Life is all about moments of impact and how they change our lives forever.
You have the opportunity to make a tremendous impact on the lives of the people with whom you work and live. Make the most of it.
If you would live long, open your heart.
It is easier to visit your friends than to live with them.
You can live with tea and cold rice but not with cold words.
Better one living word than a hundred dead ones.
Into the house where joy lives, happiness will gladly come.
The living are denied a table; the dead get a whole coffin.
He who lives on illusions, dies of disillusion.
Two cats will not live together in one sack.
The miser will stubbornly live poorly in order to die rich.
Many talk like philosophers yet live like fools.
Better to die upright than to live on your knees.
He that can't endure the bad, will not live to see the good.
If my life were still a movie, this is the part that would end up on the cutting room floor. We were all just fill-ins for a long-running soap opera. The actors changed, but the story seldom did. Certainly not the action.
In my mind, President Snow should be viewed in front of marble pillars hung with oversized flags. It's jarring to see him surrounded by the ordinary objects in the room. Like taking the lid off a pot and finding a fanged viper instead of stew.
There was something about the smell of books, the ink-and-paper-and-leather scent, the way dust in a library seemed to behave differently from the dust in any other room -- it was golden in the light of the witchlight tapers, setting like pollen acro...
...and to this hour the image of Carmilla return to mind with ambiguous alterations--sometimes the playful, languid, beautiful girl; sometimes the writhing fiend I saw in the ruined church; and often from a reverie I have started, fancying I heard th...
He is in love with the land that is always over The next hill and the next, with the bird that is never, Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass. He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit, The man in the fog, the road without an endi...
And waking, once again, face smudged into Andrea's couch, the red quilt humped around her shoulders, smelling coffee, while Andrea hummed some Tokyo pop song to herself in the next room, dressing, in a gray morning of Paris rain.
...he went into the sitting room, put on a Duke Ellington record he had bought after seeing Gene Hackman sitting on the overnight bus in The Conversation to the sound of some fragile piano notes that were the loneliest Harry had ever heard.
