The channels of intuitive knowledge are opened according to the intensity of individual need.
From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.
A mother is the truest friend we have.
Great minds have purposes; others have wishes.
There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature.
The love of a mother is never exhausted. It never changes - it never tires - it endures through all; in good repute, in bad repute. In the face of the world's condemnation, a mother's love still lives on.
. . the writer's obsession - the desire to know and communicate, or, rather, to know everything so as to communicate with the greatest degree of precision.
Though I had come into the world on 16 November 1922, my official documents show that I was born two days later, on the 18th. It was thanks to this petty fraud that my family escaped from paying the fine for not having registered my birth at the proper legal time.
I've never intended to be controversial but it's very easy to be controversial in pop music because nobody ever is.
I have tried to remove weight, sometimes from people, sometimes from heavenly bodies, sometimes from cities; above all I have tried to remove weight from the structure of stories and from language.