Short form media is reductionist by nature.
If you are too smart to pay the doctor, you had better be too smart to get ill.
It is too late to cry "Hold hard!" when the arrow has left the bow.
One should not think about it too much when marrying or taking pills.
A woman who dances too much gets ill from little work.
He who believes his wife too much will regret it in the end.
The matchmaker always asks for too much money for his eight hundred lies.
Give your children too much freedom and you lose your own.
It's too late to shut the stable door after the horse has bolted.
If God wants people to suffer, he sends them too much understanding.
Too late... everything's always too late.
I know too much to be a sceptic and too little to be a dogmatist.
No one is ever too old, too rich, too poor, to pray.
Too late for fruit, too soon for flowers.
You don't bless what you love...It's when you want to love and you can't manage it. You stretch out your hands and you say God forgive me that I can't love but bless this thing anyway...We have to bless what we hate...It would be better to love, but ...
There are myriad kisses in a relationship: desperate ones as involuntary as breathing, stolen ones on crowded trains, ceremonial ones at the front door, routine ones as dispassionate as licking an envelope. It takes two to kiss, but does it take two ...
The young man shivered. He rolled the stock themes of fantasy over in his mind: cars and stockbrokers and commuters, housewives and police, agony columns and commercials for soap, income tax and cheap restaurants, magazines and credit cards and stree...
The serious writer was aware of a paradox at the heart of his art: his inner world, the place of the strongest stories, was infinite, but it was also embedded in – if this was possible! – an even more infinite universe of all things to write abou...
We all have an inner voice, our personal whisper from the universe. All we have to do is listen -- feel and sense it with an open heart. Sometimes it whispers of intuition or precognition. Other times, it whispers an awareness, a remembrance from ano...
The crying wailed, somewhere beneath the planks. Several sweeps of the light showed that the cellar was otherwise deserted. Though the face mouthed behind him, he ventured down. For God’s sake, get it over with; he knew he would never dare return.
He slammed the door and ran blindly down the corridor, grabbing at handles. What exactly had he seen? They had been eating with their bare hands, but somehow the only thought he could hold on to was a kind of sickened gratitude that he had been unabl...
