If I did that, I'd be sticking my head in a moose.
History is but a kind of Newgate calendar, a register of the crimes and miseries that man has inflicted on his fellow-man.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
A mother is the truest friend we have.
Great minds have purposes; others have wishes.
There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature.
The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes - it never tires - it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world's condemnation, a mother's love still lives on.
I will never be below the title.
People get ready. . . Jesus is coming!
In the end it all comes down to this: you have a choice (or more accurately a rolling tangle of choices) between giving your work your best shot and risking that it will not make you happy, or not giving it your best shot - and thereby guaranteeing that it will not make you happy. It becomes a choice between certainty and uncertainty. And curiously, uncertainty is the comforting choice.
For some people, the way that they're perceived by the outside world is not a priority.