A Quote by Marjorie M. Liu
How's his appendix?""Like crap. They almost didn't catch it in time, and he's still doing the ass-plant in a hospital bed, beingdoted on by an army of hot nurses. Makes me sick.""Maybeyou should rupture something.""Any more of these stories out of you and I just might.
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It's just like nurses in a hospital tend to know more than the doctors most of the time; if you really want to get the answers to a question about court, you should spend more time buttering up the clerks than the judges.
Having that little bit of breathing room to work, and not feeling like it's going to fall apart at any second, has allowed me to recover the feeling I had when I was a little kid, when I was writing stories for fun or drawing pictures for my parents to put on their refrigerator. It was about playing and doing something fun, and kind of making your own little world. And that's how art should feel for me, and how having a little bit more distance between my ass and the ground has helped me.
If you're trying to get somebody and this might be the only time you're going to catch him, but he is holding his baby and with his mama, you ain't gonna let that chance go by. That's the mentality of the streets. If you let that chance go by, he might catch your ass.
When I was about nine, I was rushed to hospital to have my appendix removed. Like any child, I was more concerned about missing out on having fun with my friends than my health.
I had my appendix out when I was 11, and that was the last time I was in a hospital. That was a one-night deal. So I've spent basically one night in a hospital.
He is very fond of me, almost too fond. I could do with less caressing and more rationality. I should like to be less of a pet and more of a friend, if I might choose; but I won't complain of that: I am only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid coal, very bright and hot; but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but ashes behind.
The doctors said I might not be able to walk again. Today, I can almost run, but back then, I couldn't even stand up. I was bed-ridden. If I wanted to turn over in bed, I had to move my legs with my hands. I was in and out of the hospital for months.
I got really, really sick with a spinal infection that put me in a hospital for a couple of months, and it was touch and go. I had my guitar with me, and as soon as I got well enough to play, there was nothing else to do in that hospital. The nurses would come in and request songs.
What do we plant when we plant a tree?
A thousand things that we daily see,
We plant the spire that out-towers the crag,
We plant the staff for our country's flag;
We plant the shade from the hot sun free,
We plant all these when we plant the tree.
If you ask Jim Courier, I mean, that guy has his tongue up (Roger Federer's) ass, I think...you know, the whole time when you actually listen to him commentating or listen to him talk about Roger Federer. Sometimes makes me sick almost.
Willie Mays was the best ever. When I was in college I once made a catch like the one Mays made over his head. Sometimes when I'm lying in bed at night I think about it. It still makes me warm.
I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot.
I've already spent a lot of my life doing what makes me go. There's a life out there while I'm still young, able to move, able to just sit at peace in the water - I should be spending much more time doing that, rather than continuing to go through this artistic struggle.
Soldiers may be wounded in battle and sent to a hospital. A hospital isn't a shelf. It's a place of repair. And a soldier in the spiritual army is never off his battlefield. He is only removed to another part of the battlefield when a wound interrupts what he was meant to do, and sets him doing something else.
Someone should have a record that doesn't have any singing. It's my favorite Miles Davis record. I love hanging out in the summer, in New York, when it's miserably hot. I love electric Miles Davis in the summer. Jack Johnson, the songwriting especially, is a premier example of that. It always makes me feel hot in the city. It's also nice to have something not yelling in your ear. For me, as a lyricist, it's nice to put on something without any words.
That’s how Ptolemy imagined the disposition of his memories, his thoughts: they were still his, still in the range of his thinking, but they were, many and most of them, locked on the other side a closed door that he’s lost the key for. So his memory became like secrets held away from his own mind. But these secrets were noisy things; they babbled and muttered behind the door, and so if he listened closely he might catch a snatch of something he once knew well.
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