I knew I could always earn money from a job. What I didn’t know was could I extend the dream of writing beyond my trip?
God is the one who puts dreams inside you. So you'd better chase them fast, before He decides to let them chase you instead....Because sometimes He does that, just to get your attention.
But then he returned and our life went on. Three days gone. A week. I measured the time in the faint waning of my consciousness of my misery, and wondered if this would one day be enough: simply not to be consciously miserable anymore.
19-year ninja veterans are best at representing 16-year-old cave shadows. So let us not delay in making love to the sound of clapping. Though we need no applause for our performance.
If I were a cave dweller, I wouldn’t draw on my living room walls like a caveman. No, I’d draw on my walls like Basquiat. Not a big difference aesthetically, but a huge difference in artistic credibility.
Guttenberg didn’t write the Bible—he just printed it. Gideon didn’t write the Bible—he just placed it into every nightstand in every hotel. And Orafoura doesn’t appear in the Bible—though he may have disappeared into it.
To keep my cat from drinking out of the toilet, I could close the toilet lid, I could close the bathroom door, or I could pull my straw out of the water and stop setting a bad example.
Not even death can keep me from the woman I love. And why should it? My death won’t keep me from voting for President every four years.
Tomorrow I don’t have to work, which means I don’t have to get up. I could just die in my sleep and nobody would care for 48 hours.
Just because I have two ears doesn’t mean I can listen to two people at once. Or one politician promising two opposable things.
Illinois makes silent noise. Loudoun County, however, has some of the highest decibel levels ever recorded by the Quiet Factory, since the political mouths in DC put them out of the whoopee cushion business.
Gone are the days when you could lie on a beach between races and still be in good enough shape to compete. Gone are the days when simply wearing a brand on your firesuit was enough to justify the marketing expense of an Indy Car. Racing an Indy Car ...
I'm happy to say that at 62, I think I've reached that point where stuff doesn't bother me as much, and my gratitude level has gone way up, especially having gone through the loss that I've had, and losing so many of the great artists that I was clos...
Bobby: [indicating a junk car by a rural gas station] That's my '51 Dodge. No, that's my car! That's my car! Whooee! All my youth and passion... spent in that back seat. It's all gone, you see? It's all gone - rust and dust.
Beatrice McCready: Do you know people in the neighborhood who don't talk to the police? Patrick Kenzie: Yeah, one or two. Beatrice McCready: We wanna hire you to augment the investigation of Amanda.
Detective Remy Bressant: [about Patrick] Half the guys he knows are degenerates. Patrick Kenzie: Yeah, you know what the other half are? Detective Remy Bressant: What? Patrick Kenzie: Cops. Don't hold it against me.
Detective Remy Bressant: Would you do it again? Clip Corwin Earle? Patrick Kenzie: No. Detective Remy Bressant: Does that make you right? Patrick Kenzie: I don't know. Detective Remy Bressant: It doesn't make it wrong, though, does it?
Lionel McCready: Helene's got emotional problems. Beatrice McCready: It's not that, Lionel. Lionel McCready: What is it, then? Beatrice McCready: She's a cunt! Lionel McCready: Beatrice, don't use that word. Beatrice McCready: God help me, it's true.
Angie Gennaro: They told me what happened. I'm proud of you. That man killed a child. He had no right to live. Patrick Kenzie: You're proud of me? Angie Gennaro: Of course I am. You did what you had to do.
It is necessary to write, if the days are not to slip emptily by. How else, indeed, to clap the net over the butterfly of the moment? For the moment passes, it is forgotten; the mood is gone; life itself is gone. That is where the writer scores over ...
Humor is reason gone mad.
