Famous Quotes Ipsum

They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. the artist's life is in his work, and this is the place to observe him. never trust the artist. trust the tale. we must not, in trying to think about how we can make a big difference, ignore the small daily differences we can make which, over time, add up to big differences that we often cannot foresee. saturday found him for the first time strolling alone through zurich, breathing in the heady smell of his freedom. new adventures hid around each corner. the future was again a secret. freedom lies in being bold. writers tend to devour people, themselves included. one of the impressive qualities of charlotte brontë's heroines, the quality that makes them more valuable to the woman reader than anna karenina, emma bovary, and catherine earnshaw combined is their determined refusal to be romantic. the only thing worth saying is what you really feel. the search for truth is more precious than its possession. the feeling of sunday is the same everywhere: heavy, melancholy, standing still. like when they say, 'as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be; world without end.' have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn? or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? or perhaps you know the silence when you haven't the answer to a question you've been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause in a roomful of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you're all alone in the whole house? each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful, if you listen carefully. by all accounts, sex is a personally encoded communique, continually reinvented. when you get into a tight place and it seems you can't go on, hold on, for that's just the place and the time that the tide will turn. returning, i had to cross before the looking-glass; my fascinated glance involuntarily explored the depth it revealed. all looked colder and darker in that visionary hollow than in reality; and the strange little figure there gazing at me, with a white face and arms specking the gloom, and glittering eyes of fear moving where all else was still, had the effect of a real spirit: i thought it like one of the tiny phantoms, half fairy, half imp, bessie's evening stories represented as coming out of lone, ferny dells in moors, and appearing before the eyes of travelers. pooh looked at his two paws. he knew that one of them was the right, and he knew that when you had decided which of them was the right, then the other was the left, but he never could remember how to begin. the choice may have been mistaken - the choosing was not. religion is what the individual does with his own solitariness. if you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want and all that is left is a compromise. never judge a book by its movie. bush thinks he is still living in the age of cowboys, and that the world is like texas with himself as sheriff. one does not love a place the less for having suffered in it unless it has all been suffering, nothing but suffering. moonlight is sculpture; sunlight is painting. the officials thought it was a cruel joke to leave us stranded in the desert with no way to get home. what they didn't realize was that we were home, soul-centered and strong, women who recognized the sweet smell of sage as fuel for our spirits. i know that a life without love is no life at all. i glory in this world of men and women, torn with troubles, yet living on to love and laugh through it all. is not life a hundred times too short for us to bore ourselves? everybody loves a hero / an image to create / the antithesis of everything / inside ourselves we hate / but you'd better close your eyes / when it's time for them to die / because you'd hate to think the life you'd built upon them was a lie.