My mother and father told me I was god. I was a good Italian boy who hung out with the same four guys. I was a little god.
My whole problem is that my lips move when I think.
There is not enough time to do all the nothing we want to do.
Calvin: Look, a dead bird! Hobbes: It must've hit a window. Calvin: Isn't it beautiful? It's so delicate. Sighhh. . . once it's too late, you appreciate what a miracle life is. You realize that nature is ruthless and our existence is very fragile, temporary, and precious. But to go on with your daily affairs, you can't really think about that. . . which is probably why everyone takes the world for granted and why we act so thoughtlessly. It's very confusing. I suppose it will all make sense when we grow up. Hobbes: No doubt.
What's the point of wearing your favorite rocket ship underpants if nobody ever asks to see 'em?
We're so busy watching out for what's just ahead of us that we don't take time to enjoy where we are.
I asked mom if I was a gifted child. She said they certainly wouldn't have paid for me.
Art, it seems to me, should simplify finding what conventions of form and what detail one can do without and yet preserve the spirit of the whole - so that all that one has suppressed and cut away is there to the reader's consciousness as much as if it were in type on the page.
Not caring how you look is but a brief step away from not caring what you do or how you treat people. And surely, if you treat yourself with contempt, you're going to have little thought, care or compassion for anyone else.
Revival comes from heaven when heroic souls enter the conflict determined to win or die - or if need be, to win and die! The kingdom of heaven suffereth violence, and the violent take it by force.
My style of writing is very diffrent from yours.