This is one of my favorite things about the Underground: the crashing of the cymbals, the screeching guitar riffs, music that moves into the blood and makes you feel hot and wild and alive.
There are certain things I do not talk about.
All I know is that I carried you for nine months. I fed you, I clothed you, I paid for your college education. Friending me on Facebook seems like a small thing to ask in return.
It seems to me that no matter what religion you subscribe to, acts of kindness are the stepping-stones to making the world a better place--because we become better people in it.
The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they'd lost, to focus instead on what was yet to come.
Seeing her sitting there unresponsive makes me realize that silence has a sound.
How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?
I am getting on in years, and I have a very extensive IMDB page, and I cannot keep track of my own credits.
I don't want my children to be at a disadvantage, growing up in the limelight, because then they have to live up to an identity already cut out for them, relating all the time to being so-and-so's daughter or so-and-so's son.
Confession frees, but power reduces one to silence; truth does not belong to the order of power, but shares an origincal affinity with freedom: traditional themes in philosophy, which a political history of truth would have to overturn by showing that truth is not by nature free--nor error servile--but that its production is thoroughly imbued with relations of power. The confession is an example of this.
Love, in distinction from friendship, is killed, or rather extinguished, the moment it is displayed in public.