Perfection never exists in reality, but only in our dreams.
She wore a gown the color of storms, shadows, and rain and a necklace of broken promises and regrets.
It is curious and we magicians collect curiosities, you know.
A piece of writing is like a piece of magic. You create something out of nothing.
It is also true that his hair had a reddish tinge and, as everybody knows, no one with red hair can ever truly be said to be handsome.
Houses, like people, are apt to become rather eccentric if left too much on their own; this house was the architectural equivalent of an old gentleman in a worn dressing-gown and torn slippers, who got up and went to bed at odd times of day, and who kept up a continual conversation with friends no one else could see.
It has been remarked (by a lady infinitely cleverer than the present author) how kindly disposed the world in general feels to young people who either die or marry.
Giving a camera to Diane Arbus is like putting a live grenade in the hands of a child.
My dream is for my flowers to act as beacons and rallying points across the planet - bringing people together on a global scale and through my art start a global conversation.
It's great to have something to dress up for. You know, I spent three years in slacks at drama school, so now I like putting a dress on.
Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.