If someone says there's a portal to hell under some rocks, you bet your ass I'm going to move them.
Life is a slate where all our sins are written; from time to time we rub the sponge of repentance over it so we can begin sinning again.
nature has not changed. The night is still unsullied, the stars still twinkle, and the wild thyme smells as sweetly now as it did then. . . We may be afflicted and unhappy, but no one can take from us the sweet delight which is nature's gift to those who love her and her poetry.
If they are ignorant, they are despised, if learned, mocked. In love they are reduced to the status of courtesans. As wives they are treated more as servants than as companions. Men do not love them: they make use of them, they exploit them, and expect, in that way, to make them subject to the law of fidelity.
When I tried to draw near, you dissolved into air before my lips could touch you. . .
faith is like love; when you want it you can't find it, and you find it when you least expect it.
These tears do me good, they have watered the parched place; perhaps my heart will grow again there!
When asked, 'How do you write?' I invariably answer, 'one word at a time. '
I've worn so many things, I've tried on so many things. . . I've spent probably thousand of hours in fittings. I can know so quickly how something's going to feel on me, look on me. It's a pretty fast courtship. I say yes or no pretty quickly.
I am my clients. I am defined by who I do business with.
The modern history of economic theory is a tale of evasions of reality.