There is great power in focusing on what you want. . . . . The person who tries to do everything accomplishes nothing. Most people try to be all things to everyone. And so they end up being nothing to anyone. Confucius nailed the point: "Person who chases two rabbits catches neither. "
Person who chases two rabbits catches neither.
Success is when reality catches up to your imagination.
The moment where the fisherman catches the fish, happiness and agony, light and darkness, joy and death come face to face!
I guess sometimes the past just catches up to you, whether you want it to or not.
The nature of love is that it catches you off-guard, subjects you to rules you have never faced, some of them contradictory.
Love is always a leap into the unknown. You can try to control as many variables, and understand a situation as you can, but youre still jumping off a cliff and hoping that someone catches you.
It is your business when the wall next door catches fire.
I want to be the guy who catches the game-winning touchdown.
Suspicion is an owl that flies when the light is bad and catches only vermin for food.
We have been moving along at such a fast pace that we no longer know what we are doing. Now we have to wait until our soul catches up with us.
Oh, mercy. If it catches you in the wrong frame of mind, the King James Bible can make you want to drink poison in no uncertain terms.
I have read all of Daniel Aaron's books, and admired them, but in The Americanist I believe he has composed an intellectual and social memoir for which he will be remembered. His self-portrait is marked by personal tact and admirable restraint: he is and is not its subject. The Americanist is a vision of otherness: literary and academic friends and acquaintances, here and abroad. Eloquently phrased and free of nostalgia, it catches a lost world that yet engendered much of our own.
People don't slip. Time catches up with them.
All I can do is turn a phrase until it catches the light.
The cat in gloves catches no mice.
A closed mouth catches no flies.
As a kid, I loved to play centerfield. I loved to make diving catches.
Wit catches of wit, as fire of fire.
I don't know if I've come of age, but I'm certainly older now. I feel shrunken, as if there's a tiny ancient Oliver Tate inside me operating the levers of a life-size Oliver-shaped shell. A shell on which a decrepit picture show replays the same handful of images. Every night I come to the same place and wait till the sky catches up with my mood. The pattern is set. This is, no doubt, the end.
