For every $5 that Boston's economy sends up to Beacon Hill, the state gives only $1 back to us.
I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.
I didn't read The Haunting of Hill House until sometime early in the 1990's.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill, of things unknown, but longed for still, and his tune is heard on the distant hill, for the caged bird sings of freedom.
I never run hills. My quads are already big enough. I don't run to build muscle; I do it for cardio.
I'm up at like 6 a. m. With my trainer, running up the hill you drove up to get here.
Then shouldering their burdens, they set off, seeking a path that would bring them over the grey hills of the Emyn Muil, and down into the Land of Shadow.
A man is hit by a car while crossing a Beverly Hills street. A woman rushes to him and cradles his head in her lap, asking, Are you comfortable? The man answers, I make a nice living.
Although I love snow, it messes things up terribly around Seattle, with all of our hills. I worry about my loved ones driving.
We started tearing down the seniority system on Capitol Hill. All of that begins in the '70s. It accelerates and continues in the '90s, and it's going on to this day.
To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me.
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
If you're laboring up a steep hill, imagine that a towrope is attached to the center of your chest, pulling you steadily toward the top.
Hills tell old stories. Cliffs are poets with harps
No house should ever be on any hill. . . It should be of the hill.
I came out of Capitol Hill. Well, that's just not an ordinary background for a writer of the ordinary American sort.
I have never coasted down a hill of frozen rain.
Few questions make long friends in the hills.
I left my car parked at the top of Lombard Street Hill, and I forgot to put the breaks on. It's the funniest thing. The car is running down the hill.
Garry Hill is a pleasure to be around, and his work is a rewarding reflection of my career.