The answer of on the question, 'Which is the most perfect popular govemment,' has never been exceeded by any man since his time, as containing a maxim of political morality, 'That,' says he, 'where the least injury done to the meanest individual, is ...
It’s [old age] not a surprise, we knew it was coming – make the most of it. So you may not be as fast on your feet, and the image in your mirror may be a little disappointing, but if you are still functioning and not in pain, gratitude should be ...
When we attempt to clear up the mess others have made, or when we love the unlovely, we demonstrate the kind of weirdness God likes. We give the lie to the evolutionary survival of the fittest maxim...
People ask me what I am politically and I've previously offered this equation: I became a conservative by being around liberals. And I became a libertarian after being around conservatives.
My double drags his coffin, humble slave, I, at least, am real, though changed to flesh. Far-off, I build me a church no hand can shape ("Winter Sonnets: III")
Confronted with the choice between having time and having things, we’ve chosen to have things. Today it is a luxury to read what Socrates said, not because the books are expensive, but because our time is scarce.
To some people, I may seem calm. But if you could peer beneath the surface, you would see that I'm like a duck--paddling, paddling, paddling.
I’ll bet you make love like an orca whale sings opera. How do you make love? Bjork Orca asked me. Like an orca whale sings opera, only with more wetness, more shattered glass, and less boredom.
Love is a bronze statue sinking in quicksand. But if I hand you a lasso, will you try to save the statue—or use the lasso to hang yourself? If you need me, I’ll be here to kick the chair out from under your feet.
I trained for months to be a boxer. Not Mike Tyson style, but more like Fed Ex. I’m a lover, not a fighter. Well, I’m not really a lover, but I am slightly more romantic than I am brave, and I’m not at all courageous.
I wake up to write stuff down all night. Useful things like this: To more efficiently make love nocturnally, I must combine the best characteristics of bats, bears, and my Uncle Norman who disappeared in the mountains in ’94.
After you first tell someone you love them, the weight of the wait for them to tell you they love you too feels like an elephant doing jumping jacks on the back of your mouse-like ego.
I had to hand it to him, leaving the empty glove lying on the bed was an apt metaphor for love. Two things I can say about my grandpa are that he is wise, and his left hand is probably cold.
She asked why I wanted to be friends, and I replied, “I love meatloaf.” Of all the things I could have said, that summed up what I hoped our relationship would one day become.
I introduced myself as the man who’d introduce her to her future husband. Then I called over my clone, knowing full well that after they’d fallen in love and gotten engaged, I was going to kill him and take his place.
Love is the last thing on my mind right now. But of course it’s the last thing on my mind, because I was just thinking about it. I always think about love when I’m not thinking about my ex girlfriend.
When I masturbate, I pump my hand so fast it’s like a hummingbird blur. But I make love like the anti-hummingbird. In fact, in bed I’m so slow with my love making it’s almost indistinguishable from sleep.
See all the women seated, youth in their face lifts, old age in their hands.
I am beginning to realize, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, that one of the problems I have in life is a tendency to completely romanticize how things will be in the future, which inevitably leads to disappointment because it's pretty much never, ...
Reading is difficult. People just aren't meant to read anymore. We're in a post-literate age. You know, a visual age. How many years after the fall of Rome did it take for a Dante to appear? Many, many years.
The present convergence of crises––in money, energy, education, health, water, soil, climate, politics, the environment, and more––is a birth crisis, expelling us from the old world into a new.
