Love is everywhere.
Somewhere deep down there's a decent man in me, he just can't be found.
Wherever you go, go with all your heart.
We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand.
Luck is where opportunity meets preparation.
There can be no tyrants where there are no slaves.
When I have a chance to go back to my village, I always remind myself where I came from.
Home is where your family is. Wherever you are, it's about the people you're surrounded by, not necessarily where you lay your head.
Where there is unity there is always victory.
Where there's tea there's hope.
I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it won't be boring.
Through everything I have passed but nowhere I have been.
Every exit is an entry somewhere else.
Where there is no vision, there is no hope.
Whoever said that the past isn't dead had it backward. It's the future that's already dead, already played out.
Somewhere, things must be beautiful and vivid. Somewhere else, life has to be beautiful and vivid and rich. Not like this muted palette -a pale blue bedroom, washed out sunny sky, dull green yellow brown of the fields. Here, I know ever twist of every road, every blade of grass, every face in this town, and I am suffocating.
Status will get you nowhere. Only an open heart will allow you to float equally between everyone.
But still, I find the need to remind myself of the temporariness of a day, to reassure myself that I got through yesterday, I'll get through today.
I wasn't ready for fame and all that brings to your life. It was an amazing experience, but so overwhelming, because no one can tell you beforehand when it will happen or how it will impact you. So no one can tell you how to handle it, being stopped everywhere you go because people saw you on 'Oprah.' It took me over, and I wasn't ready.
The marquis de Carabas was not a good man, and he knew himself well enough to be perfectly certain that he was not a brave man. He had long since decided that the world, Above or Below, was a place that wished to be deceived, and, to this end, he had named himself from a lie in a fairy tale, and created himself--his clothes, his manner, his carriage--as a grand joke.There was a dull pain in his wrists and his feet, and he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. There was nothing more to be gained by feigning unconsciousness, and he raised his head, as best he could, and spat a gob of scarlet blood into Mr. Vandemar's face.It was a brave thing to do, he thought. And a stupid one. Perhaps they would have let him die quietly, if he had not done that. Now, he had no doubt, they would hurt him more. And perhaps his death would come the quicker for it.
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