What if one were up there, drifting about among suns and feeling the tails of comets fan one's forehead! How small the earth was and how puny the people; a Norway of two million provincial souls and a mortgage bank to help feed them! What was life worth at such a rate? You elbowed yourself ahead in the sweat of your face for a few mortal years, only to perish all the same, all the same!
Sweat equity is the most valuable equity there is.
The mean reds are horrible. You're afraid and you sweat like hell, but you don't know what you're afraid of. Except something bad is going to happen, only you don't know what it is.
I was certain t find the familiar sting of salt, but what I needed to know was what kind: kitchen, sweat, tears or the sea.
Sometimes sweat is the best form of therapy.
An old minister explained the smudges on his sermon outlines by saying they were caused by sweat and tears. And without those two marks, a sermon is not a sermon.
Nothing of value is free. Even the breath of life is purchased at birth only through gasping effort and pain. . . The best things in life are beyond money; their price is agony and sweat and devotion. . . and the price demanded for the most precious of all things in life is life itself--ultimate cost for perfect value
There's something incredibly sexy about sand and sweat and dunes photographed like women's backs.
I don't really know how to play drums, so I play them wrong. But the pro guys, they never sweat. You know if someone's gone to music school, because they don't sweat when they play drums if they have.
Finally the homeless eel marked its territory, I suppose, and the Doctor lay heavily upon me, moist with sweat.
When I pointed to him his palms slipped slightly, leaving greasy sweat streaks on the wall, and he hooked his thumbs in his belt. A strange spasm shook him, as if he heard fingernails scrape slate, but as I gazed at him in wonder the tension slowly drained from his face. His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor’s image blurred with my sudden tears. “Hey, Boo,” I said. “Mr. Arthur, honey,” said Atticus, gently correcting me. “Jean Louise, this is Mr. Arthur Radley. I believe he already knows you.
I don't even drink Coke. It tastes like robot sweat.
It's important me as a musician and also as an occasional show goer to feel the presence of a band on stage, to hear a PA reverberating and slapping off the walls, the push and pull of an audience, the blood, sweat, and heat. It's a primal thing in a way.
There is no greater injustice than to wring your profits from the sweat of another man's brow.
The fastest, cleanest, most joyful way to break out of your own box is by dancing. I'm not talking about doing the stand-and-sway. I'm talking about dancing so deep, so hard, so full of the beat that you are nothing but the dance and the beat and the sweat and the heat.
I wasn't sent here to find angels! I wasn't sent here to dream of them. I wasn't sent here to hear them sing! I was sent here to be alive. To breathe and sweat and thirst and sometimes cry.
A man. . . needs to get out in the open air and sweat and blow off the stink.
I was a barmaid for my mum for years, as we lived above a pub. I still can't hear the Heartbeat theme tune without breaking into a cold sweat, as it used to start at the same time as my shift.
Earth's sweat, the sea.
In the cocoon, there is no idea of light at all, until we experience some longing for openness, some longing for something other than the smell of our own sweat. When we examine that comfortable darkness - look at it, smell it, feel it - we find it is claustrophobic.
