I didn’t tell him that the diagnosis came three months after I got my first period. Like: Congratulations! You’re a woman. Now die.
There is no such thing as a child who hates to read; there are only children who have not found the right book.
People never seemed to notice that, by saving time, they were losing something else. No one cared to admit that life was becoming ever poorer, bleaker and more monotonous. The ones who felt this most keenly were the children, because no one had time for them any more. But time is life itself, and life resides in the human heart. And the more people saved, the less they had.
After sixty-one years together, she simply clutched my hand and exhaled.
The responsibility of political philosophy that tries to engage with practice is to be clear, or at least accessible.
What’s the whole point of being pretty on the outside when you’re so ugly on the inside?
Do not despise your own place and hour. Every place is under the stars, every place is the center of the world.
A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what’s going on.
The secret to enjoying your job is to have a hobby that’s even worse
Once someone asked me, What do you want to be your epitaph? So I said, Paulo Coelho died when he was alive.
One’s philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes… and the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility.
How we keep these dead souls in our hearts. Each one of us carries within himself his necropolis.
But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come.
Tell me what it is like to die, I answered. He dismounted from his horse, looking at me strangely the whole while. You experience something similar every day, he said softly. It is as familiar to you as bread and butter. Yes, I said. It is like every night when I fall asleep. No. It is like every morning when you wake up.
You destroy me and then you kiss me. You give me a reason to hat you and then you give me a reason to love you. Is this a lie or the truth? Is the a ploy or your heart reaching for me?
The end of a relationship is not always a failure. Sometimes all the love in the world is not enough to save something. In these cases, it is not a matter of fault from either person. Some things cannot be, it’s as simple as that.
Rock ‘n’ roll is not red carpets and MySpace friends, rock’n’roll is dangerous and should piss people off
He was still thoughtful. ‘Do you think any of us ever really knows anyone?’ ‘Philosophy, Lord Dryden? And yet it’s daylight and everyone is still sober.
On the church vaulting above was the clock-face of eternity, void of number and serving as its own hand, only one black finger was pointing and the dead wanted to tell the time by it.
And still the brain continues to yearn, continues to burn, foolishly, with desire. My old man’s brain is mocked by a body that still longs to stretch in the sun and form a beautiful shape in someone else’s gaze, to lie under a blue sky and dream of helpless, selfless love, to behold itself, illuminated, in the golden light of another’s eyes.
My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.
We must find new lands from which we can easily obtain raw materials and at the same time exploit the cheap slave labor that is available from the natives of the colonies. The colonies would also provide a dumping ground for the surplus goods produced in our factories.
God’s Word is not a compilation of people’s opinions. It is a revelation of His voice. His voice transcends time and leaves nothing void.
All religions, arts and sciences are branches of the same tree. All these aspirations are directed toward ennobling man’s life, lifting it from the sphere of mere physical existence and leading the individual towards freedom.
Those minutes are my life, I nearly scream. Those minutes that you take so much for granted because you get a thousand of them each day are priceless to me. Your life is measured by title, wealth, and status. My life is measured in grains of sand, trickling from one teardrop to the other.
All persons harboring or secreting the conspirators or aiding their concealment or escape, will be treated as accomplices in the murder of the President and shall be subject to trial before a military commission, and the punishment of death.
Recollecting the treasured memories…. strengthens the shared meaning ….by building a deeper emotional connection…It is a relational way of reminiscing about the olden times…By opening them again with the other….it becomes a throwback to the forgotten past….but as you gather those times…it becomes a shared moment cuddling by the fire…for no longer are they memories frozen mutely in time…rather a melting past revived to savor a lifeless relationship….
If a black cat crosses your path, it signifies that the animal is going somewhere.
What’s this ”“A needle.”“What should I do with it ” He’d walked right into it. Too easy. “Please use it to pop your head. It’s obscuring my view of the room.
What you do with your time on a daily basis determines what values will be added to your life
It is therefore senseless to think of complaining since nothing foreign has decided what we feel, what we live, or what we are.
I am not particularly interested insaving time; I prefer to enjoy it.
NO PDA,school rules. And besides she’s my partner dickhead. said Alex.
Often it is the most deserving people who cannot help loving those who destroy them.
You can never forget the time you’re living in because the past is the past and it will never come back. So to adjust your philosophy and creativity in fashion to the time you’re living in is the most important thing.
I must uphold my ideals, for perhaps the time will come when I shall be able to carry them out.
I’ve been in love one time, I said as I held up my pinky. I would have held up my index finger, but I wasn’t in love that long.
Do people look the same when they go to heaven, mommy?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Then how do people recognize each other?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. They just feel it. You don’t need your eyes to love, right?
I’ve loved keeping your secret, Remus wanted to say, I’d keep a thousand more, for you.
That’s the beautiful thing about innocence; even monsters have a pocketful of childhood memories with which to seek comfort with.
I had drunk much wine and afterward coffee and Strega and I explained, winefully, how we did not do the things we wanted to do; we never did such things.
The rest of my days I’m going to spend on the sea. And when I die, I’m going to die on the sea. You know what I shall die of? I shall die of eating an unwashed grape. One day out on the ocean I will die–with my hand in the hand of some nice looking ship’s doctor, a very young one with a small blond moustache and a big silver watch. Poor lady, they’ll say, The quinine did her no good. That unwashed grape has transported her soul to heaven.
I don’t believe there’s any problem in this country, no matter how tough it is, that Americans, when they roll up their sleeves, can’t completely ignore.
The white sail of his soul has rounded the promontory – death.
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
Time and space were, from Death’s point of view, merely things that he’d heard described. When it came to Death, they ticked the box marked Not Applicable. It might help to think of the universe as a rubber sheet, or perhaps not.
For some reason, the sight of snow descending on fire always makes me think of the ancient world – legionaries in sheepskin warming themselves at a brazier: mountain altars where offerings glow between wintry pillars; centaurs with torches cantering beside a frozen sea – scattered, unco-ordinated shapes from a fabulous past, infinitely removed from life; and yet bringing with them memories of things real and imagined. These classical projections, and something in the physical attitudes of the men themselves as they turned from the fire, suddenly suggested Poussin’s scene in which the Seasons, hand in hand and facing outward, tread in rhythm to the notes of the lyre that the winged and naked greybeard plays. The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings, facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape: or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps, to control the steps of the dance.
We’re thinking, does life owe us anything. Did we get it wrong? And time is an animal, man. The years. Time is killing us it has us in its teeth.
I’m not into this whole move with the times thing. I reckon we should just decide on a year and stick with it.
You never know the plan. You never know what’s going to happen. We are not even promised tomorrow. I just try to focus on one day at a time.
An apple a day keeps the doctor away.’ But eating too many, is quite enough-plenty. And you’ll have to go see the good doc anyway.
We forfeit three-quarters of ourselves in order to be like other people.