I've been told that some members of Congress disagree with my tax cut proposal. Well, you know it's been said that taxation is the art of plucking feathers without killing the bird. It's time they realized the bird just doesn't have any feathers left.
In painting feathers, you want to create the look of feathers, but if you try to paint all the feathers, you have nothing but disaster.
I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
Who eates the Kings Goose uoydes the feathers an hundred years after.
[Who eats the king's goose voids the feathers a hundred years after.]
Without feathers it isn't easy to fly: my wings have got no feathers.
[Lat., Sine pennis volare hau facilest: meae alae pennas non habent.]
[Alt., Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.]
I ate everything. I ate every single lolly you can think of. Chocolate bars, Curly Wurlys, Aero bars, Fantales, Minties, Clinkers, Cherry Ripes. Pretty much anything, you name it, I ate it.
I think we could jam a bit more in our coffins than we do. I'm going to have some books, some I haven't finished or haven't read, some feathers and nice bits and pieces, the odd note. Just on the journey for the next bit.
When I was alone, I lived on eggplant, the stove top cook's strongest ally. I fried it and stewed it, and ate it crisp and sludgy, hot and cold. It was cheap and filling and was delicious in all manner of strange combinations. If any was left over, I ate it cold the next day on bread.
After I left Treasury, I think in some ways it was harder to sit there and be writing my book... listening to all the criticism.
There were always more Negroes in the field than there was Negroes in the house. The Negro in the field caught hell. He ate leftovers. In the house they ate high up on the hog. The Negro in the field didn't get nothing but what was left of the insides of the hog. They call 'em "chitt'lin'" nowadays. In those days they called them what they were: guts. That's what you were -- a gut-eater. And some of you all still gut-eaters.
That was cool, getting to work with Ryan Gosling. I knew he was going to be a huge star after I saw him in that Showtime thing that he did when he was really young [The Believer]. I think the most fun thing about that was I'd never seen somebody that had so many questions about the specifics of everything: where you ate, how much you ate, how much you drank. He's very special.
I practically lived in the woods when I was a kid, avoiding grown-ups and my dysfunctional family, pretending I was half-wolf, a feral child who napped in nests made out of ferns, ate wild blueberries, and wove sticks and feathers into her hair.
I'm one of those people who was taught not to ruffle any feathers. Of course, I have no problem ruffling feathers.
Flying without feathers is not easy: my wings have no feathers.
A few days back someone sent me two feathers. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. Sent from a place a long way off; from one who need not have sent them back at all. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers.
I'd like to think I've left something in the world. Without in any way trying to be morbid, but life is very short, and I'd like to think I'd leave some body of work that would inspire other musicians long after I've gone.