I have a trainer who comes three times a week and just listens to me moan. . . and I keep fit and keep moving. . . and I do watch what I eat. I am a vegetarian. . . I can't eat crazy food. I'm highly allergic to onions and garlic and spices. . . I've never had a pizza, never had a curry.
What can you do when you don't fit in? What can you do when life seems to be passing you by?" "Follow me. I want to show you something. See the horizon over there? See how big this world is? See how much room there is for everybody? Have you ever seen any other worlds?" "No. " "As far as you know, this is the only world there is, right?" "Right. " "There are no other worlds for you to live in, right?" "Right. " "You were born to live in this world, right?" "Right. " "WELL LIVE IN IT THEN! Five cents please.
Can anybody tell me why reporters, in making mention of lady speakers, always consider it to be necessary to report, fully and firstly, the dresses worn by them? When John Jones or Senator Rouser frees his mind in public, we are left in painful ignorance of the color and fit of his pants, coat, necktie and vest - and worse still, the shape of his boots. This seems to me a great omission.
This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
At a banquet Caligula was suddenly seized with a fit of helpless laughter. The consuls reclining next to him asked if they might share in the imperial merriment. Caligula, wiping the tears from his eyes, managed to gasp, "You'll never guess! It suddenly occurred to me that I had only to give a single nod, and both your throats would be cut on the spot. "