A Quote by Chris Pine

You have to be able to carry a conversation. I think after the initial attraction kind of dies down. The lust dies down. There has to be the thing that engages you. — © Chris Pine
You have to be able to carry a conversation. I think after the initial attraction kind of dies down. The lust dies down. There has to be the thing that engages you.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.
Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But Lust's effect is tempest after sun; Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust's winter comes ere summer half be done; Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies.
When the past dies, there is mourning, but when the future dies our imaginations are compelled to carry it on.
All I can think is that when you torment a person...the soul dies. When the soul dies, I suppose mercy dies, too.
Whenever someone dies, a part of the universe dies too. Everything a person felt, experience and saw dies with them, like tears in the rain.
To a father, when a child dies, the future dies; to a child when a parent dies, the past dies.
He who dies before he dies does not die when he dies.
We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. When the loyal opposition dies, I think the soul of America dies with it.
Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings. Anaïs Nin I like not only to be loved, but also to be told I am loved. George Eliot Love is the voice under all silences, the hope which has no opposite in fear; the strength so strong mere force is feebleness: the truth more first than sun, more last than star.
Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies
Beauty plus pity-that is the closest we can get to a definition of art. Where there is beauty there is pity for the simple reason that beauty must die: beauty always dies, the manner dies with the matter, the world dies with the individual.
Apparently there’s this kind of songbird that thinks it dies every time the sun goes down. In the morning, when it wakes up, it’s totally shocked to still be alive—so it sings this really beautiful song.
Think of the earth as a living organism that is being attacked by billions of bacteria whose numbers double every forty years. Either the host dies, or the virus dies, or both die.
It is terrible when an infant dies, but worse, most people think, when a three-year-old child dies, and worse still when an adolescent does.
When a parent dies, the whole house of cards comes down.
When King Lear dies in act five, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He has written, 'He dies.' No more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential piece of dramatic literature is, 'He dies.' Now I am not asking you to be happy at my leaving but all I ask you to do is to turn the page and let the next story begin. -- Mr. Magorium
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