A Quote by Michael Leunig
As a child, I dreamed that my bed could fly and glide and swoop and hover high over the countryside near my home while, snug and secure, I looked down in wonder at the great carpet of life that seemed so perfect beneath me.
Related Quotes
The mother memories that are closest to my heart are the small gentle ones that I have carried over from the days of my childhood. They are not profound, but they have stayed with me through life, and when I am very old, they will still be near . . . Memories of mother drying my tears, reading aloud, cutting cookies and singing as she did, listening to prayers I said as I knelt with my forehead pressed against her knee, tucking me in bed and turning down the light. They have carried me through the years and given my life such a firm foundation that it does not rock beneath flood or tempest.
When I'm sitting in bed watching 'Chopped' - that Brie I know. But I don't know the Brie in sky-high heels on a carpet with a bunch of people screaming at me. I wonder what she's like.
As I climbed up into the high old bed, the large fly in my personal ointment did the same. Had I actually told him he could get in bed with me? Well, I decided, as I wriggled down under the soft old sheets and the blanket and the comforter, if Eric had designs on me, I was just too tired to care. "Woman?" "Hmmm?" "What's your name?" "Sookie. Sookie Stackhouse." "Thank you, Sookie." "Welcome, Eric.
When I was in high school, I was always really envious of those girls who seemed to have everything: the perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect boyfriend, perfect life. It wasn't until I was older that I realized that nobody's life is perfect, and that those girls probably had a lot of the same problems I did.
The large shiny black forehead of the first whale was no more than two yards from us when it sank beneath the surface of the water, then we saw the huge blue-black bulk glide quietly under the raft right beneath our feet. It lay there for some time, dark and motionless, and we held our breath as we looked down on the gigantic curved back of a mammal a good deal longer than the raft.
I hover over the expensive Scotch and then the Armagnac, but finally settle on a glass of rich red claret. I put it near my nose and nearly pass out. It smells of old houses and aged wood and dark secrets, but also of hard, hot sunshine through ancient shutters and long, wicked afternoons in a four-poster bed. It's not a wine, it's a life, right there in the glass.
Death tripped down the corridor, changing step, struck out here and there, danced pirouettes; often I felt his breath on my face when he was miles away; often I fell asleep and dreamed while he stood leaning over my bed.
Music burst through him, perfect notes he hear rarely. Fire and ice, wind and calm, sky and earth, water and rock all fused together. Joley seemed as wild and turbulent s the sea, yet beneath her fiery passion, at the very core of her, she was as forceful and strong and as constant as the deepest ocean currents. Ilya seemed as calm as a windless sea, yet beneath the surface smoldered a volcano of such explosive magnitude, his power could easily sweep everything from his path. Together they completed each other, his melody and hers merging together into a single, perfect harmony.
If anyone other than you had me fly halfway around the world just to keep me waiting while you were obviously lingering in bed, I’d have my driver run them over. Twice.
One of the great problems facing men is their failure to realize the fact that a child possesses an active psychic life even when he cannot manifest it, and that the child must secretly perfect this inner life over a long period of time.
The perfect date for me would be staying at home, making a big picnic in bed, eating Wotsits and cookies while watching cable TV.
You know, I must really work hard. I'm in the last stage of my artistic life. But I'm so busy that I can't even think of dying. I fly all over the world, drive everywhere, and when I get home, I find interviewers and photographers and TV shows waiting for me. No wonder I'm so busy.
As we hang beneath the heavens, and we hover over hell, our hearts become the instruments we learn to play so well.
Writing songs is no different than explaining to somebody what you dreamed last night: No one ever gives you crap for what you dreamed last night. "I was laying in my bed, and all of a sudden a stallion jumped on my bed and the next thing I know I was in Mars but it looked like my kitchen"... That's kind of what I do with my songs, write them in a dream-like manner. It's up to people to swallow it however they want.
Sometimes you get there in spite of the route Losing track of your life and what it's about The road seems to know when to straighten right out... I could wonder if all of it led me to you I could show you the arrows and circles I drew I didn't have a map, it's the best I could do On the fly and on the run
Men with fine gifts think it worth while to live to paint a few great pictures which shall be looked at and admired for generations; or to write a few songs which shall sing themselves into the ears and hearts of men. But the woman who makes a sweet, beautiful home, filling it with love and prayer and purity, is doing something better than anything else her hands could find to do beneath the skies.
Related Authors
Adrian Tomine Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Alison Bechdel Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Bill Watterson Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Bryan Lee O'Malley Quotes
Canadian
Cartoonist
Cathy Guisewite Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Charles M. Schulz Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Chester Brown Quotes
Canadian
Cartoonist
Gary Larson Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Jack Kirby Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Lynda Barry Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Matt Groening Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Randall Munroe Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Roz Chast Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Scott Adams Quotes
American
Cartoonist
Seth Quotes
Canadian
Cartoonist
Seth MacFarlane Quotes
American
Cartoonist