Charles Dickens Quotes
The earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and fro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.
Charles Dickens
Quotes to Explore
When the best leader's work is done the people say, 'We did it ourselves.'
Lao Tzu
For a writer, life is always too short to write. I will just try my best during what remains of my life.
Cao Yu
When I chased after money, I never had enough. When I got my life on purpose and focused on giving of myself and everything that arrived into my life, then I was prosperous.
Wayne Dyer
I want to be different and have a good story. If it's a good story, then everybody is trying to tell it, everybody is better for it, and it's just more fun.
Garrett Dillahunt
Normally in dangerous situations I have a getaway car.
Sacha Baron Cohen
The idea of a stag hunt evokes chivalry - knights in jerkins and hose, ladies on sidesaddles with wimples and billowing dresses, a white stag symbolizing something-or-other, and Robin Hood getting in the way. An actual stag hunt is more like a horseback meeting of a county planning commission.
P. J. O'Rourke
While books expand horizons by exposing us to worlds outside our own, children also need to see themselves, their experiences and their cultures reflected in books they read. Unfortunately, for too many children, this is not the norm.
Randi Weingarten
What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives?
E. M. Forster
Research programmes, besides their negative heuristic, are also characterized by their positive heuristic.
Imre Lakatos
You love doing music, and wouldn't do anything else in the world. But it's a grind.
Stephen Kozmeniuk
The earth covered with a sable pall as for the burial of yesterday; the clumps of dark trees, its giant plumes of funeral feathers, waving sadly to and fro: all hushed, all noiseless, and in deep repose, save the swift clouds that skim across the moon, and the cautious wind, as, creeping after them upon the ground, it stops to listen, and goes rustling on, and stops again, and follows, like a savage on the trail.
Charles Dickens
