But old age, to begin with, has something in common with death. Some face it with indifference, not because they have more courage than others, but because they have less imagination.
I sympathize with a mother who has three mouths to feed—especially if two of those mouths are on her face. With a woman like that I’d listen twice as hard for doublespeak. I’m pretty accustomed to picking up on political rhetoric.
I could rant about political corruption until I’m blue in the face, but most people would just call me a Smurf and move on. My balls are also blue, but that is another subject, and not entirely related to politics.
He was a pleasant fellow, saying please and thank you as he pounded me in the face. That’s why I sent him a Get Well Soon card, since he was probably interested in my well-being.
The trouble with ‘if only’ is that it doesn’t change anything. It keeps the person facing the wrong way – backward instead of forward. It wastes time. In the end, if you let it become a habit, it can become a real roadblock – an excuse for ...
What man ain't the honestest cove in his own eyes?" Grote's round face is a bronze moon in the dark. "'Tain't good intentions what paves the road to hell: it's self-justifyin's.
What would you do if I kissed you right now?" I stared at his beautiful face and his beautiful mouth and I wanted nothing more than to taste it. "I would kiss you back.
The choice we face is not, as many imagine, between heaven and hell. Rather, the choice is between heaven and this world. Even a fool would exchange hell for heaven; but only the wise will exchange this world for heaven.
Best surprise ever.” I whispered in his face. Then I leaned in and kissed him hard and deep like it was the last kiss I’d ever get. “Wrong darlin’, best hello ever.” He grinned
Hi.” He turned and saw Kelsey standing in the door of the kitchen, looking . . . Well, she was glowing. That pregnant woman glow, maybe? Or just the sun hitting her face at the right time. Either way, she looked hot, and he noticed
So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it ca...
The pages and the words are my world, spread out before your eyes and for your hand to touch. Vaguely, I can see you face looking down into me, as I look back. Do you see my eyes?
I'm not staying with him for the pain. It's what he says in his sleep. When he's moaning, he whispers. The cry he utters with a face so full of sorrow. "So..." "...rry..." "I'm sorry..." It makes me sad that no one hears his apology.
If you remember nothing else, remember this: Inspiration from outside one's self is like the heat in an oven. It makes passable Bath buns. But inspiration from within is like a volcano: It changes the face of the world.
Here I stand on the brink of war again, a citizen of no place, no time, no country but my own . . . and that a land lapped by no sea but blood, bordered only by the outlines of a face long-loved.
To photograph people is to obligate them in some way to face things they weren't expecting to. You take them off their path, away from their plans, from their everyday routine. Sometimes it's also forcing them to die.
I could disappear from the face of the earth, and the world would go on moving without the slightest twinge. Things were tremendously complicated, to be sure, but one thing was clear: no one needed me.
As an observer of human nature, let's just face the facts: stupid stuff sells, and often the more stupid and silly it is, the better it sells.
He meticulously tries to get every hair in place. He tilts his head to look at himself from different angles, like there's some magic perspective in the mirror that could change the dimensions of his face' -Olivia/Via thinking
An "attack on SeaWorld" might mean a bomb, or it might mean graffiti and glitter and a cream pie in the face. The government doesn't always seem to distinguish between the two.
Do you ever want to go home?' I asked Paul. He brushed an ash from my face. 'It's the century of the displaced person,' he said. 'You can never go home.
