I turned from my wicked ways and embraced Jesus. The next thing I knew, good times had come my way.
The vitality of a new movement in Art must be gauged by the fury it arouses.
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.
Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.
When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.
The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.
Are there moments when I see unrequited crushes or ex-boyfriends slow dancing with their dates and kind of want to stab myself in the spleen with a salad fork? Yeah, sure.
Wherever I am in the world, I never get Sunday night blues. I suppose it's because I've never worked at any one thing long enough to start hating it.
Many people talk as if they have all the answers, whereas I know I don't. That's probably why no one listens to me.
They done Wrong Like ink from a busted pen Thrown away 'cause of someone else Used up But he come back Dressed in night Fine as a king With his queen The wrong Made right So right.