It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance... and I know of no substitute whatever for the force and beauty of its process.

A society that gets rid of all its troublemakers goes downhill.

Robert A. Heinlein

The mere brute pleasure of reading --the sort of pleasure a cow must have in grazing.

G. K. Chesterton

Great passions, my dear, don't exist: they're liars fantasies. What do exist are little loves that may last for a short or a longer while.

Anna Magnani

As a result of the digital age and the decline of first-class mail, there is no question that the Postal Service must change and develop a new business model.

Bernie Sanders

When there is an original sound in the world, it makes a hundred echoes.

John A. Shedd

However, if a poem can be reduced to a prose sentence, there can't be much to it.

James Schuyler

I'm a physical type of actor and love projects in which I can get physical. The more action, the better.

Wesley Snipes

I'm trusting in the Lord and a good lawyer.

Oliver North

So it's been a slow process and it's taken some patience. That's why patients are called patients I think - patience is required.

Bowie Kuhn

Failure or success seem to have been allotted to men by their stars. But they retain the power of wriggling, of fighting with their star or against it, and in the whole universe the only really interesting movement is this wriggle.

E. M. Forster, "repr. In Abinger

For the first time I understood the haunting beauty of the song. It was the song of a killer who longed to die. It was the song of justice yearned for but not yet done.

Orson Scott Card

Even in your hobbies, has there not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of--something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat's side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possesed your soul have been but hints of it--tantalizing glimspes, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest--if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself--you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say 'Here at last is the thing I was made for.' We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the things we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all.

C.S. Lewis