I'm writing a book about Siamese Twins that are attached at the nose. It's called: Stop Staring at Me!
Abruptly he thrust his snow-drenched leather gloves against my cheeks. I dodged. A raw carnal feeling blazed up within me, branding my cheeks. I felt myself staring at him with crystal clear eyes. . . From that time on I was in love with Omi.
Cats always seem so very wise, when staring with their half-closed eyes. Can they be thinking, I'll be nice, and maybe she will feed me twice?
By setting oneself totally free of constraints, free of thoughts, free of this debilitating activity called work, free of efforts, elements hidden in the texture of reality start staring at you; then mysteries that you never thought existed emerge in front of your eyes.
I looked back, but Bast and Sadie seemed fine. They were still staring at the water as if it were some amazing Internet video.
If you stare at an object, as you do when you paint, there is no point at which you stop learning things from it.
With sixty staring me in the face, I have developed inflammation of the sentence structure and definite hardening of the paragraphs.
No one would have the courage to walk up to a writer and ask to look at the last few pages of his manuscript, but they feel perfectly comfortable staring over an artist's shoulder while he is trying to paint.
Staring in the darkness, trying to sleep. My body was aching with tiredness. My limbs were numb. My sightless eyes were crazed with light I was dying of oblivion, but it wouldn't come. I didn't think I've ever sleep again.
I do not stare at a gentleman in distress.
I shall never forget what I saw at the Museum of Modern Art: in a spotless schoolroom, fifty little girls painting away at tables covered with brushes, pots, tubes, bowls, staring into space and sticking out their tongues like the clever animals that ring a bell, tongues lolling and eyes vague. Teachers supervise these young creators of abstract art and slap their wrists if what they paint represents something and dangerously inclines toward realism. The mothers - still at the Picasso stage - are not admitted.
I hate it when you go somewhere and 9 million people are staring at you.
I do wear makeup when I work out. I am one of those people. It sounds stupid, but I can't really get motivated if I don't have a mirror and I'm not staring at myself because I need to look at myself.
I sat staring up at a shelf in my workroom from which thirty-one books identically dressed in neat dark green leather stared back at me with a sort of cold hostility like children who resent their parents. Don't stare at us like that! they said. Don't blame us if we didn't turn out to be the perfection you expected. We didn't ask to be brought into the world.
You're staring at me," Simon said. "Why are you staring at me? Have I got something on my face?