A man builds a house in England with the expectation of living in it and leaving it to his children; we shed our houses in America as easily as a snail does his shell.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
I think as a young person, leaving high school or college, you're like, 'All right, all right, enough already.' But now there's a part of me that would like to go back and relish those moments when you could sit down and just... read a book.
The myths have always condemned those who 'looked back.' Condemned them, whatever the paradise may have been which they were leaving. Hence this shadow over each departure from your decision.
Memory, so complete and clear or so evasive, has to be ended, has to be put aside, as if one were leaving a chapel and bringing the prayer to an end in one's head.
I lost two brothers in an airplane crash, both of them leaving a wife and kids. When I get to Heaven, that's probably the first question I'd like to ask: 'Why was it necessary?'
S. Truett Cathy
Every job you do, somebody's looking at it. You're leaving an impression on somebody. What is going to be your footprint?
Leaving the record companies tweaked something inside me and I realised I don't have to deal with labels to make something happen. If I want to meet someone, I don't have to go through the label - I'll just go to them. I took my life in my hands and social media has just helped me do that more.
I remember leaving the first 'Matrix' movie feeling completely radicalized, completely changed. I think we all, from our ordinary lives, like to think about putting ourselves into these extraordinary situations and wonder how we'd respond.
I think change needs to be egoless. It's not about my leaving my fingerprints or a legacy. It's more important to be part of a process by rolling up your sleeves, being on the ground, initiating projects, starting campaigns - you know, building stuff.
Queen Rania of Jordan
Stop leaving and you will arrive, Stop searching and you will see, Stop running away and you will be found.
Gently, I ran my hand across his chest, exploring it. My breath felt tight in my throat. He was so beautiful. His muscles were toned, defined, his skin warm and smooth. Stroking my palm up over the line of his collarbone, I felt the firmness of his shoulder, the strength of his bicep. I traced my fingers over the black AK, following the lines of the letters. Alex hardly moved as I touched him, his eyes never leaving me. Finally I sighed and dropped my hand. I tried to smile. "I've sort of been wanting to do that ever since that first night in the motel room," I admitted.
A novelist's lack of awareness of and critical distance to his own body of work is due to a phenomenon that I have noticed in myself and many others: as soon as it is written, every new book erases the last one, leaving me with the impression that I have forgotten it.