Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

Women need not always keep their mouths shut and their wombs open.

Emma Goldman

What creates freedom? A revolution in the streets? Mass protest? Civil war? A change of government? The ousting of the old guard and its replacement by the new? History, more often than not, shows that hopes raised by such events are often dashed, sooner rather than later.

Jonathan Sacks

It is by loving and by being loved that one can come nearest to the soul of another.

George Mcdonald

But to tell you the truth, Mr. Boarham, it is on my own account I principally object; so let us - drop the subject, for it is worse than useless to pursue it any further

Anne Bronte

There is none more lonely than the man who loves only himself.

Abraham Ibn Esra

By the end, everybody had a label -- pig, liberal, radical, revolutionary ... If you had everything but a gun, you were a radical but not a revolutionary.

Jerry Rubin

All human language draws its nature and value from the fact that it both comes from the Word of God and is chosen by God to manifest himself. But this relationship is secret and incomprehensible, beyond the bounds of reason and analysis.

Jacques Ellul

Science must have originated in the feeling that something was wrong.

Thomas Carlyle

I like this job - most days I have a chance to make breakfast and take the kids to school or to read 'em a bedtime story. It's almost like a normal life.

Mark Harmon

The practice of peace and reconciliation is one of the most vital and artistic of human actions.

Thich Nhat Hanh

Translation is an interestingly different way to be involved both with poetry and with the language that I've found myself living in much of the time. I think the two feed each other.

Marilyn Hacker

the battered woman--for she wore a skirt--with her right hand exposed, her left clutching at her side, stood singing of love--love which has lasted a million years, she sang, love which prevails, and millions of years ago, her lover, who had been dead these centuries, had walked, she crooned, with her in May; but in the course of ages, long as summer days, and flaming, she remembered, with nothing but red asters, he had gone; death's enormous sickle had swept those tremendous hills, and when at last she laid her hoary and immensely aged head on the earth, now become a mere cinder of ice, she implored the Gods to lay by her side a bunch of purple heather, there on her high burial place which the last rays of the last sun caressed; for then the pageant of the universe would be over.

Virginia Woolf