The guy was a piece of sin. If he were the devil holding a contract, this would be the moment I might just give in to temptation and sign over my soul.
Virtue is too passive, too narrow. Virtue can motivate individuals, but for groups, societies, a whole civilisation, it’s a weak force. Nations are never virtuous, though they might sometimes think they are.
Restoration is a skilled profession. You might even call it an art in its own right, except that it is frowned on to be original. First rule of restoration: follow the intention of the artist. Never try to improve on him.
We might give her presents, tell some tales, but would she ever be able to really understand what the journey had been like for us?
He felt like his own heart might stop beating just from acknowledging the concept. The sadness, the sorrow, and the loss, they were living things, funnily enough.
He watched her curiously from below, feeling as someone might feel watching a butterfly sit nearby, afraid to scare it off with a sound of voice or an abrupt movement.
Wild Nights – Wild Nights! Were I with thee Wild Nights should be Our luxury! Futile – the winds – To a heart in port – Done with the compass – Done with the chart! Rowing in Eden – Ah, the sea! Might I moor – Tonight – In thee!
Art is magic, and art is powerful. Art saves lives- I really believe that. It gives us courage and compassion we might not have on our own.
What you forget when you're planning a hijack by yourself is somewhere along the line, you might need to neglect your hostages just long enough so you can use the bathroom
Now, here is the point about the self: it is insatiable. It is always, always hankering. It is what you might call rapacious to a fault. The great flaming mouth to the thing is never in this world going to be stuff full.
The dangerous charm of GPC was that everything in the world could be called up; if you didn't look out, a couple of sessions might turn you from a serious enquirer into a mere gape-mouthed browser.
I wouldn't be your best and most marvelous friend in the galaxy if I didn’t point out there might be a few negative consequences from all…” she gazed upward and twirled her hand in the air “…this.
She might be pointing to a doorway, or a person, or the sky. But such things were so common to my eyes, so undistinguished, that they would register as "nothing" I walked in a gray world of nothing.
I laugh for sheer medicinal purposes; because I feel I might die otherwise.
If the world appears abundant in smiles or overwhelmed by scowls, you might ask yourself if you're not to blame.
They say ol’ man Beach is crazy. And maybe he is. But he goes ahead anyways. He’s the sort of man who knows the only things worth doing are the things might break your heart.
He’s sitting casually at my kitchen table peeling the skin off an apple with a pocket knife, a red apple that he has quite obviously appropriated from my fruit bowl, might I add.
The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.
Don't worry Toots, I told ya before, you don't have the right equipment to tempt me but if my tastes ever change from muscle to moobs then I might jump you.
He had to die someday too. He might do it on sheets with a six-hundred-plus thread count, but he'd die just the same. Death wouldn't forget about him.
We tend to forget that words are, themselves, ideas. They might be called ideas in a state of suspended animation. When the words are mastered the ideas tend to come alive again.
