The cliche is dead poetry.
You look back on some little decision you made and realize all the things that happened because of it, and you think to yourself "if only I'd known," but, of course, you couldn't have known.
She looked back to see Sam standing there at the edge of the strip of sunlight inside Common Grounds, staring after her with an expression on his face like he'd lost his best- his only friend.
No, it’s not fair, but what makes earth feel like Hell is our expectation that it should feel like Heaven. Earth is earth. Dead is dead. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. It won’t help the situation for you to get all upset.
Life's harder, the deeper you feel things, was all I could think as I put the books away. Feelings, who needs them? Sometimes they're like a gift, when you feel love or happiness. Sometimes they're a curse.
I love you,' cooed Fake Amy. 'You dance so much better than the Doctor.' 'Silly.' Real Amy nudged her in the ribs. 'Hippos dance better than the Doctor.
Now... Just run.' [said the Doctor.] One of the things you learn very quickly around the Doctor is never to question him when he says that word. You just run. It's almost like breathing.
The Doctor puffed out some air and looked down to the sea. 'A very charming man. I should be more careful of very charming men... At least I don't have that problem with you, Rory.' 'Oi,' said Rory.
Don't worry, I'm shielding you. When we crashed here and it first attacked me, I was caught with my mental trousers down. Not anymore. Psychic force field's intact. Belts and braces. Braces, by the way, are very cool.
[Amy] pulled a face. 'Honestly, when you grow up you'll learn you may as well try herding cats as keeping men in one place,' she told me solemnly, which I vowed to remember.
But you're dead,' said Harry. 'Oh, yes,' said Dumbledore matter-of-factly. 'Then... am I dead too?' 'Ah,' said Dumbledore, smiling still more broadly. 'That is the question, isn't it? On the whole, dear boy, I think not.
Pulling out onto the highway I noticed a stone pillar commemorating the Donner Party. They were a true testament to the American spirit, push forward at all costs and eat the dead when necessary. Wasn’t that the American dream in a nutshell.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
The evil that is in Man comes of sluggish minds...for sluggards cannot think, and will not...Send upon us thy flames that we may be burnt of dead thoughts, even as we burn dead grass...make us see.
Even those who drink until blacking out, those who beat women, are not the exception, hopefully not the norm, trapped somewhere in society in a dark place nobody wants to talk about.
He's looking at the wall and at the floor and at the bedsheets and at the way his knuckles look when he clenches his fist but no not at me he won't look at me and his next words are so, so soft. "Because they're dead, love. They're all dead.
The way to be irreplaceable is to become a social innovator. Start projects that motivate you to save the world and simultaneously make you money (and create mindshare) for your company. Social innovation makes magic happen.
McAllister looked up into her face, his eyes blazing with anger. At last, his composure cracked. ‘That’s right,’ he shouted back. ‘My word against – whose? Yours? You were dead, remember? No, of course you don’t remember. You were dead!
The dead appear to us in dreams because that's the only way they can make us see them; what we see is only a projection, beamed from a great distance, light shining at us from a dead star...
Nature's a funny old thing, it does whatever it pleases. He had always been a little afraid of it. He tiptoed into forests, speaking in a whisper, as though entering a church. Nature was mysterious, incomprehensible, impenetrable, off limits, like th...
...being aware that the sacred quality hidden in the experience of eroticism is something impossible for language to reach (this is also due to the impossibility of experiencing of re-experiencing anything through language), Bataille still expresses ...
