There's a reason why anger, fear, and hatred are paths to the dark side: they all spring from a single source - the same source as a certain flavor of love. A dangerously sweet, addictive flavor.
If it is the mark of the artist to love art before everything, to renounce everything for its sake, to think all the sweet human things of life well lost if only he may attain something, do some good, great work - then I was never an artist.
The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
And we were kissing like drowning people breathe-- like suddenly we'd discovered something that has never been so sweet before that moment.
A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land, where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us with their conundrums.
The little things of life, sweet and excellent in their place, must not be the things lived for; the highest must be sought and followed; the life of heaven must be begun here on earth.
It is a bitter-sweet thing, knowing two cultures. Once you leave your birthplace nothing is ever the same.
Mummy’s coming home late tonight. It’ll be just we guys, so we can get drunk and watch porn.
The Cinderella story in reverse. I only wish there were ashes in the fireplace so I could order you to sweep them out.
If you were a sane woman, I would, of course, behave in a more rational fashion. Since you are a lunatic, however, this is the only way.
We’re all works in progress, honey. And believe me when I tell you that I’ve had to work harder than most.
What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.
The woman who makes a sweet, beautiful home, filling it with love and prayer and purity, is doing something better than anything else her hands could find to do beneath the skies.
There was nothing sweet or gentle in our last kiss; it was filled with sorrow and desperation, of the bitter knowledge that we could've had something perfect, but it just wasn't meant to be.
Most of my dates had consisted of some guy trying to sweet-talk me while I silently prayed for an asteroid to crash into whatever diner we were at.
I clench my fists and try not to scream and I tuck my friends in my heart and revenge I think has never looked so sweet.
Those sweet lips. My, oh my, I could kiss those lips all night long. Good things come to those who wait.
I use Fiction to face Reality And write sweet Stories to avoid the bitter ones.
Sweet talk's like salt. You can add some later, if need be, but if you pour out too much, you can't sift it out again.
If I could tell you about Red I would sing to you of fire Sweet like cherries Burning like cinnamon Smelling like a rose in the sun
Love did not die. I still create your image to my heart every solitary night.
