She alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore language. She lets the other language speak – the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back; it makes possible.
Miles exhaled carefully, faint with rage and reminded grief. He does not know, he told himself. He cannot know… "Ivan, one of these days somebody is going to pull out a weapon and plug you, and you’re going to die in bewilderment, crying, "What did I say? What did I say?" "What did I say?" asked Ivan indignantly.
If the truth doesn’t save us, what does that say about us?
History does not so much repeat as echo, I suppose.
A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his liegewoman’s breasts and cry–even if he is at a convenient height for it.
From fried witchetty grubs to gold-plated turnips, when you’re a writer you never know what’s going to appear on your plate next. It keeps a woman alert, it does.
A tough will counts. So does desire.So does a rich soft wanting.Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Why does a hearse horse snicker, hauling a lawyer away?
Everything turns out to be valuable that one does for one’s self without thought of profit.
Our great mistake is to try to exact from each person virtues which he does not possess, and to neglect the cultivation of those which he has.
If greed were not the master of modern man, how could it be that the frenzy of economic activity does not abate as higher standards of living are attained, and that it is precisely the richest societies which pursue their economic advantage with the greatest ruthlessness?
How many records you sell really does not matter. It’s whatever you give.
I’ve clearer idea of how I don’t want to be seen – as someone who does what everyone wants them to.
We cannot turn our back and say that violence in films or anything that we do doesn’t have a sort of influence. It does.
My courage does not depend on the weather.
A bird only flies. It does not turn to another bird and ask, am I doing this right?
Behavior is the perpetual revealing of us. What a man does, tells us what he is.
A teddy bear does not depend upon mechanics to give him the semblance of life. He is loved – and therefore he lives.
What do I want? The answer to that question does not exist.
Death is funny, when you think about it. Everybody does it, but nobody knows how, exactly how.
It is habit for me to discount myself before somebody else does it for me. Better to get in the first lick
I’ve always believed that the facts about dancing are more interesting than the myths, and this was a great chance for me to explore how the human body does such incredible things.
Sophistication demands honesty; it does not require ill temper.
Death does not frighten me, but dying obscurely and above all uselessly does.
No woman who is a woman says of a human body, ‘it is nothing’ … On this one point, and on this point alone, the knowledge of woman, simply as woman, is superior to that of man; she knows the history of human flesh; she knows its cost; he does not.
Among wellborn spirits courage does not depend on age.
Just vengeance does not call for punishment.
He who does not fear death cares naught for threats.
Even as fog continues to lie in the valleys, so does ancient sin cling to the low places, the depressions in the world consciousness.
What does one tell a husband? One tells him nothing.
Not only does God play dice with the universe, He’s using loaded dice.
Agential realism is not a manifesto, it does not take for granted that all is or will or can be made manifest. On the contrary, it is a call, a plea, a provocation, a cry, a passionate yearning for an appreciation of, attention to the tissue of ethicality that runs through the world.
In fact we say that an intention is good, that is, right in itself, but that an action does not bear any good in itself but proceeds from a good intention. Whence when the same thing is done by the same man at different times, by the diversity of his intention, however, his action is now said to be good, now bad.
I am an ardent recycler. I would like to think that it works. I don’t know whether it does or not.
Engineering, like poetry, is an attempt to approach perfection. And engineers, like poets, are seldom completely satisfied with their creations. They notice, even if no one else does, the world that is not quite le mot juste, or the hairline crack that blemishes the structure.