A Quote by Colum McCann

Pain is not wat you get, it is wat you give. — © Colum McCann
Pain is not wat you get, it is wat you give.

Quote Topics

at least if you were ignorant you could do wat you wanted. you had no idea wat had been acheived in the past. you were free instead of chewed at by bleeding impotence, dissolved away like a pearl in acid
The only wat to get better at writing is to write. And read.
Dim them lights get it in pimp tight do wat i do i lace up my own nikes.
I do what I do and u do Wat u can do about it
It's bEtter tO hAte me 4 whO i Am,thAn tO lUv 4 wAt i'm pretNdng tO bE.
I loved Cambodia; watching the sun rise at Angkor Wat was really beautiful.
Science is what scientists do, not what nonscientists think they do or ought to be doing. Wetenschap is wat wetenschappers doen.
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me, As I came o'er the braes of Balloch?
It's easy to practice something that you are good at, and that is what most people do. Wat's tough is to go ot and to work hard on the things that you don't do very well.
The dying swan, when years her temples pierce, In music-strains breathes out her life and verse, And, chanting her own dirge, tides on her wat'ry hearse.
she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?
Wat a vast fertility of pleasure books hold for me! I went in and found the table laden with books. I looked in and sniffed them all. I could not resist carrying this one off and broaching it. I think I could happily live here and read forever.
Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.
Of four infernal rivers that disgorge/ Into the burning Lake their baleful streams;/Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,/Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;/Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud/ Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon/ Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage./ Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/ Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks,/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/ Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.
No one can bar me from joyfully proceeding on what the great masters have left us; after all, to rediscover everything again, should be understood to be unfounded. But one should however proceed on merit, and not simply repeat wat was. All genius, sincere, deserves his place, even though maybe later in life.
It’s an irritating reality that many places and events defy description. Angkor Wat and Machu Picchu, for instance, seem to demand silence, like a love affair you can never talk about. For a while after, you fumble for words, trying vainly to assemble a private narrative, an explanation, a comfortable way to frame where you’ve been and whats happened. In the end, you’re just happy you were there - with your eyes open - and lived to see it.
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