Elizabeth Hay Quotes
Quotes to Explore
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Love is the funeral of hearts.
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People vote with their hearts, not their heads.
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Millions of Spaniards have Catalonia in their hearts.
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When people see you do alright, then you start winning their hearts. It's not going to come easy, though. It doesn't matter how many people you do right, you're still going to be hated by so many others. You can't live your life trying to make everybody happy.
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Differences of habit and language are nothing at all if our aims are identical and our hearts are open.
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Mistress of love or of hate, occult science can dispense paradise or hell at its pleasure to human hearts; it disposes of all forms and confers beauty or ugliness; with the wand of Circe it changes men into brutes and animals alternately into men.
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Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? - Through whose blood am I to wade ?
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Love is about letting go of the fears that stand in front of our hearts.
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For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work! For work does good when reasons fail.
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Love is a net that catches hearts like a fish.
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Those whose hearts are fixed on Reality itself deserve the title of Philosophers.
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Once you can accept the universe as matter expanding into nothing that is something, wearing stripes with plaid comes easy.
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That for which we find words is something already dead in our hearts.
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When pure sincerity forms within, it is outwardly realized in other people's hearts.
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True love doesn't consist of holding hands, it consists of holding hearts.
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God, the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts into one.
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Women see everything or nothing according to the inclination of their hearts. Love is their sole light.
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Mud, raised by hurricanes, wells up in the noblest and purest of hearts.
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Many women who have anorexia put their hearts in a compromised situation.
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Whatever god he adores, or even if he rejects all the gods, the man who desires to create cannot express himself if he does not feel in his veins the flow of all the rivers- even those which carry along sand and putrefaction, he is not realizing his entire being if he does not see the light of all the constellations, even those which no longer shine, if the primeval fire, even when locked beneath the crust of the earth, does not consume his nerves, if the hearts of all men, even the dead, even those still to be born, do not beat in his heart, if abstraction does not mount from his senses to his soul to raise it to the plane of the laws which cause men to act, the rivers to flow, the fire to burn, and the constellations to revolve.
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Man's progress is but a gradual discovery that his questions have no meaning.
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In an artist's life, death is perhaps not the most difficult thing.
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It was like the eve of a battle; the hearts beat, the eyes laughed, and they felft that the life they were perhaps going to lose, was after all, a good thing.
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Hearts don't burst. They keep on expanding. There's no end to it.
