To arms! to arms! ye brave! The avenging sword unsheathe March on! march on! all hearts resolved On victory or death!

Ye sons of France awake to glory! Hark! Hark! what myriads bid you rise! Your children wives and grandsires hoary Behold their tears and hear their cries!

I've never believed in living for the ones you love. I believe in the power of death, I'd die for the ones that I love.

I miss your face. That big bright smile. You always had it, in any weather. It's hard for me to find one these days. These cold November days. Except when I think of you.

She felt as if the mosaic she had been assembling out of life's little shards got dumped to the ground, and there was no way to put it back together.

Attend me, hold me in your muscular flowering arms, protect me from throwing any part of myself away.

We're probably close to reaching 2,000 shows, which is more than Julia Child and Jacques Pepin together.

A helping word to one in trouble is often like a switch on a railroad track-an inch between wreck and smooth-rolling prosperity.

The only explanation on what's happened today is my opponent was better than me.

Refusing to forgive is like ingesting a lethal dose of poison and hoping it kills my enemy.

Prose is like a window; fiction is like a door. But it is not uncommon that he who should come in through the door jumps in through the window.

Who knows whether the best of men be known? or whether there be not more remarkable persons forgot, than any that stand remembered in the known account of time?