One's own religion is after all a matter between oneself and one's Maker and no one else's.

When I tried to play something and screwed up, I'd hear some other note that would come into play. Then I started trying different things to find the beauty in it.

Dimebag Darrell

Sweet are the words of Love, sweeter his thoughts: Sweetest of all what Love nor says nor thinks.

Richard Garnett

There is some awe mixed with the joy of our surprise, when this poet, who lived in some past world, two or three hundred years ago, says that which lies close to my own soul, that which I also had wellnigh thought and said.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

So I try not to have any actual expectations for myself for any level of success or failure.

Gavin DeGraw

The task of leadership is not to put greatness into humanity, but to elicit it, for the greatness is already there.

John Buchan

We are all strong enough to bear other men's misfortunes.

Francois de La Rochefoucauld

If only I had a little humility, I'd be perfect.

Ted Turner

Since we cannot know all there is to be known about anything, we ought to know a little about everything.

Blaise Pascal

I grow plants for many reasons: to please my eye or to please my soul, to challenge the elements or to challenge my patience, for novelty or for nostalgia, but mostly for the joy in seeing them grow.

David Hobson

Everyone's allowed to be in love with the wrong person at some point. In fact, it's a mistake not to be.

Harriet Evans

Where a man can live, he can also live well.

Marcus Aurelius

O, that this too too solid flesh would meltThaw and resolve itself into a dew!Or that the Everlasting had not fix'dHis canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,Seem to me all the uses of this world!Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,That grows to seed; things rank and gross in naturePossess it merely. That it should come to this!But two months dead: nay, not so much, not two:So excellent a king; that was, to this,Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my motherThat he might not beteem the winds of heavenVisit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth!Must I remember? why, she would hang on him,As if increase of appetite had grownBy what it fed on: and yet, within a month--Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman!--A little month, or ere those shoes were oldWith which she follow'd my poor father's body,Like Niobe, all tears:--why she, even she--O, God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle,My father's brother, but no more like my fatherThan I to Hercules: within a month:Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tearsHad left the flushing in her galled eyes,She married. O, most wicked speed, to postWith such dexterity to incestuous sheets!It is not nor it cannot come to good:But break, my heart; for I must hold my tongue.

William Shakespeare