Wales Quotes

Quotes tagged as "wales" (showing 1-30 of 52)
Cassandra Clare
“Do you miss Wales?” Tessa inquired.
Will shrugged lightly. “What’s to miss? Sheep and singing,” he said. “And the ridiculous language. Fe hoffwn i fod mor feddw, fyddai ddim yn cofio fy enw.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘I wish to get so drunk I no longer remember my own name,’ Quite useful.”
Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Prince

Diana Wynne Jones
“Wizard Howl," said Wizard Suliman. "I must apologize for trying to bite you so often. In the normal way, I wouldn't dream of setting teeth in a fellow countryman.”
Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle

Peter Hitchens
“Americans may say they love our accents (I have been accused of sounding 'like Princess Di') but the more thoughtful ones resent and rather dislike us as a nation and people, as friends of mine have found out by being on the edge of conversations where Americans assumed no Englishmen were listening.

And it is the English, specifically, who are the targets of this. Few Americans have heard of Wales. All of them have heard of Ireland and many of them think they are Irish. Scotland gets a sort of free pass, especially since Braveheart re-established the Scots' anti-English credentials among the ignorant millions who get their history off the TV.”
Peter Hitchens

Jan Morris
“The language itself, whether you speak it or not, whether you love it or hate it, is like some bewitchment or seduction from the past, drifting across the country down the centuries, subtly affecting the nations sensibilities even when its meaning is forgotten.”
Jan Morris, Wales: The First Place

Sharon Kay Penman
“During the day, memories could be held at bay, but at night, dreams became the devil's own accomplices.”
Sharon Kay Penman, The Reckoning

Beatrix Potter
“In Summer there were white and damask roses, and the smell of thyme and musk. In Spring there were green gooseberries and throstles [thrush], and the flowers they call ceninen [daffodils]. And leeks and cabbages also grew in that garden; and between long straight alleys, and apple-trained espaliers, there were beds of strawberries, and mint, and sage.”
Beatrix Potter

“...It's not that the worm forgives the plough; it gives it no mind. (Pain occurs, in passing.) (lines 37-39 in the poem 'Fantasia on a Theme from IKEA')”
Philip Gross, The Water Table

Horton Deakins
“Dychwelyd i wlad eich hynafiaid; gwaed yn galw i waed.
Return to the land of your fathers; blood calls to blood.”
Horton Deakins

Jan Morris
“It was an American who said that while a Frenchman's truth was akin to a straight line, a Welshman's truth was more in the nature of a curve, and it is a fact that Welsh affairs are entangled always in parabola, double-meaning and implication. This makes for a web-like interest....”
Jan Morris, Wales: The First Place

Angela Quarles
“She straightened and crossed her arms. “I can’t sleep with you,” she blurted.
… “As you please.”
“As you please?” She stepped back, the rough wood of the bench bumping her upper calf. She’d braced herself for a battle and now felt oddly deflated. “You aren’t going to try to talk me into it?”
“I need not talk women into lying with me.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“Knowing this was the same man from last night now clad again in his hunky knightly armor was a strange aphrodisiac. Yeah, a hot look, no denying.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Ammon Shea
“For the benefit of those half-dozen people who will see a name like Gwillim and put this book down in order to go look it up to see where it comes from — it is the Welsh version of William”
Ammon Shea, The Phone Book: The Curious History of the Book That Everyone Uses But No One Reads

Angela Quarles
“You will be the death of me, woman.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“This was raw. This was primal. This was real.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“His heat, his erotic pull—she could feel it. A weird, pulsing, virtual pull tugging at her skin, her nerve endings. Made her want to…touch. Made her want.
The more she resisted the urge, the stronger it became. It would be a relief, really. To just…touch. One little touch. Just one.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Paula Brackston
“She gazed out at the seductive vista. The countryside was dressed in its prettiest May garb- everything budding or blooming or bursting out in the exuberance of late spring. For Laura, the landscape at thirteen hundred feet up a Welsh mountain was the perfect mix of reassuringly tamed and excitingly wild. In front of the house were lush, high meadows filled with sheep, the lambs plump from their mother's grass-rich milk. Their creamy little shapes bright and clean against the background of pea green. A stream tumbled down the hillside, disappearing into the dense oak woods at the far end of the fields, the ocher trunks fuzzy with moss. On either side of the narrow valley, the land rose steeply to meet the open mountain on the other side of the fence. Here young bracken was springing up sharp and tough to claim the hills for another season. Beyond, in the distance, more mountains rose and fell as far as the eye could see. Laura undid the latch and pushed open the window. She closed her eyes. A warm sigh of the wind carried the scent of hawthorn blossom from the hedgerow.”
Paula Brackston, Lamp Black, Wolf Grey

Angela Quarles
“Here, sleep with your back against me. I shall protect you better this way.”
She nodded, shuffled closer, and leaned back against him. Her unique womanly scent washed over him, and he fortified his resolve, though having her so close on a bed of furs fired his blood. She dragged her fur up, and he draped his extra across, tucking it in around her shoulders and arms.
“I do not fancy having one of them lying next to you. Besides, I wish not for your pinkie to wander.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Gerald of Wales
“Whatever else may come to pass, I do not think that on the Day of Direst Judgement any race other than the Welsh, or any other language, will give answer to the Supreme Judge of all from this small corner of the earth.”
Gerald of Wales, The Journey Through Wales & The Description of Wales
tags: wales

Angela Quarles
“He dragged his lips up the soft skin of her neck and gently nipped her ear lobe, sipping on the soft flesh. Her hands splayed against his chest.
Expecting a shove, his senses careened when her fingers fisted his surcoat. Their ragged breath overloud in the forest, he eased his face away, nose rubbing against her jaw on his retreat, and sought her eyes. Hers darkened and—Lord help him—held no censure, only interest.
He stepped back.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“The pulse visible in the pale column of her neck vibrated faster, her intoxicating scent washed over him, and he was dizzy with lust.
Even through his mail and gambeson, he could feel her womanly curves crushed against his hard chest. He uncurled his fingers from her throat and ran the tough leather of his palm’s mitten along her neck and to the enticing curve of her shoulder. He nudged her mantle an inch, exposing skin.
He cursed that his hand was covered in mail. How long had he wanted to taste, to touch her precious skin? Unable to resist, he bent and, with his tongue, touched, tasted the heat of the skin on her collarbone.
Oh, Christ, she was lovely. She shivered, and satisfaction roared through him.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Patrick Reinken
“My father was a Catholic, a coal miner in the Big Pit. My mother a Jew. A charwoman, when she could find the work. They didn’t fit in Wales. Nor in the U.K., either. They didn’t fit with each other all that well, for that matter. They fought every day for as long as I can remember and loved each other more than anyone I’ve ever known. At least they did right up till a night when he looked right and not left at a train crossing in Chepstow and ended up half a mile from where he’d started, dead as the Ghost. Looking for a job, he was. Turned out he didn’t need one.”
Patrick Reinken, Omicron

Angela Quarles
“Ah, cariad, finally I have you to myself, with a bed behind me, and what do I do?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“Her pinkie took matters into its own, er, pinkie, and moved oh-so-slightly, grazing his skin. His pinkie, judging by the shape and texture.
Blood rushed and pounded through her veins, flushing her skin. This could not, in any way, be explained as an accidental touch. But he could feign sleep if he wasn’t interested. Did she want him to do that?
What was she doing?
She commanded her pinkie to drop, and thankfully, it obeyed.
A jolt shot through her as his finger made a query, and the need clarified. The need represented her desire for some measure of control. Control over her general situation. Control over her attraction. She answered with a gentle finger stroke along his calloused, warm skin.
A sharp breath pierced the dark air.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“She led them to their pallets, again encircled by other pallets. She sat down, sighing at her aching muscles, and caught his gaze. “You may, er, wrap your arms around me if that will make you feel I am safer.”
He chuckled--a hoarse chuckle, rusty, but a chuckle nonetheless. She’d take it.
“May I indeed?” He lay beside her and pulled her back against him, settling her head on his arm, bunching the other hide up to use as a pillow. “If I must.” His warm sigh tickled across her neck. “After all, I must ensure that pinkie does not wander.”
Would Robert never let her forget that?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“We came out on Coldra Crescent, one of those warm air nights, stars spitting in the sky like firebugs stuck on a big black velvet rump. A summer night to make anybody with standard glands feel that tidy homes, spring mattresses, four guaranteed meals per day, and legalised religion were all criminal to human development.”
Ron Berry, So Long, Hector Bebb

Angela Quarles
“He leaned his head against the rock. Christ, when was the last time he’d seen the humor in life? And now, of all places, in an enemy camp, with a strange woman who made him burn. Burn with desire. Burn with need. A desire and need not only for her and her body, but for something he couldn’t quite name.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Lynette Rees
“Not many have escaped Merthyr, Mam. Not many want to leave in any case. At least there is
work in this valley, people come near and far to work here, so we should be glad of that... - Lily - Black Diamonds.”
Lynette Rees, Black Diamonds: One woman's brave heart

Angela Quarles
“She needed a distraction. “Was that your mother?”
The splashing stopped. “Are you going to converse while I bathe?”
“Why not?”
“Feels rather unseemly.”
She laughed, picturing him sitting there, shocked and indignant. “We’re supposed to be married, right?”
“You have a point, however I would rather not discuss her right now.”
“I think you’re evading me.”
“Mayhap. Is it working?”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

Angela Quarles
“His warm breath, smelling of clean spice, stroked her cheek and ear. A thrilling shiver coursed over her, the wound on her arm only a minor sting. Then his lips—those full, sensuous lips—grazed her jaw and the soft spot behind her ear, the hairs of his beard brushing her sensitive skin. Her shivers locked her muscles tight. A bolt of tantalizing heat shot down her center.
He leveraged closer, all that warrior brawn pressing hard against her side, linen rasping over skin, an exquisite feeling.
Yes. This.”
Angela Quarles, Must Love Chainmail

“Our angst springs from coming from South Wales. It's a longing encapsulated in the Welsh word "hireath". The Irish can usually see the better side of things, they have a sense of wonder. The Welsh don't. We think everything is going to turn out shit.”
Nicky Wire, A Version of Reason: In Search of Richey Edwards

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