Percy Bysshe Shelley Quotes
Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother’s hate, Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: He bears a load which nothing can remove, A killing, withering weight.
Quotes to Explore
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There are really two kinds of optimism. There's the complacent, Pollyanna optimism that says, 'Don't worry - everything will be just fine,' and that allows one to just lay back and do nothing about the problems around you. Then there's what we call dynamic optimism. That's an optimism based on action.
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There's a big link between trains and film. One of the first filmed objects was a train. The clickety-clack of the projector and the clickety-clack of the train are similar. There is the idea of the voyage - every voyage is a story. I wonder if film would have been invented without the train.
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In the last quarter of the eighteenth century bourgeois Europe needed to emancipate itself from that combination of feudalism and commercial capitalism which we know as mercantilism.
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Countries like France should not be naive. We don't have a French YouTube or Amazon or Netflix.
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The French complain of everything, and always.
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I'm quite a precious painter; my style is a messy fine art - sort of impressionist. I do portraits, I love painting other artists, but recently, I've been playing around with self portraits, putting on different characters.
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What power can poverty have over a home where loving hearts are beating with a consciousness of untold riches of the head and heart?
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Proust is a huge author for me.
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It is better to suffer wrong than to do it, and happier to be sometimes cheated than not to trust.
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There's a Washington standard of casually putting things off the record. It's really gone too far. I don't know an easy way to turn it back.
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I really don't like confrontations. One of the reasons I'm retiring is that I'm tired of hurting people's feelings.
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By the time I was ten, everyone knew I wanted to be a producer. I was a very precocious little boy.
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God cannot alter the past, though historians can.
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I don't really have any gimmicks. I don't actually do anything that's strange. I don't even wear weird things.
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Nowadays, everybody assumes, when they wake up in the morning, if they have a question, it will get answered. Because they have the internet. No matter what the question is, someone will answer their question.
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For a long time I was interested in being a social worker. In a lot of ways I feel that that's all my music is, trying to help people.
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I go to this gym in Hollywood: it's a Cross Fit gym. It's basically just a really high intensity, sort of, athletic movements. I'm sure Cross Fit is going to be mad at me for not giving their definition of what Cross Fit is.
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There's a lot more to publishing a book than writing it and slapping a cover on it.
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You don't want flame to hit your food. Flame is bad. Flame does nasty things to food. It makes soot and it makes deposits of various chemicals that are not too good for us. The last thing you really want to see licking at your food while it's on a grill is an actual flame.
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Open your arms to life! Let it strut into your heart in all its messy glory!
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It’s been twenty years-we didn’t even talk at Kurt's funeral. None of us. And so, twenty years of me getting Yoko-bashed, and Dave bashing, and me bashing and making it worse, all that shit. The legal stuff, the trial. We just buried it. It was really deep. It brings tears to my eyes to even talk about it.
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It's deeper than the music when it comes to me and Mustard. He's like a big brother, and I'm so thankful to have a mentor like him to advise me. Even though he gives me a lot of creative control, I always go to him like, 'Do you like this?' It's so cool that it's always a collaborative effort. He never makes me feel pressured or anything.
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Fate is like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd waiters who bring you things you never asked for and don't always like.
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Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother’s hate, Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: He bears a load which nothing can remove, A killing, withering weight.
