Don't quit. Never give up trying to build the world you can see, even if others can't see it. Listen to your drum and your drum only. It's the one that makes the sweetest sound.
The pure, the bright, The beautiful that stirred our hearts in youth,The impulses to wordless prayer,The streams of love and truth,The longing after something lost,The spirit's yearning cry,The striving after better hopes;These things can never die.The timid hand stretched forth to aid a brother in his need,A kindly word in grief's dark hour that proves a friend indeed;The plea for mercy softly breathed,When justice threatens high,The sorrow of a contrite heart;These things shall never die, shall never die.Let nothing pass,For every hand must find some work to do,Lose not a chance to waken love.Be firm and just and true,So shall a light that cannot fade beam on thee from on high,And angel voices say to thee;These things can never die.
Yeah, it's odd when you look back at your own work. Some filmmakers don't look back at their work at all. I look at my work a lot, actually. I feel like I learned something while looking at stuff I've done in terms of what I'm going to do in the future, mistakes I've made and things at work or what have you.
The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating.
I prayed for riches and achieved success, All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!My cares were greater, and my peace was lessWhen that wish came to pass. I prayed for glory; and heard my nameSung by sweet children and by hoary men.But ah! the hurts, the hurts that came with fame!I was not happy then. I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire,Through quivering heart and body and through brainThere swept the flame of its devouring fire;And there the scars remain. I prayed for a contented mind. At length Great light upon my darkened spirit burst,Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength.Oh! had that prayer been first!
I asked for wisdom... And God gave me problems to solve.I asked for prosperity...And God gave me brains and the strength to work.I asked for courage...And God gave me danger to overcome.I asked for love...And God gave me troubled people to help.I asked for favors...And God gave me opportunities.I received nothing I wanted.I received everything I needed.My Prayer has been answered.
Justice, Sir, is the great interest of man on earth. It is the ligament which holds civilized beings and civilized nations together. Wherever her temple stands, and so long as it is duly honoured, there is a foundation for social security; general happiness and the improvement and progress of our race. And whoever labours on this edifice with usefulness and distinction, whoever clears its foundations, strenthens its pillars, adores its entablatures or contributes to raise its august dome, still higher in the skies, connects himself in name and fame and character with that which is and must be as durable as the freedom of human society.
Acting is bad acting if the actor himself gets emotional in the act of making the audience cry. The object is to make the audience cry, but not cry yourself. The emotion has to be inside the actor, not outside. If you stand there weeping and wailing, all your emotions will go down your shirt and nothing will go out to your audience. Audience control is really about the actor
One summer night, out on a flat headland, all but surrounded by the waters of the bay, the horizons were remote and distant rims on the edge of space. Millions of stars blazed in darkness, and on the far shore a few lights burned in cottages. Otherwise there was no reminder of human life. My companion and I were alone with the stars: the misty river of the Milky Way flowing across the sky, the patterns of the constellations standing out bright and clear, a blazing planet low on the horizon. It occurred to me that if this were a sight that could be seen only once in a century, this little headland would be thronged with spectators. But it can be seen many scores of nights in any year, and so the lights burned in the cottages and the inhabitants probably gave not a thought to the beauty overhead; and because they could see it almost any night, perhaps they never will.
What I don't understand about you is this, she said. You hold to your old belief in goodness with a tenacity that is virtually unshakable. Yet you are so good at being what you are! You hunt your victims like a dark angel. You kill ruthlessly. You feast all the night long on victims when you choose.So? I looked at her coldly. I don't know how to be bad at being bad.She laughed. I was a good marksman when I was a young man, I said, a good actor on the stage. And now I am a good vampire. So much for our understanding of the word 'good.'