A Quote by Henry James
England always seems to me like a man swimming with his clothes on his head.
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He saw on the paper a picture of a man, white-skinned, who hung upon a crosspiece of wood. The man was without clothes except for a bit about his loins, and to all appearences he was dead, since his head drooped upon his shoulder and his eyes were closed above his bearded lips. Wang Lung looked at the pictured man in horror and with increasing interest.
All night I streched my arms across him, rivers of blood, the dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone ''Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces.'' Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.
What a wee little part of a person's life are his acts and his words! His real life is led in his head, and is known to none but himself. All day long, the mill of his brain is grinding, and his thoughts, not those of other things, are his history. These are his life, and they are not written. Everyday would make a whole book of 80,000 words -- 365 books a year. Biographies are but the clothes and buttons of the man -- the biography of the man himself cannot be written.
As the skull of the man grows broader, so do his creeds. And his gods they are shaped in his image and mirror his needs. And he clothes them with thunders and beauty, He clothes them with music and fire, Seeing not, as he bows by their altars, That he worships his own desire.
O what a sight were Man, if his attires Did alter with his minde; And like a dolphins skinne, his clothes combin'd With his desires!
I like to go to England, and I'll tell you why. I like to go to a country where I am considered the best-looking person. It's as simple as that. Hollywood, kind of a crushing ego blow - 'Hey Buddy Holly, you are so old, have you not perished in a plane crash?' But not in England, good God, not there. In England, God bless that dinky island, there it's, 'Good God, look at him. He has all his teeth and his ears are in proportion to his head.' I'm Brad bloody Pitt on that island.
That was an organic relationship. He reached out to me, and I was like, 'Oh my God, I cannot believe somebody like Laquan Smith wants to put his clothes on me.' He comes from a small place, and he has big dreams, and what I like about him the most is that his clothes curve with your body.
There's always a place for the angry young man with his fist in the air and his head in the sand. He's never been able to learn from mistakes, he can't understand why his heart always breaks.
Every man's own character is written so all who will may read it, in the expression of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the posture of his body, the style of his clothes, and the nature of his deeds!
I am willing to allow that smoking is a moral weakness, but on the other hand, we must beware of the man without weaknesses. He is not to be trusted. He is apt to be always sober and he cannot make a single mistake. His habits are likely to be regular, his existence more mechanical and his head always maintains its supremacy over his heart. Much as I like reasonable persons, I hate completely rational beings.
They proclaim that every man is entitled to exist without labor and, the laws of reality to the contrary notwithstanding, is entitled to receive his 'minimum sustenance' his food, his clothes, his shelter with no effort on his part, as his due and his birthright. To receive it from whom.
Man was made to lead with his chin; he is worth knowing only with his guard down, his head up and his heart rampant on his sleeve.
It always seems to me so odd that when a man dies, he takes out with him all the knowledge that he has got in his lifetime whilst sowing his wild oats or winning successes. And he leaves his sons or younger brothers to go through all the work of learning it over again from their own experience.
It has long been believed that a man who gets bald across the front of his head is a thinker while a man who gets bald on the crown of his head is a lover. It follows, certainly, that a man who gets bald all over his head thinks he's a lover.
Me and my friend Ioan Gruffudd are like chalk and cheese when it comes to clothes. He lives for his clothes and has an amazing wardrobe. If we're going out I'll turn up at his house and say, 'I haven't got anything to wear,' and he'll tut and sigh and then lend me something swanky.
His head was swimming, and he was far from certain even of the direction they had been going in when he had his fall. He guessed as well as he could, and crawled along for a good way, till suddenly his hand met what felt like a tiny ring of cold metal lying on the floor of the tunnel. It was a turning point in his career, but he did not know it. He put the ring in his pocket almost without thinking; certainly it did not seem of any particular use at the moment.
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