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I thought of the words of the Renaissance philosopher Michel de Montaigne. If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he, and I was I.

Josh Lanyon

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Josh Lanyon
Thought
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More quotes by Josh Lanyon

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Then, like a born and bred asshole, he added to the sheriff, He writes murder mysteries.
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Shrugging out of the damaged shirt, Jake said roughly, “I still dream about you.” “I have nightmares about you.” I dragged my T-shirt over my head, threw it aside.
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I'm not insane. This is very simple, very straightforward. Provided he doesn't kill me, its foolproof.
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Drink your coffee -- people in Africa are sleeping.
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Do you still do the clubs?” Jake shakes his head. “You do the clubs because you can’t find what you need at home. I’ve got everything I need. I’ve got the answer to needs I didn’t even know I had.
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Have I ever told you, you look like Monty Clift? he inquired in a deep, seductive voice. Before or after the accident?
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Like true philosophers I've come to believe that religion is an illusion of childhood, outgrown after proper education.
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Focus on someone else’s problems for a change, I instructed myself. You need the practice. From now on you’ll have to live in a world you didn’t make up. Horrible thought.
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The only thing worse than opera is someone who hums along with opera.
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Jake's mouth found mine, his lips molding hot and soft to my own. His tongue tentatively tested the seal of my lips I parted them and he pushed inside. It was startlingly sweet and achingly familiar, like finding harbor.
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I dug out the powder blue cashmere cardigan my mother Lisa gave me the Christmas before last, pulled on my oldest, softest Levi’s. Comfort clothes the next best thing to a hug from a warm, living body. Lately there had been a shortage of hugs in my life. Lately there had been a shortage of warm, living bodies.
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Kit, you're forty. You look thirty. You act...well, never mind. You're carrying on like you think you're seventy
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He scooped up Victoria practically before she hit the ground, well within the five-second rule. If she'd been a potato chip, he could have still eaten her. Not something I particularly wanted to contemplate.
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When you live with a potentially life-threatening condition you get used to the thought of dying. You accept it, you push on. The thing that scared me was the picture of dying slowly and painfully, the loss of independence and identity to illness.
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He was probably selfish in the sack. Probably selfish and greedy and...unsophisticated. And hung like a horse.
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He needed fresh air and sunshine. A walk in the woods and afterward a good book to read by the fire. Yeah, that was the life.
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I know you've all heard the advice, Show, don't tell. The best writers don't tell you, and quite frankly they don't just show you -- they make you feel it, live it, taste it, touch it. Storytelling is about being in the moment with the characters.
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Not as intolerable as being dead, in my opinion, but I'm very fond of me. I would miss me a lot.
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I thought again how odd it was to be on formal terms with someone you had once permitted to lick your ears.
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All cynics are disappointed idealists. The more stars in the eyes, the harder the fall.
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