If I didn't smell so good would you still hug me?
The arts are an even better barometer of what is happening in our world than the stock market or the debates in congress.
Any formal attack on ignorance is bound to fail because the masses are always ready to defend their most precious possession - their ignorance.
The history of the world is the record of a man in quest of his daily bread and butter.
Great art. . . is the result of the labours of thousands of faithful craftsmen who know that they are doomed to remain for ever outside the gates of the Paradise of Perfection, but who nevertheless will give the very best there is in them because the work they do means more to them than anything else in this world.
High in the North in a land called Svithjod there is a mountain. It is a hundred miles long and a hundred miles high and once every thousand years a little bird comes to this mountain to sharpen its beak. When the mountain has thus been worn away a single day of eternity will have passed
The foundation for a new era was laid but yesterday. The human was given its first chance to become truly civilised when it took courage to question all things and made 'knowledge and understanding' the foundation upon which to create a more reasonable and sensible society of human beings.
If I knew where good songs came from, I'd go there more often.
For one week, all I could think about was drinking margaritas--well, that and running my tongue along Reyes's teeth--but I didn't have salt--or Reyes's teeth. I'd also lacked the energy to leave my apartment to get some--or the desire to stoop low enough to beg Reyes to let me lick his teeth after what he did--so I could only wish for a margarita. And dream of Reyes's teeth. I'd secretly hoped a margarita would magically appear in my hand, but that would mean I would have to put down the remote, and God knew that was not going to happen.
Kingsley watched her disappear from the room, wondering if his heart would break. Logic informed him that of course it would not. The heart was no more than a muscle, a pump which distributed blood about the body; it had nothing whatsoever to do with a man's emotions. But if that was the case, why did it ache so?
it was all your genes that made us geniuses, mom. said peter. we sure didn't get any from dad. i heard that. father said, not looking up from the news that was being displayed on the table while he ate it would've been wasted if you hadn't