I saw a headshot with the name 'Emilio Sheen' printed under it and it looked terrible.

We are all wonderful, beautiful wrecks. That's what connects us-that we're all broken, all beautifully imperfect.

We don't think about pilgrimage in this country. We don't think about meditation. The idea of taking a six-week walk is totally foreign to most Americans. But it's probably exactly what we need.

I used to Google my name to see what came up - it hurt.

In the current climate, we live in a pessimistic and non-idealistic world.

We've lost touch and allowed technology to take precedence over organic nature. But let's not forget that those microchips in our computers came from elements of the earth.

Film is an illusion. Fame is ephemeral. Faith and family are what endure.

We need to risk, we need to dare to risk and fail greatly because that's the only way we grow.

People are beautiful wrecks.

We're all imperfect. And wouldn't it be great if the message sent out by the mainstream media is that we're fine being exactly who we are? Wouldn't that be great for everyone?

Writing is a lonely job, unless you're a drinker, in which case you always have a friend within reach.

The story of my family. . .changes with the teller.

After sealing the door, Alqash went to the river to cleanse the blood from his hands and the dagger, and also to wash his hands of the faith that he had forfeited in exchange for short-lived riches.

Be not deceived. Revolutions do not go backward.

The rifleman's stalking the sick and the lame, preacherman seeks the same, who'll get there first is uncertain.

Belief?" "Yes," Sazed said. "Tell me, Mistress. What is it that you believe?" Vin frowned. "What kind of question is that?" "The most important kind, I think.

I mean when you come into the set at 7:30 in the morning and you come out of make-up and the first thing you know, the ladies start coming into our dressing rooms at 7:45.

You run back and forth listening for unusual events, peering into the faces of travelers. "Why are you looking at me like a madman?" I have lost a friend. Please forgive me.

Jesus Christ—who, as it turns out, was born of a virgin, cheated death, and rose bodily into the heavens—can now be eaten in the form of a cracker

Thus aged men, full loth and slow, The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till Memory lends her light no more.

If our hours were all serene, we might probably take almost as little note of them as the dial does of those that are clouded.