But don't worry," she continued. "Most snakes don't want to hurt you. If you're out in the bush and a snake comes along, just stop dead and let it slide over your shoes." This, I decided, was the least-likely-to-be-followed advice I have ever been gi...
Maybe the question isn't whether God exists, but how we act. If we all act like God doesn't exist, then for all intents and purposes God doesn't. But if we act like God does exist, then in essence, She does.
This is much worse than losing a cat. You do not wish the cat dead, for example, after the first two days. You still love the cat and presumably the cat still loves you, or some variation of love that may in fact be dependence and even indifference.
Cold rage had him leaning closer, the pistol now a mere inch from his throat. "I served with them for a decade in Special Forces. You can't _begin_ to know what that means. Now they're dead and I want answers." "Try Ask.com
I thought speakers didn't believe in sin," said a sullen boy. Andrew smiled. "You believe in sin, Styrka, and you do things because of that belief. So sin is real in you, and knowing you, this speaker must believe in sin.
I can't understand why dark northern soldiers and light ones are seperated into different brigades. The dead are all buried together in hasty mass graves, bones touching.
So many men and women I have wronged, reduced to ghosts and shades. They surround me, but I can never let them know I regret what I have cost them, both the living and the dead.
Curiosity is a good thing, like onion soup. But too much onion soup makes your breath smell terrible. And too much curiosity can make your whole body smell terrible, if it causes you to be dead.
For somewhere," said Poirot to himself, indulging in an absolute riot of mixed metaphors, "there is in the hay a needle, and among the sleeping dogs there is one on whom I shall put my foot, and by shooting the arrows into the air, one will come down...
In fact,' said Poirot, 'she stabbed him in the dark, not realising that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly and gave it the requisite dent.
Friends first." "Even before Brett?" "Always," Bekka said. Her lively freckled face was dead serious. "Wow," Melody said in surprise. They really were friends. Hearing it helped her feel it. And feeling it was like sinking deeper into a warm bath.
You're not Dostoevsky,' said the citizeness, who was getting muddled by Koroviev. Well, who knows, who knows,' he replied. 'Dostoevsky's dead,' said the citizeness, but somehow not very confidently. 'I protest!' Behemoth exclaimed hotly. 'Dostoevsky ...
It was one of those idiotic things that could've been resolved in a split second. Tara had no right to touch Raphael, and once she did he had every right to punch her. She should've left it at that, and now she was dead because she didn't.
Even though my voice is invisible, my words aren’t dead and ghostlike. My “I love you” is alive and well.
My flashlight’s not working. I don’t know if the batteries are dead, but my mother-in-law sure as hell isn’t. When she dies, my love can live.
She's right, Kate's right, I'm right and you're wrong. If you drive her away from here it will be over my dead— chair, has it never occurred to you at on one occasion you might be consummately wrong?
The stillness and stasis of bed are the perfect opposite of travel: inertia is what I've come to consider the default mode, existentially and electronically speaking. Bed, its utter inactivity, offers a glimpse of eternity, without the drawback of be...
That's the kind of death that frightens me. The shadow of death slowly, slowly eats away at the region of life, and before you know it everything's dark and you can't see, and the people around you think of you as more dead than alive.
If my house were burning down, the one thing I’d take with me is my vast collection of smoke. I consider smoke the souls of dead cigarettes my lovers have exhaled.
I knew that I would know more dead people. The bodies pile up. Could there be a space in my memory for each of them, or would I forget a little of Alaska every day for the rest of my life?
She wanted to be herself again, to recover all that she had been obliged to give up in half a century of servitude that had doubtless made her happy but which, once her husband was dead, did not leave her even the vestiges of her identity.
