Dance until they kill you, and then we'll dance some more.
I have a passion for ballad. . . . They are the gypsy children of song, born under green hedgerows in the leafy lanes and bypaths of literature,--in the genial Summertime.
Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the flowers, Kind deeds are the fruits, Take care of your garden And keep out the weeds, Fill it with sunshine, Kind words, and Kind deeds.
Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.
A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.
It takes less time to do a thing right, than it does to explain why you did it wrong.
If we could read the secret history of our enemies we should find in each man's life sorrow and suffering enough to disarm all hostility.
In a way, the blank canvas. . . represents the infinity of trying to use color to express emotions - to assign a linguistic function to color.
Softly, Magnus said, "Aku cinta kamu. " "What does that mean?" Magnus disentangled himself from Alec's grip. "It means I love you. Not that that changes anything.
Some people look at creamed corn and ask, 'Why?' I look at creamed corn and ask, 'Why not?'
I do like to have guns around. I don't like to carry them. But I like - if somebody is going to come into my house and I have not put out the welcome mat, I want to stop them.