Quotes of All Topics . Occasions . Authors
I think everybody gets bullied in their own way. Even athletes probably get it from their parents. To a degree everybody gets bullied.
and then she asks me how many sexual partners I've had and I say one or two depending on your definition of what I did to Custer . . .
In a crime novel, if you are going to have a big revelation in chapter 30, you have to plant the information in chapters three and 11.
I don't know any women who don't think about what they look like, and I don't know any men who don't think about what women look like.
If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call to make, who would you call and what would you say? And why are you waiting?
The world is come upon me, I used to keep it a long way off, But now I have been run over and I am in the hands of the hospital staff.
We're human beings trying to understand and cultivate what it means to feel divine love. We have to start with small, realistic goals.
The length and shape of the poemetto, like the greater Romantic lyric of English poetry, lends itself to retrospection and commentary.
The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.
Good heavens! what a foolish thing is this pretended perfectibility of the human race which is continually being dinned into our ears!
How sociable the garden was. We ate and talked in given light. The children put their toys to grass All the warm wakeful August night.
I'm more interested in the meaning of funerals and the mourning that people do. It's not a retail experience. It's an existential one.
Plato feels that ethical abstinences and austerities are essential preconditions for the cleansing and opening of the eye of the soul.
This visible world is wonderfully to be delighted in, and highly to be esteemed, because it is the theatre of God's righteous Kingdom.
The human soul has still greater need of the ideal than of the real. It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal that we live.
Let us leave to the brain what belongs to it, and agree that the work of the men of genius is of the superhuman, the offspring of man.
Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars. Cimourdain was full of virtues and truth, but they shine out of a dark background.
Orwell says somewhere that no one ever writes the real story of their life. The real story of a life is the story of its humiliations.
I taught myself to name my name, To bark back, loosen love and crying; To ease my woman so she came, To ease an old man who was dying.
I'll love you, dear, I'll love you till China and Africa meet and the river jumps over the mountain and the salmon sing in the street.
It is a sad fact about our culture that a poet can earn much more money writing or talking about his art than he can by practicing it.
If it form the one landscape that we the inconstant ones Are consistently homesick for, this is chiefly Because it dissolves in water.
It has always been a wonder to me where my conversational power has gone: at the present time, I cannot impress the most ordinary men.
He said you should write about 75 lines every day. You know, Pound was a great one for laying down the law about how you did anything.
Nothing could be more inappropriate to American literature than its English source since the Americans are not British in sensibility.
It is poverty's speech that seeks us out the most. It is older than the oldest speech of Rome. This is the tragic accent of the scene.
This mangled, smutted semi-world hacked out Of dirt . . . It is not possible for the moon To blot this with its dove-winged blendings.
I give you my hand, I give you my love more precious than money, I give you myself before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself?
O to be self-balanced for contingencies, to confront night, storms, hunger, ridicule, accidents, rebuffs, as the trees and animals do.
For beauty with sorrow Is a burden hard to be borne: The evening light on the foam, and the swans, there; That music, remote, forlorn.
I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.
England! awake! awake! awake! Jerusalem thy sister calls! Why wilt thou sleep the sleep of death And close her from thy ancient walls?
You smile with pomp and rigor, you talk of benevolence and virtue; I act with benevolence and virtue and get murdered time after time.
All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
Struggling in my father's hands, Striving against my swaddling bands, Bound and weary, I thought best To sulk upon my mother's breast.
I know that I shall meet my fate somewhere among the clouds above; those that I fight I do not hate, those that I guard I do not love.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
All beauteous things for which we live By laws of space and time decay. But Oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.
In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what's past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker.
Danger knows full well that Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter’d in one day, and I the elder and more terrible.
The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor.
Say, what abridgement have you for this evening? What masque, what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time if not with some delight?
God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.
The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun.
Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor.
What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.