Thom Yorke Quotes

Coquetry, it's a triumph of the spirit over the senses.

I am a compulsive flirt, and I can flirt with anything.

Was this normalcy-predictable patterns, the certainty of doing the same thing everyday? Because if so, normalcy was about to make me freak out and start screaming.

The things I would do to that boy. I mean, not now that I know you're interested in him. But, oh, sweet holy Lord, I would ride that one-legged pony all the way around the corral." "Kaitlyn," I said. "Sorry. Do you think you'd have to be on top?" "Kaitlyn," I said.

Can you ever get off for good behavior?" he joked. I gave him what I hoped was a seductive smile as I found my seat. "Sure," I called over my shoulder. "If I was ever good.

Like warmed-up cabbage served at each repast, The repetition kills the wretch at last.

I grow ominously tired of official confinement. Thirty years have I served the Philistines, and my neck is not subdued to the yoke. You don't know how wearisome it is to breathe the air of four pent walls without relief day after day, all the golden hours of the day between ten and four without ease or interposition ... these pestilential clerk-faces always in one's dish. O for a few years between the grave and the desk!

Day in, day out. That same old voodoo follows me about.

I don't need to be told the same thing every day, every morning, same words.

Continuity in everything is unpleasant.

Didn't your mother ever tell you," Rob asked, "that you're supposed to play hard to get?" I looked at his lips. I probably don't need to tell you that they're really nice lips, kind of full and strong-looking. "What," I wanted to know, "is that going to get me?

In defiance of Miss Maccalariat I'd like to commit hanky-panky with you, Miss Adora Belle Dearheart... well, certainly hanky, and possibly panky when we get to know one another better.

Painting bores me like everything else. Unfortunately, painting is one of the activities - it is bound up in the series of activities - that seems to change almost nothing in life, the same habits are always recurring.

The same old thing--even if it's champagne--is still the same old thing.

Men would like monogamy better if it sounded less like monotony.

So many times I feel I'm using the same words over and over, like a woman wearing the same dress every day. So boring!

One listless day followed another, with nothing to distinguish one from the next. You could have changed the order and no one would have noticed.

That human existence should repeat itself, well and good, but that it should repeat itself like a hackneyed tune, or a record a drunkard keeps playing as he feeds coins into the jukebox...

That initial anger she had felt turned to sadness, and now it had become something else, almost a dullness of sorts. Even though she was constantly in motion, it seemed as if nothing special ever happened to her anymore. Each day seemed exactly like the last, and she had trouble differentiating among them.

Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, Nods and Becks and wreathèd Smiles.

You have been second always. Tragical? No. You preferred it to the usual thing: One dull man, dulling and uxorious, One average mind- with one thought less, each year.

She'll be back," Ranger said. "But not tonight." [Stephanie] "How'd you get her to leave?" "Told her I was gonna spend the next twelve hours ruining you for all other men, and so she might as well go home." I could feel the heat rush to my face. Ranger gave me the wolf smile. "I lied about it being tonight," he said.

Can you imagine what it would be like to know that your life was just going to be a series of days that were all the same, that were do-overs?

It has to be now,” he insisted, a flick of amusement in his voice. He nudged his burgeoning loins against her. “After all, you can’t allow me to go around like this all day.” “From what I’ve learned so far, this is your natural condition,” came her pert reply.

Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.