Best 1364 quotes in «dancing quotes» category

God, I love the waltz, the way the elegance of the one-count draws your attention away from the restlessness of the two-three.

Groomed and clean cut are fine and dandy, but I want to run with the mad ones; the ones comfortable playing in overgrown forests, rolling in leaves, dancing under a scorching sun. The ones not afraid of getting dirty. Not afraid of burning.

Have you ever danced like a peacock with all of your style, beauty and charm?

He adored telling this story of near disaster and how he had triumphed, just as he relished the report of how he went on stage every night on tour in his The Cosmic Dance of Shiva, requiring all manner of spinal flexibilities and related actions, while his sacroiliac was painfully out of place.

Hearts shall dance once again; when canvas of ice is painted with the brush of skates.

He danced the way he made love, with passion and tenderness and spirit, communicating with hands and eyes the most subtle messages, tenderly making up for Lila's awkwardness. In his lashes and his hair, mist clung in tiny diamond drops. She could not take her eyes from him.

He gave us music that reached into the ear like a lover's tongue and changed the color of our feelings. He presented movement so exquisite and fluid it coaxed our souls out of our bodies to dance with him, weightless in the perfume of divinity.

He dances all night, utterly naked and composed of nothing but six and a half feet of pale sinew. He could dance to a field of crickets, to the sound of rain on a tin roof, to a stampede.

Helen of Troy Does Counter Dancing The world is full of women who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself if they had the chance. Quit dancing. Get some self-respect and a day job. Right. And minimum wage, and varicose veins, just standing in one place for eight hours behind a glass counter bundled up to the neck, instead of naked as a meat sandwich. Selling gloves, or something. Instead of what I do sell. You have to have talent to peddle a thing so nebulous and without material form. Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way you cut it, but I've a choice of how, and I'll take the money. I do give value. Like preachers, I sell vision, like perfume ads, desire or its facsimile. Like jokes or war, it's all in the timing. I sell men back their worst suspicions: that everything's for sale, and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see a chain-saw murder just before it happens, when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple are still connected. Such hatred leaps in them, my beery worshipers! That, or a bleary hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads and upturned eyes, imploring but ready to snap at my ankles, I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge to step on ants. I keep the beat, and dance for them because they can't. The music smells like foxes, crisp as heated metal searing the nostrils or humid as August, hazy and languorous as a looted city the day after, when all the rape's been done already, and the killing, and the survivors wander around looking for garbage to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion. Speaking of which, it's the smiling tires me out the most. This, and the pretense that I can't hear them. And I can't, because I'm after all a foreigner to them. The speech here is all warty gutturals, obvious as a slam of ham, but I come from the province of the gods where meaning are lilting and oblique. I don't let on to everyone, but lean close, and I'll whisper: My mothers was raped by a holy swan. You believe that? You can take me out to dinner. That's what we tell all the husbands. There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around. Not that anyone here but you would understand. The rest of them would like to watch me and feel nothing. Reduce me to components as in a clock factory or abattoir. Crush out the mystery. Wall me up alive in my own body. They'd like to see through me, but nothing is more opaque than absolute transparency. Look - my feet don't hit the marble! Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising, I hover six inches in the air in my blazing swan-egg of light. You think I'm not a goddess? Try me. This is a torch song. Touch me and you'll burn.

He reached over and with one deft gesture stripped the black ribbon from her hair, freeing it around her shoulders. "Will you dance or will you play?" She rose abruptly, angry, though she wasn't quite sure why. He was so determined to prove himself a villain- she could hardly have expected him to admit to honorable impulses. Still, she'd half hoped for a gentle word. Silly, of course. "Neither, my lord," she said, pushing away from the clavichord and starting past him, carefully out of reach. She should have known better. He barely seemed to move, but her hand was caught in his. "Dancing it is," he murmured. She had learned long ago that there was no escape from a man like Killoran. The hand holding hers was neither tight nor painful, but it was a prison as he led her through the same, intricate moves that Nathaniel had. There was no music, no off-tune humming, no sound at all but the rhythmic swish of her black skirts against the floor. The gathering darkness, broken only by the candlelight, threw eerie shadows that danced with them, ghosts of a darker time, hovering, watching them, mimicking their footsteps, embracing them with the chill of night. Emma sank into a deep curtsy as Killoran bowed, all mocking flourish. She stayed down. Her heart was racing, her pulses pounding, her face flushed. Without music the silent dance had been strangely, frighteningly intimate.

He treats his body like it's made of fireworks, each one timed to the beat. Is he dancing alone or dancing with everyone in the room? Here's the secret: It doesn't matter.

He wasn't good with this sort of thing - with the back-and-forth dance between man and woman. He wasn't even sure if they were dancing, or if she was merely being polite.

Hey, I notice you look like you're coming down off a meth binge and smell vaguely of algae. Were you perchance dancing with a snakebit Margo Roth Spiegelman a couple of hours ago?

His mind It says survival of the fittest but His soul Revival of the idiots So good riddance, dancing

He looked like he might break out into an irate merengue any minute. Patrick Swayze reincarnated.

He never married, and he never learned to dance. He was so resistant to dancing that most of the principal male characters in his novels take sympathetic action and refuse to dance as well.

Here is an unbroken space in which a woman and a man may with the full sanction of society, practically make love to each other with their eyes, their fleeting touch, and the display of their bodies. Emblem of marriage, indeed.

He whirled her around under the stars, and somehow, it was perfect. She moved her feet at just the right time, and despite having never been much of a dancer, with Edouard it just… worked.

Hidden by diaphanous clouds of mist and fog floating gracefully over vales of heather and flowing runnels, she began to dance.

His heart and mine added a rhythm all their own. We turned and turned, and with every turning we breathed a little more quickly and held on a little more tightly, and when we came back to the place we started, we stopped dancing and stood with our arms around each other, holding on as if we would never let go, not if the sky fell and the whole world came to an end.

Human beings used to be molecules which could do many, many different sorts of dances, or decline to dance at all --as they pleased. My mother could do the waltz, the tango, the rumba....

I began to understand that dancing well had everything to do with believing you could. Like those dreams of flying- dipping gracefully through the air in your weightless body- if in your sleep, you stopped to think about it for more than half a second, you'd crash like a sack of dead ducks onto the roof of a church.

I can't dance, remember?" I whispered. "It's just a tango. It is like sex, except with clothes on." Then, squeezing me closer: "Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot, you do not know how to do that either.

I can text in complete sentences. Oh, yeah, it’s a skill.” He smiled, proud of his accomplishments. “And, thanks to my mom being a competitive dancer as a teen, I know how to do the Lindy hop and the jitterbug.” I sat bolt upright, and Akinli rolled his eyes. “I swear, if you tell me you can jitterbug, I’m going to . . . I don’t even know. Set something on fire. No one can dance like that.” I pursed my lips and dusted off my shoulder, a thing I’d seen Elizabeth do when she was bragging. As if he was accepting a challenge, he shrugged off his backpack and stood, holding out a hand for me. I took it and positioned myself in front of him as he shook his head, grinning. “All right, we’ll take this slow. Five, six, seven, eight.” In unison, we rock stepped and triple stepped, falling into the rhythm in our head. After a minute, he got brave and swung me around, lining me up for those peppy kicks I loved so much. People walked by, pointing and laughing, but it was one of those moments when I knew we weren’t being mocked; we were being envied. We stepped on each other’s toes more than once, and after he accidentally knocked his head into my shoulder, he threw his hands up. “Unbelievable,” he said, almost as if he was complaining. “I can’t wait to tell my mom this. She’s gonna think I’m lying. All those years dancing in the kitchen thinking I was special, and then I run across a master.

I could feel the bite of the autumn air, warning us all of the harsh winter that was on its way.

I danced with too many squares tonight. Let's melt 'em all down.

I dance through life, living my bliss, steeped in joy.

I’d loved women who were old and who were young; those extra kilos and large rumps, and others so thin there was barely even skin to pinch, and every time I held them, I worried I would snap them in two. But for all of these: where they had merited my love was in their delicious smell. Scent is such a powerful tool of attraction, that if a woman has this tool perfectly tuned, she needs no other. I will forgive her a large nose, a cleft lip, even crossed-eyes; and I’ll bathe in the jouissance of her intoxicating odour.

I do not dance,' said Jean-Claude, who had forsworn that exercise for much the same reasons as Miss Stevenson. But here he spoke too soon, for Lady Dorothy Bingham, merciless to what she called 'ballroom skulkers', saw him standing about, ordered John to introduce him to her, and became his patroness. Not till he had miserably danced twice with her and once with each of the twins did he have the brilliant idea of introducing her to his mother. The master minds met, and recognised each other, and for the greater part of the evening they discussed the care and subjugation of a family...

I dreamt that ‪@mark_wahlberg‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬‬ and his wife were our neighbors and we had dance parties in our living room and drank wine from solo cups. Everyone said I danced like I was doing parkour, and everyone laughed, until I fell off the roof and broke my neck. -Crystal Woods and Jarod Kintz

I feel a strong hand caress my inner elbow and his lips at my ear. “You look good dancing.” I turn and Alex and I share the same breathing space. It’s hard to keep my eyes away from his mouth. “Really? I didn’t realize you saw me.” He narrows his eyes briefly. “I see you.

If there was one word Agatha dreaded more than "ball", it was "dancing".

If you listen to music every day, you will be happy.

I have a bad feeling about this,” she said. “We’ll fake it. And if push comes to shove, we can just sing Goober Peas and waltz around.” “Rebecca might not find that very funny.” “Rebecca is a Northerner. You can tell because there aren’t any cheese straws on the snack table.

I have drunk the night and swallowed the stars. I am dancing with abandon and singing with rapture. There is not a thing I do not love. There is not a person I have not forgiven. I feel a universe of love. I feel a universe of light. Tonight, I am with old friends and we are returning home. The moon is our witness.

I just can’t wait to get out of Sweet Valley,' Jessica explained. 'I feel like I’ve been dancing with the same ten cute guys my whole life.

I knew you by your step. It’s a dancing step, a joyful step.

I’ll never forget the magic of our Saturday nights. Special moments carved in my mind by you the sculptor of my love. Let’s dance the night away. Who needs music, when your heart already sings to me.

I love dancing. I have always loved to dance. It’s the way the human spirit gets aroused.

I loved you, I did. I believe I even sold myself a bit: on your love, my lust, your hair and just the way we stood there. How the air smelled of you, the way your shirt was cursed with blues. The way we danced by the ocean in front your mini-garden. The white fence, your loveliness and the heavenly kisses. It’ll always be the sheets, lying beside, holding your arm and kissing your hair in a loving stride.

I love pleasure of reading, writing and dancing.

I love you,' cooed Fake Amy. 'You dance so much better than the Doctor.' 'Silly.' Real Amy nudged her in the ribs. 'Hippos dance better than the Doctor.

I'm not ashamed of heroic ambitions. If man and woman can only dance upon this earth for a few countable turns of the sun... let each of us be an Artemis, Odysseus, or Zeus... Aphrodite to the extent of the will of each one.

I'm white and I don't dance, but that doesn't mean I have all the answers.

I'm not keen on riot. Unless they involve dancing, but I believe those are usually referred to as parties.

Instead of falling, I am dancing with the wind.

I swung my hips around like I unscrewed at the waist.

In the at least three-thousand-year-old struggle between Pentheus and Dionysus— between popes and dancing peasants, between Puritans and carnival-goers, between missionaries and the practitioners of indigenous ecstatic danced religions — Pentheus and his allies seem to have finally prevailed. Not only has the possibility of collective joy been largely marginalized to the storefront churches of the poor and the darkened clubs frequented by the young, but the very source of this joy—other people, including strangers—no longer holds much appeal.

I put on the earphones of my portable CD player and listen to Non-Stop Trance Adventure. As I dance, I begin to feel warm and turn off the heat. I wonder why I'm such a difficult person and I look up at the heater and think of my stubbornness. Tears stream down my face, but I keep on dancing.

I really knew nothing about the dancing habits of the Scottish. But I wanted to help. "I could teach them Indian folk dances," I offered, scrounging my mind for school dances in gaudy garments. "Well, I'm not sure that they would be complex enough for competitions," she said. Pursing her lips, she blushed a dark, deep red. I knew I had said something wrong, but it took me a few days to understand the reason for Miss Manson's disapproval and discomfort. She blushed a beetroot red because I had unwittingly questioned the core belief of the school: British was Better.