A Quote by John Dos Passos
Why, lies are like a sticky juice overspreading the world, a living, growing flypaper to catch and gum the wings of every human soul. . . And the little helpless buzzings of honest, liberal, kindly people, aren't they like the thin little noise flies make when they're caught?
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I'm not a grunter, I'm relatively quiet. There's a little bit of breathing out. Some people get really loud! There's a little bit of psyching up sometimes, if you're going for a really heavy weight you might make a little noise, but when lifting, I try and keep it quite quiet - I'm not a fan of male noise in that way to be totally honest. I think when girls do it it's not as bad, but when guys do it it's just like, 'Come on mate, hold it in!'.
What I don’t like are arrogant people. We’re all equal. I don’t like it when a person assumes to be better. It angers me a little. There are a lot of people like that, but the world keeps turning. I also don’t like lies. I’m very honest. I’m always going to tell the truth. I don’t lie. I treat my friends the way I want to be treated.
I feel like I live in my own little world, to be honest. I mean, I love my record, but I don't feel tied to it. I sort of created my own little universe in the studio, and that's why all of those musicians who made a living in the Nashville music scene loved coming over to my place so much.
This is something I haven't told many people, because it's embarrassing. We always used to catch flies with our hands. I was the only one who could catch 'em. One-handed, two-handed. I actually studied flies. I'd watch 'em. How do you catch flies? They fly up. If I can catch that, I can catch anything.
little sun little moon little dog and a little to eat and a little to love and a little to live for in a little room filled with little mice who gnaw and dance and run while I sleep waiting for a little death in the middle of a little morning in a little city in a little state my little mother dead my little father dead in a little cemetery somewhere. I have only a little time to tell you this: watch out for little death when he comes running but like all the billions of little deaths it will finally mean nothing and everything: all your little tears burning like the dove, wasted.
Goodnight moon. Sweet dreams. Smile kindly upon this little blue gum ball of us while we sleep.
I often think it's comical
How Nature always does contrive
That every boy and every gal
That's born into the world alive
Is either a little Liberal
Or else a little Conservative!
In a weird Snookers world, like me and Snookers would make the best, like, little guidos and guidettes, little poofs and blow-outs on our little kids.
Hannah expected this to make her sob even more, but instead she found her tears drying up and her tummy growing warm. How dare they? How dare they do this to little girls? She understood now why her parents go so angry when they saw the result of bombers in the white hot streets of the Middle East, why men and women wailed in anger as well as grief as they lifted the limp bodies of children from the rubble. How dare they? No, she wasn't going to die like this, wrapped up like some helpless baby.
The label 'liberal' or 'conservative,' any - every time I hear that, I think of the great Gilbert and Sullivan song from 'Iolanthe.' It goes, 'Every gal and every boy that's born alive is either a little liberal or else a little conservative.' What do those labels mean? It depends on whose ox is being gored.
I can't say this too often - that a little humor can make life worth living. That has always been my credo. Somebody once asked me, 'What would you like your epitaph to be?' I've always said that I'd like it to be: He left people a little happier than they were when he came into the room.
There's little in taking or giving, There's little in water or wine: This living, this living, this living, Was never a project of mine. Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is The gain of the one at the top, For art is a form of catharsis, And love is a permanent flop, And work is the province of cattle, And rest's for a clam in a shell, So I'm thinking of throwing the battle - Would you kindly direct me to hell?
O beautiful white land,
olives and wild anemone and violet
mingled among the shale,
and purple wings
of little winter-butterflies
say, here Psyche, the soul, lies.
I wish that every child could have growing space because I think children are a little like plants. If they grow too close together, they become thin and sickly and never obtain maximum growth. We need room to grow.
I feel like, growing up, I haven't had a lot of room for error - I don't have room to make mistakes. You need to make mistakes to grow and learn, but I'm just a little different because the world is watching me, every single thing I do.
What I don't like to hear in music is something has not been thought through: that a sound is just there randomly. I want to make sure that every single little noise that's in my song is there because it's supposed to be there.
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