What a strange pattern the shuttle of life can weave.

Promises that you make to yourself are often like the Japanese plum tree - they bear no fruit.

Do we really know anybody? Who does not wear one face to hide another?

To expect defeat is nine-tenths of defeat itself.

A cool breeze stirred my hair at that moment, as the night wind began to come down from the hills, but it felt like a breath from another world.

They fell, but o'er their glorious grave Floats free the banner of the cause they died to save.

No one person can possibly combine all the elements supposed to make up what everyone means by friendship.

Jealousy is the forerunner of love, and often its awakener.

In spite of Jean-Jacques and his school, men are not everywhere born free, any more than they are everywhere in chains, unless these be of their own individual making.

Every man carries with him the world in which he must live.

Death is only a translation of life into another language.

Recall that the minimum wage was initially conceived as a method to exclude undesirables from the workforce.

The rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a Christmas greeting.

Certain people have the eye of the tiger, and I never was myself that kind of person, although I'm not a slacker.

My business life takes a big chunk of time, but I still put exercise in my schedule. I'm up at 5 A.M. and get up and stretch and go for a run in Runyon Canyon with all five of my dogs.

To be taken into account were some years of schooling, where I studied with diligence Neptune's laws, and these laws I tried to obey when I sailed overseas; it was worth the while.

His eyes burned violet - not with anger but with intense desire. The kind of look that made you love a person so much, you missed him even when he was standing right in front of you.

I don't like drug addicts and she sounds like a cat.

I have seen her and sister cry over a book for an hour together, and they said, they liked the book the better the more it made them cry.

Language is by its very nature a communal thing; that is, it expresses never the exact thing but a compromise - that which is common to you, me, and everybody.

Poetry should be written the way adultery is committed: on the run, on the sly, during the time not accounted for. And then you come home, as if nothing ever happened.