A Quote by George Bernard Shaw
She had lost the art of conversation but not, unfortunately, the power of speech.
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The trouble with her is that she lacks the power of conversation but not the power of speech.
We had lost the art of communication - but not, alas, the gift of speech.
She had worried that she would break if her heart broke, but she wasn't broken. she had lost everything, but she was not lost. It seemed a worthwhile thing to know.
Bore: one who has the power of speech but not the capacity for conversation.
Unfortunately, with men's health, we don't talk about it enough, and prostate cancer gets lost in the conversation.
Art history is fine. I mean, that's a discipline. Art history is art history, and you start from the beginning and you end up in artist in time. But art is a little bit different. Art is a conversation. And if there's no conversation, what the hell is it about?
In this moment she felt that she had been robbed of an enormous number of valuable things, whether material or intangible: things lost or broken by her own fault, things she had forgotten and left in houses when she moved: books borrowed from her and not returned, journeys she had planned and had not made, words she had waited to hear spoken to her and had not heard, and the words she meant to answer with. . . .
conversation is now pretty well a lost art.
I happen to disagree with the well-entrenched theory that the art of conversation is merely the art of being a good listener. Such advice invites people to be cynical with one another and full of fake; when a conversation becomes a monologue, poked along with tiny cattle-prod questions, it isn't a conversation any more.
. . . all that she had had, and all that she had missed, were lost together, and were twice lost in this landslide of remembered losses.
I think the great power of Bette Davis was she always knew who she was. She had an obligation to herself and her audience. When you think of what she was compelled to do, the power she put on the screen, the fact that she took upon herself a much greater task.
Suddenly she realized that what she was regretting was not the lost past but the lost future, not what had not been but what would never be.
She did not want to be that woman - the one of whom they spoke. She had never planned to be that woman. Somehow, it had happened, however...somehow, she had lost her way and, without realizing it, she had chosen this staid, boring life instead of a different, more adventurous one.
...though she had not had the strength to shake off the spell that bound her to him she had lost all spontaneity of feeling, and seemed to herself to be passively awaiting a fate she could not avert.
Quite suddenly Meggie felt fear rise in her like black brackish water, she felt lost, terribly lost, she felt it in every part of her. She didn't belong here! What had she done?
People say conversation is a lost art; how often I have wished it were.
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