Though the human heart may have to pause for rest when climbing the heights of affection it rarely stops on the slippery slope of hatred.
Of necessity she went further in aversion than she had gone in love, for her hatred was not in proportion to her love but to her disappointed hopes.
The human heart may find here and there a resting-place short of the highest height of affection, but we seldom stop in the steep, downward slope of hatred.
Is there any instinct more deeply implanted in the heart of man than the pride of protection, a protection which is constantly exerted for a fragile and defenceless creature?
Repetition is the mother of character and skill.
But kids don't stay with you if you do it right. It's the one job where, the better you are, the more surely you won't be needed in the long run.
Death is another bar which lies several steps below the normal world. I'm at its threshold, but not yet in it. Its doorway is doorless.
How in the world did they just jump from politics, to a ball, and now to daimon attacks? And here I’d thought I had the attention span of an ant on Red Bull.
Okay. You’re the best Apollyon there is.” He tipped his head to the side and arched a brow. “I’m the only Apollyon there is right now.” I grinned. “You’re still the best.
So childish, Alex. You’ve ruined her dress.” The vibrant red silk floated around me as I treaded water. “I know. Bad me.
You must stay away from the one who brings nothing but heartache and death. Do you hear me? He brings nothing but death. Always has.
One ventures, commits one's self, and if readers are not pleased, one can perhaps please one's self and earn that slender right to persevere.
How pointless life could be, what a foolish business of inventing things to love, just so you could dread losing them.
After all, when a thought takes one's breath away, a lesson on grammar seems an impertinence.
Fame means being respected by everybody, or having some quality that is desired by all men, or by most, or by the good, or by the wise.
So come to the pond, or the river of your imagination, or the harbor of your longing, and put your lips to the world. And live your life.
You could take the entirety of the common sense of humans and put it in the palm of your hand and still have room for your dick.
The resurrection of the morning. The mystery of the night. The hummingbird's wings. The excitement of thunder. The rainbow in the waterfall. Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields.
And now you'll be telling stories of my coming back and they won't be false, and they won't be true but they'll be real
Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness,/ Wherein the...enemy does much.
I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow, and somehow, each of us will help the other live, and somewhere, each of us must help the other die.
