Charles Dickens Quotes
All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away.
Quotes to Explore
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Everyone has their own special set of problems - in their own minds.
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There's guys like me who aren't going to the theater, so distributors are leaving money on the table.
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I have two homes in Malibu, a home in Canada that I'm building, and I just love pouring my heart out into this part of my life.
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People don't really want reality. They want theater, and that's different.
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I feel empathy for people who are trapped in a prison of self-consciousness in an uncomfortable way. We can be free, but we're so held back. So perhaps that's why I feel a duty to make my work. I feel liberated when I'm doing it, and I want other people to feel liberated through it.
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The question for politicians here is fundamental: You can read the polls, or you can change the polls. Stand up on the things you believe in.
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I never saw a contradiction between the ideas that sustain me and the ideas of that symbol, of that extraordinary figure, Jesus Christ.
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Part of me feels you can't say you were truly in love if it didn't last. If I end up getting married and having kids, that's when I'll know it's real - because it lasted.
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I dig science fiction, though it was never really my thing.
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The pace of Swedish crime fiction is slower - Stieg Larsson's the exception. And I think we use the environment more.
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When I come home, it's about my kid, who needs to eat, needs to do homework, and needs to get to basketball. I don't have a lot of time to think about me.
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I don't think humor is forced upon my universe; it's a part of it.
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I am the despair of my accountant; I am the plastic bags of receipts.
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Even when the characters are supposed to be accustomed to the wonder, I try to weave an air of awe and impressiveness corresponding to what the reader should feel. A casual style ruins any serious fantasy.
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When small men attempt great enterprises, they always end by reducing them to the level of their mediocrity.
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Under so much pressure and the situation that I was in, that was the personality that came across with me.
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There is the love and marriage and family kind of happiness, which is exceedingly boring to describe but nonetheless is important to have and dreadful not to have.
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We put our life on the line to fight for them, put on a show and these guys take our money so whatever happens to Bob Arum, Don King or anyone else is fine with me.
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After the war 1918 etching became Kirchner's favorite medium. He attributed this to its responsiveness. 'Etchings', he wrote, 'develop in the first states the most immediate hieroglyphs. Rich in lively handwriting and rich in variety of motifs, the etchings are like a diary of the painter.'
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For the value of everything exists for man only so long as he does not understand it. When he has fully understood, the value is lost, be it the lowest thing or the highest thing.
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There's many things that I am. And all of those things come together at some point. If somebody wants to limit me, you know and they'll say, 'Well, this is Walter Mosley, the mystery writer.' I don't like that. Because I do many things.
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It is not probable that the reader will be satisfied with any of these solutions, and contemporary philosophers, even rationalistically minded ones, have on the whole agreed that no one has intelligibly banished the mystery of fact.
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Life holds one great but quite commonplace mystery. Though shared by each of us and known to all, seldom rates a second thought. That mystery, which most of us take for granted and never think twice about, is time. Calendars and clocks exist to measure time, but that signifies little because we all know that an hour can seem as eternity or pass in a flash, according to how we spend it. Time is life itself, and life resides in the human heart.
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All is going on as it was wont. The waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds go forth upon their trackless flight; the white arms beckon, in the moonlight, to the invisible country far away.
