Andrew Davidson Quotes (35 Quotes)

Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat...

She worked diligently to develop her understanding of breath; for she knew that with breath she could create a world. She imagined herself breathing life into the glass and, with every week that passed, Sei came closer to realizing the loveliness of the objects that she could picture in her imagination.

Didn't anyone ever tell you that the mouth is the front gate of all misfortune?

That which is painful sharpens one's love.

Don't be wasting your sympathy on me, kid. I did pretty damn well, I'll tell you what. You snag a woman like that, you don't ask what you did to deserve it. You just hope she never wises up and changes her mind.

The problem with people like us is that we don't die properly.

Every Good Friday, this anchored but ever-changing anniversary of my accident, I go to the little creek that saved my life and light one more candle. I offer thanks for two facts: that I am one year older, and that I am one year closer to death.

The serpent tries to engulf my head. No, not a snake, an oxygen mask.

He recoils at the sight of me. Are they suppose to do that?

There I lay, wearing dead people as armor against death.

He was evidently a most captivating good-time Charlie, quick with his dick and quicker to split.

There was a brief moment of weightlesssness: a balancing point between air and earth, dirt and heaven. How strange, I thought, how like the moment between sleeping and falling when everything is beautifully surreal and nothing is corporeal. How like floating towards completion. But as often happens in that time between existing in the world and fading into dreams, this moment over the edge ended with the ruthless jerk back to awareness.

I could hear the hiss of various gases escaping the engine and the tires still spinning outside, above, and there was the creak of metal settling as the car stopped rocking, a pathetic turtle on its back.

There's a gentle sigh which descends like billowing silk upon the soul that accepts its coming death. It's a gentle pocket of air in the turbulence of everyday life... the silk settles around you as if it has been drifting towards the earth forever and has finally found it's target. The flag of defeat has been mercifully dropped and, in this action, the loss is not so bad. Defeat itself is defeated by the embrace of defeat, and death is swallowed up in victory.

I have no idea whether beginning with my accident was the best decision, as I've never written a book before. Truth be told, I started with the crash because I wanted to catch your interest and drag you into the story. You're still reading, so it seems to have worked.

There's the smell of the devil's mischievousness, a pitchfork in your ass and sulfur in your mouth. The Bastard's there, all right, don't doubt it.

It doesn't matter how fast you move, if you never go anywhere.

These day's I like to imagine that if a man were to enter through the slash on the book's cover, as if it were a door, he could walk right into the heart of the Inferno.

Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, often violently, just like love.

Just as I was beginning my drift into unconsciousness, there was an explosion. Not a movie explosion but a small real-life explosion, like the ignition of an unhappy gas oven that holds a grudge against its owner.

Who would have guessed that the monster of fraud was a democracy?

All history is just one man trying to take something away from another man, and usually it doesn't really belong to either of them.

Love isn't a steadfast dog at all; love is more like a pygmy mouse lemur. Yes, that's exactly what love is: a tiny, jittery primate with eyes that are permanently peeled open in fear. For those of you who cannot quite picture a pygmy mouse lemur, imagine a miniature Don Knotts or Steve Buscemi wearing a fur coat.

With every fragment of rock that fall from me, I can hear the voice of Marianne Engle. I love you. Aishiteru. Ego amo te. Ti amo. Eg elska pig. Ich liebe dich. It is moving across time, coming to me in every language of the world, and it sounds like pure love.

As in any proper fairy tale, there's a majick formula, in this case called the Rule of Nines.

My flesh began to singe as if I were a scrap of meat newly thrown onto the barbecue, and then i could hear the bubbling of my skin as the flames kissed it.

You'll swoop from incredible highs when you're just glad to be alive, to those lows when you wish you were dead. And just when you start thinking that you've accepted who you are, that changes, too. Because who you are is not permanent

As the paramedics lifted her, my grandmother's corpulent arms swung like bat wings with the life squeezed out of them.

My skin will never work like that again, so aware of the other person that I'm unsure where she ends and I begin. Never again. Never again will my skin be a thing that can so perfectly communicate; in losing my skin to the fire, I also lost the opportunity to make it disappear with another person.

Boredom was my bedmate and it was hogging the sheets.

Only a man unable to handle the actual world would create another one in which to hide.

Christ, I'm in Hell and they wear uniforms.

Scatology was strictly out, as nowhere in my psyche do I harbor the desire to shit on someone and even less do I have the inclination to be shat upon. And if I a a snob for not participating in films that involve sex with animals, then so be it; I am a snob.

Coffin,why no lid? Too antiseptic for Hell, and could the roof of heaven really be made of gray metal?

She had what I'd call a lemming ass - that is, an ass that you would follow right over the edge of the cliff.