Best 325 quotes in «smoking quotes» category

My hands trembled, so I took a deep drag to calm my frayed nerves. I just wanted to forget that terrible sight, but questions multiplied in my mind as the smoke furled.

My mother smoked two packs of cigarettes a day. Before she smoked her first cigarette, she was free to choose whether or not she would smoke. After awhile, her freedom reverted to Satan—so it would seem. The choice was no longer hers—so it would seem. Her mind and body were attacked with nicotine cravings that got so bad she would sometimes sacavage through garbage cans for butts when she’d run short on full cigarettes. I watched, baffled at how something so small and so disgusting to me could have such power over my mother. That’s the thing about addiction—it binds us one choice at a time. That’s also the good news about addition—you can unravel the hold it has on you—one choice at a time.

Not all good things are good for us.

No drugs, no alcohol, no cigarettes.

Not only will giving up cigarettes put more money in your pocket, your body will thank you for it.

Not smoking is not an achievement. Like virginity, it comes standard.

Not Really," he said then lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped for breath. Coughed again. Considered vomiting. Grabbed the swinging bench, head spinning, and threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, convinced my Great Perhaps did not involve cigarettes.

People who smoke would have probably been regarded as fools or insane, if only a percentage of people who smoke smoked.

Nursing homes and rest homes are all the rage round here. Most of us will be in them before very long. Do you fancy that? Are you looking forward to it? No, neither am I. But I'm doing something about that. Just whisky and cigarettes, so far, mostly.

People are crazy about food, smoking, drinking, girls but not about their dreams.

Reading his autobiography many years later, I was astonished to find that Edward since boyhood had—not unlike Isaiah Berlin—often felt himself ungainly and ill-favored and awkward in bearing. He had always seemed to me quite the reverse: a touch dandyish perhaps but—as the saying goes—perfectly secure in his masculinity. On one occasion, after lunch in Georgetown, he took me with him to a renowned local tobacconist and asked to do something I had never witnessed before: 'try on' a pipe. In case you ever wish to do this, here is the form: a solemn assistant produces a plastic envelope and fits it over the amber or ivory mouthpiece. You then clamp your teeth down to feel if the 'fit' and weight are easy to your jaw. If not, then repeat with various stems until your browsing is complete. In those days I could have inhaled ten cigarettes and drunk three Tanqueray martinis in the time spent on such flaneur flippancy, but I admired the commitment to smoking nonetheless. Taking coffee with him once in a shopping mall in Stanford, I saw him suddenly register something over my shoulder. It was a ladies' dress shop. He excused himself and dashed in, to emerge soon after with some fashionable and costly looking bags. 'Mariam,' he said as if by way of explanation, 'has never worn anything that I have not bought for her.' On another occasion in Manhattan, after acting as a magnificent, encyclopedic guide around the gorgeous Andalusia (Al-Andalus) exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, he was giving lunch to Carol and to me when she noticed that her purse had been lost or stolen. At once, he was at her service, not only suggesting shops in the vicinity where a replacement might be found, but also offering to be her guide and advisor until she had selected a suitable new sac à main. I could no more have proposed myself for such an expedition than suggested myself as a cosmonaut, so what this says about my own heterosexual confidence I leave to others.

— Przypominam, że palenie zabronione jest w środku, natomiast alkohol możemy pić tylko wewnątrz, takie dostaliśmy pozwolenie. Inaczej będzie to podpadało pod publiczne spożycie i będzie nielegalne. Wśród zebranych przeszedł szmer. — Jak to? — zawołał pewien mężczyzna w kamizelce khaki. — Ja na przykład jak piję, to i palę. I vice versa. To co mam zrobić? Prowadzący zebranie nauczyciel historii stropił się, a w zamieszaniu, jakie powstało, wszyscy zaczęli udzielać rad, jak sytuację rozwiązać. — Można stać w drzwiach i rękę z alkoholem mieć w środku, a z papierosem na zewnątrz — krzyknął ktoś z końca sali. — To dym i tak będzie leciał do środka... — Tam jest zadaszony taras. Czy ganek to wewnątrz, czy zewnątrz? — zapytał ktoś inny przytomnie.

Personally, if I were trying to discourage people from smoking, my sign would be a little different. In fact, I might even go too far in the opposite direction. My sign would say something like, "Smoke if you wish. But if you do, be prepared for the following series of events: First, we will confiscate your cigarette and extinguish it somewhere on the surface of your skin. We will then run you nicotine-stained fingers through a paper shredder and throw them into the street, where wild dogs will swallow them and then regurgitate them into the sewers, so that infected rats can further soil them before they're flushed out to sea with the rest of the city's filth. After such time, we will sysematically seek out your friends and loved one and destroy their lives." Wouldn't you like to see a sign like that?

Rather than you smoking a cigarette, the cigarette is really smoking you.

Seasons happened and things got colder and harder and suddenly I found myself smoking circles in the air by myself in the snow and I was not okay.

Rolling a cigarette is like telling your mum you exist.

She almost wished she smoked, so she could lie on the car’s hood, flick a lighter, and make up names for the constellations while nicotine burned her lungs.

Seth lay on a sofa. His large dirty work boots were defiantly planted on the sofa cushion, all his energy focused on smoking a cigarette, as if it were a job.

She blew more smoke toward me, a lazy game of cancer catch.

She crooned on until her cigarette was gone. The ash in the wind blew around us like hesitant snow.

She shakily rushed towards the car to find Alecto casually standing beside it, smoking a cigarette and staring fixedly on the radio as it played the song 'Draggin’ the Line' by Tommy James, his expression thoughtful. “What are you thinking about?” Mandy questioned. “Wouldn’t the world be a very loud place to live if we said everything we thought?” Alecto asked quietly.

she has heard somewhere that cigarettes are good for grief. One long drag and you forget how to cry. The body too busy dealing with the poison. No wonder they gave them out free to the soliders. Lucky Strikes.

She's not very old but the cigarettes help her to feel like she is.

Smoking: The most stylish way to cancer

Smoked like it was fuel and he was going to get every last inch to the gallon.

Smokers always waxed poetic about the ritual of it, how a large part of the satisfaction was packing the box and pulling the foil wrapper and plucking an aromatic stick. They claimed they loved the lighting, the ashing, the feeling of being able to hold something between their fingers. That was all well and good, but there was nothing quite like actually smoking it: Leigh loved inhaling. To pull with your lips on that filter and feel the smoke drift across your tongue, down your throat, and directly into your lungs was to be transported momentarily to nirvana. She remembered- every day- how it felt after the first inhale, just as the nicotine was hitting her bloodstream. A few seconds of both tranquility and alertness, together, in exactly the right amounts. Then the slow exhale- forceful enough so that the smoke didn't merely seep from your mouth but not so energetic that it disrupted the moment- would complete the blissful experience.

Smoking can kill you, he said, and I replied: sounds better than being bored to death

Smoking is extremely hazardous to you and those around you" it said on the label. He glanced around. The few termites that might thrive down here could probably handle it.

Smokers live faster.

Smoking eats.. YOU.

Smoking is an outward signal of inner turmoil or conflict and most smoking has less to do with nicotine addiction and more to do with the need for reassurance.

Smoking is neither an art nor a sport. Better to liberate yourself before the body retaliates, for its vengeance would be a furious blow enthused out of all the bygone years' mercy you thanklessly thought you were entitled to.

Smoking’s banned in my house. Cigarettes harm your body,” he said, knocking back half of the bottle of beer.

Smoking does not make one ill, but worrying makes. Drinking two pegs in the evening would not make you ill, but sleeping with tensions and worries would definitely do that.

Smoking is suicide by instalments.

Smoking must be harder than not smoking. For the latter does not require any action.

Sometimes, when I'm chain-smoking and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I'd like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall. It rarely does.

Sometimes the fridge is empty. Sometimes you run out of booze. Sometimes a guy hits you for no reason. Sometimes life doesn't seem worth living. Sometimes you hate yourself. But there's never a time when you don't enjoy a smoke.

Sometimes, when I’m chain smoking on the balcony and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I’d like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall. It rarely does.

Sure, I watched the workmen come and lower large pieces of rotten sheetrock and lift new clean panels on a pulley from that same window months ago, and I could have written then, but I must have sensed her coming, the smoker, so I waited.

The phone is about the same size as a cigarette pack. It's no surprise to me that the traditional cigarette lighter in many cars has turned into the space we use to recharge our phones. They are kin. The phone, like the cigarette, let's the texter/former smoker drop out of any social interaction for a second to get a break and make a little love to the beautiful object. We need something, people. We can't live propless.

The cost of reading, even if you buy books instead of borrowing them and take in a fairly large number of periodicals, does not amount to more than the combined cost of smoking and drinking.

The lasting physical and mental health effects of long term very high altitude exposure appear to be remarkably similar to daily heavy smoking.

That is a terrifically intimate thing, you know? Letting a stranger light your cigarette. Leaning forward so he can hold a flame to your lips. Pausing to breathe in before you pull back again.

When I quit smoking, they told me it takes three days to be able to breathe normally again, five days until I’m no longer physically addicted, seven days until there’s no more nicotine in my blood, six months to be entirely clean and fifteen years until the chance of a sudden death due to the consequences of smoking is minimized to 50%. I wish somebody could tell me how long it would take to be over you, too.

...[T]here is no "safe" dose of a carcinogen.

The rushing relief was like the first drag of a cigarette. Btw, if you don't smoke too much, the final drag off a cigarette is a powerful nerve tonic. Highly recommended. I've smoked five or six cigarettes my entire life, and each one was fucking awesome. I seriously hope I don't get cancer.

The wreath of cigarette smoke which curls about the head of the growing lad holds his brain in an iron grip which prevents it from growing and his mind from developing.

Things such as cigarettes give conformity the ability to cause cancer.

There is no such thing as 'just one last cigarette' – except the last cigarette that you've already had.