I worked on 'Lonesome Dove' three weeks all together. When I heard they were doing it, I wanted to be involved since I'd read the book.
These are just stories, you know. They are part of what we are, but they are not the real thing. All this year I’ve been thinking, What would White Raven do? And today, every time I thought it, I just didn’t care what White Raven would do. So tod...
And finally the two of them plunged into the dark sea, a sea like a pack of wolves, and they dove around the boat trying to find young Reiter's body, with no success, until they had to come up for air, and before they dove again, they asked the men o...
perchè non c'è nessun altro dal quale andare! Bisogna pure che ogni uomo abbia qualche posto dove andare. Poichè ci sono momenti in cui assolutamente bisogna andare da qualche parte!
This women's orchestra made a demure picture in their muted dove grays, alright, but they played like they were gowned in scarlet and gold.
Love is not a verb. Love is a noun. Love’s activity is people breathing, cells dividing, a dove taking a flight. This grammar of life not all can see.
Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.
Sometimes you don't prepare much. I mean, when I did 'Lonesome Dove' way back I rode horses day and night for like three or four months, and that got me ready for that.
Two turtle doves will show thee Where my cold ashes lie And sadly murmuring tell thee How in tears I did die
'Lonesome Dove' by Larry McMurtry and 'The Poisonwood Bible' by Barbara Kingsolver have stuck with me throughout my life, and I think that says a lot about an author's writing.
The new mythology of love was that it bent to the fashion of the day, obligated to take the shape of doves, lilies, jewels. This is a lie. Love is sometimes as passionate as war.
We are all familiar with the dove carrying an olive branch as a peace offering. The jewelry I've created pays tribute both to the messenger's noble mission and gardens as a refuge of peace and tranquility.
Thank fucking God. Christ, sorry about praying with “fucking.” Shit! Sorry about saying “Christ!” Shut up, Dove. God hates you.
Wolves and Doves mate for life. I hope in the next life I am one of the two.
At the age of 18, I made up my mind to never have another bad day in my life. I dove into a endless sea of gratitude from which I've never emerged.
No, mi dicevo, non può essere bello un mondo dove le paure e gli entusiasmi spaventano i più, tesi come sono al risparmio di sé e dei propri sentimenti.
Voleva toccare quella donna. Voleva sporcare la pelle di Eleanor con la promessa di baci che l’avrebbero segnata dentro, dove nessuno avrebbe mai potuto leggere quanto profondamente il conte l’avesse marchiata come sua.
Without hesitation, Dove chose the nowhere road. For that was the only place, in his heart of hearts, that he really wanted to go.
I quit my band in New York City in 1969 and I got really angry at them. I got angry at one of my guitar players and I dove over the drum set and we got into a fight.
I believe managing is like holding a dove in your hand. If you hold it too tightly you kill it, but if you hold it too loosely, you lose it.
The little dove, in her nest, in my kitchen window, still awake, all scared, waiting for the storm to pass and we humans are sleeping peacefully, believing that our concrete houses will save us...
