beside her. She lingered in the memory of the previous night, a memory that was like a warm and tender embrace, an evening of small intimate harmonies. As it should be.

She had to lift both hands to illustrate what she meant, but he just let her carry his hand with her, not about to let go. She pushed the free hand toward the one he held, apparently trying to gesture closeness. "Warm," she said again. And then she did something that undid him to the last faint whisper of his soul: she gave his hand a squeeze with fingertips that could just barely reach around his, apparently using him to indicate what she wanted to say. He meant warmth. He meant this word she couldn't find.

She loves filming and taking photographs. I can imagine her making beautiful films in France or India or somewhere with a gorgeously colourful culture. She somehow reminds me of my favourite place in the world, she and Paris I can romanticize and immortalize in ceaseless poetry for the rest of my life.

She is my morning, she is my evening; we have a love that blooms over and again, more beautifully each time than the last.

She throws her jeans at me and dives into the pellucid lake, slicing through the water almost without a splash. A church bell rings out in the distance, echoing in the quiet aftermath of Everly’s quick jump into the unexpected.

Some of us are crèmes brûlées, unfortunately in the presence of those who would rather have corn dogs. We can try to degenerate into corn dogs to make them happy, or we can just accept the fact that we were made for Paris!

She was ready to be a fugitive with him for the rest of her life - 'Whither thou goest, I will go; thy people shall be my people' - and when a Parisienne is ready to leave Paris behind forever, that's something. ("I'm Dangerous Tonight")

Skinny-dipping is like Paris. It's always a good idea.

Snapped abruptly to a realization of how rudely I had been staring, I blushed and said without thinking, "I was just wondering if you've ever been kissed by a beautiful young girl?" I went still redder as he shouted with laughter. With a broad grin, he said "Many times, madonna. But alas, it does not help. As you see. Ribbit.

Sometimes, I recall the little things in life that make the journey more joyful, like the cheerful guy playing the accordion in Paris, on the way to Versailles. Of course everyone has their own perspective, but I believe that music does indeed provide more substance to life, so I dare imagine that one day I could walk through life as in a movie scene, with a soundtrack accompanying and enriching my every emotion, slowly dancing a tango towards one of those "and then they lived happily ever after" endings.

Sunday is God's day, and he was committed to honoring it. Just because he was in Paris to compete in the Olympics didn't justify changing his lifelong commitment.

That’s the business, Iris. It’s a ruthless industry. People’s love lasts but one season.

The city of Paris, France, became a place of refuge for biracial Americans during slavery and at the time of the Harlem Renaissance for black musicians, fine artists, writers and others seeking opportunities to practice their craft free from American racism.

The contortions of the gargoyles were the only therapy we had.

The directness of her question throws me. "I don't know. Sometimes I think there are only so many opportunities...to get together with someone. And we've both screwed up so many times"- my voice grows quiet - "that we've missed our chance." "Anna." Mer pauses. "That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard." "But—" "But what? You love him, and he loves you, and you live in the most romantic city in the world.

The facts of religion were convincing only to those who were already convinced.

The Frenchman showed her a great deal of Paris that day, saying over lunch at a café that it was impossible to see everything of interest in so short a time. "And of course the sights are only one aspect; there's also the theatre, the markets, clubs, festivals, gardens and much more." Delta smiled dreamily; it sounded wonderful. Enjoying her smile, Valois gave her cheek a playful caress. "If I try hard enough, you may never want to leave.

The French have a penchant for absolutism, for thinking that things are all one way or all another, which is why their politics are marked by a general inability to compromise and why they tend to hold their personal opinions until the bitter end, even after they have clearly lost an argument.

The greatest pleasure does not consist in experiencing new things, but in savoring the infinite variation of what we already know

There is some kind of elegant gentleness to Paris that I don't quite understand yet.

There’s dark magic there,” Luc warned. “Creatures who like the cold, who like girls who wander into their woods. Whatever you do, don’t let them kiss you.

There's a simplicity and a sense of adventure to being alone, and I sometimes envy you for having it, as you explore Paris. Even when you're getting your heart broken, you can still wake up and not know what's going to happen next.

The scent of flowers is the glory of gardens and the scent of art is the glory of Paris!

The Seine. I have painted it all my life, at all hours of the day, at all times of the year, from Paris to the sea…Argenteuil, Poissy, Vétheuil, Giverny, Rouen, Le Havre.

The sign above the door was written in French. It read: ARRÊTE ! C’EST ICI L’EMPIRE DE LA MORT. “That means,” he explained to Gini, “‘Stop! It is here the Empire of Death.

The signature item is an attitude. It is the gun in your holster that makes you feel well dressed and invincible.

The streets of Paris had a way of making me stop in my tracks, my heart suspended. They seemed saturated with presence, even if there was no one there but me. These were places where something could happen, or had happened, or both; a feeling I could never have had at home in New York, where life is inflected with the future tense.

The wrought-iron gate squeaked as Lucas opened it. He lowered the rented bike down the stone steps and onto the sidewalk. To his right was the most famous Globe Hotel in Paris, disguised under another name. In front of the entrance five Curukians sat on mopeds. Lu-cas and his eighteen-month-old friend then shot out across the street and through the invisible beam of an-other security camera. He rode diagonally across the place de la Concorde and headed toward the river. It seemed only natural. The motorcycles trailed him. He pedaled fast across the Alex-andre III bridge and zipped past Les Invalides hospital. He tried to turn left at the Rodin Museum, but Goper rode next to him, blocking his escape.

They love me like a pack of wolves. Ernest

They say you can fool some of the people all of the time. Accordingly, I think we should concentrate on this group initially. We can move on to the people you can only fool some of the time at a later date if we deem it necessary.

This is what you British do not understand about the French. You think you must work, work, work, work and open on Sundays and make mothers and fathers with families slave in supermarkets at three o'clock in the morning and make people leave their homes and their churches and their children and go shopping on Sundays.' 'Their shops are open on Sundays?' said Benoît in surprise. 'Yes! They make people work on Sundays! And through lunchtimes! But for what? For rubbish from China? For cheap clothes sewed by poor women in Malaysia? For why? So you can go more often to KFC and get full of fried chicken? You would rather have six bars of bad chocolate than one bar of good chocolate. Why? Why are six bad things better than one good thing? I don't understand.

This was the Paris of the strivers, of those who dwelt low, not high. This was not the Paris of balloonists. It was her Paris, and it was the same as it had been this morning. But she, perhaps, was not.

... she was a pudding of immaturity and precocious wisdom that had not yet set into a stable mold.

She would never know she was still alive because of me.

Something breathing, something bleeding, something blue. It was time to cast her first spell as the Gargoyle.

The autonomy this Paris command gave him was a new experience for von Choltitz. Until now, he had always been firmly locked inside Germany's impersonal military machine. His decisions, with the exception of minor tactical ones, had always been made for him. Now, at the very moment at which his visit to Rastenburg [where he met Hitler & was ordered to Paris] had jarred his confidence in the Third Reich and its leader, circumstances had placed von Choltitz in a command in which he had to make decisions. He preferred to postpone them. Nordling's suggestion offered him that chance. If, he told Nordling, the commanders at the Prefecture of Police could demonstrate in an hour's trial that they could control their men, he would agree to discuss a cease-fire for the city.

The boy took my sketchbook.

The comedy in our lives was those first few weeks we lived together in Paris: Our bodies desired one another, our souls opened for one another. We experienced all of the happiness and anguish of first love. Those first few weeks in Paris, we barely touched lips; yet the few times we did, it had the force of a collision of stars.

The hours tick by as I lie in bed. Memories keep surfacing, tormenting me into unbelievable sadness. I can't bring myself to move. I can't fight the memories that keep filling my thoughts. I stay curled in the fetal position as each memory plays out. I can't stop them from coming. I can't make them go away. Nothing can distract me. I can't block the memories, so they continue to come.

The human brain has a natural ability, inherent in its mechanism, to work on many levels, in a process of constant promptings, in a type of self-preservation. If only humans understood... Most ignore it.