A Quote by Emily Dickinson
In such a porcelain life, one likes to be sure that all is well lest one stumble upon one's hopes in a pile of broken crockery.
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Like most sensible people, you probably lost interest in modern art about the time that Julian Schnabel was painting broken pieces of the crockery that his wife had thrown at him for painting broken pieces of crockery instead of painting the bathroom and hall.
In true love there is no heart break. A broken heat means broken demands, broken expectations and broken hopes.
Take heed lest you stumble.
Do not be too hard, lest you be broken; do not be too soft, lest you be squeezed.
Woody Allen likes to do a lot of master shots. He likes to get the whole thing in one take, and so you could be going along doing a scene, and then the next to last line, all of a sudden, you stumble, and you have to go back to first base.
There used to be a certain condescension to Mozart. His music was regarded as pleasant. He was a porcelain figure playing a porcelain harpsichord.
My form is more on the lines of a Chinese porcelain-jar juggler. They learn it as a child. They learn, learn, learn, learn - but not with a porcelain jar. Then, when they're ready to perform, they're taken to a museum, and they're given a porcelain jar for a lifetime to use. When they're done, it's returned to the museum.
In life man commits himself and draws his own portrait, outside of which there is nothing. No doubt this thought may seem harsh to someone who has not made a success of his life. But on the other hand, it helps people to understand that reality alone counts, and that dreams, expectations and hopes only serve to define a man as a broken dream, aborted hopes, and futile expectations.
I have no great desire to play a great role. You can't make quality on TV anyway. It's always a manure pile. You're on the top, or you're on the bottom, but it's still a manure pile, and I'm not sure the movie industry isn't like that, too.
Love, like broken porcelain, should be wept over and buried, for nothing but a miracle will resuscitate it: but who in this world has not for some wild moments thought to recall the irrecoverable with words?
Broken bottles, broken plates, broken switches, broken gates. Broken dishes, broken parts, streets are filled with broken hearts.
Cut the Wings of your Hens and Hopes, lest they lead you a weary Dance after them.
Do not delay in coming to grace, but hasten, lest the robber outstrip you, lest the adulterer pass you by, lest the insatiate be satisfied before you, lest the murderer seize the blessing first, or the publican or the fornicator, or any of these violent ones who take the Kingdom of heaven by force (cf. Mt. 11:12). For it suffers violence willingly, and is tyrannized over through goodness.
The only person that ever stumbles is a guy moving forward. You don't stumble backwards; you stumble forward, and you never stumble when you're stationary. So don't worry about stumbling. Keep pushing it forward.
We are our memory, we are that chimerical museum of shifting shapes, that pile of broken mirrors.
The working-class is now issuing from its hiding-place to assert an Englishman's heaven-born privilege of doing as he likes, and is beginning to perplex us by marching where it likes, meeting where it likes, bawling what it likes, breaking what it likes.
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