A Quote by Rachel Sklar

I've gone out on limbs, flung far, and Forrest-Gumped my way into the center of the action. — © Rachel Sklar
I've gone out on limbs, flung far, and Forrest-Gumped my way into the center of the action.
The conscious mind is not at the center of the action in the brain; instead, it is far out on a distant edge, hearing but whispers of the activity.
We now should be able to see cosmos and individual joined in a relationship. We should see that macrocosm and microcosm are, as it were, only far-flung parts of one unified energy center.
Mankind flung its advance agents ever outward, ever outward. Eventually it flung them out into space, into the colorless, tasteless, weightless sea of outwardness without end. It flung them like stones.
I will knock out Vernon Forrest in two rounds whether I have a cigarette or not. I know a lot of people want to see me fight more rounds. So, if HBO wants, they can pick two sparring partners for me to fight after I knock out Forrest. That way, the audience can see me fight 12 rounds.
We are not at the center of ourselves, but instead - like the Earth in the Milky Way, and the Milky Way in the universe - far out on a distant edge, hearing little of what is transpiring.
Nothing is better than the moment you have Michael Bolton dressed as Forrest Gump and you see it in action.
Society is the body; individuals are its members, its limbs. Just as the various limbs help and co-operate with one another and thus are happy, so each must unite with others in being helpful to all in thought, speech and action... One may see to the good of one's own group, i.e., the group that is immediate to him, and then proceed to others.
The best books I read as a child were set in far-flung places, but also portrayed characters experiencing a life far removed from my own.
There's always going to be merchants who need to get their message out, but things have gone way too far.
Big train from Memphis, now it's gone gone gone, gone gone gone. Like no one before, he let out a roar, and I just had to tag along.
There is that interesting thing that Haughton Forrest was imagining the landscapes. They are so dramatic. They are dark, big, gloomy paintings and he was making them during some of the most ominous massacres in Tasmania. Forrest was recording history but missing the human story.
While the Copernican principle comes with no guarantees that it will forever guide us to cosmic truths, it's worked quite well so far: not only is Earth not in the center of the solar system, but the solar system is not in the center of the Milky Way galaxy, the Milky Way galaxy is not in the center of the universe, and it may come to pass that our universe is just one of many that comprise a multiverse. And in case you're one of those people who thinks that the edge may be a special place, we are not at the edge of anything either.
The way in which men cling to old institutions after the life has departed out of them, and out of themselves, reminds me of those monkeys which cling by their tails - aye, whose tails contract about the limbs, even the dead limbs, of the forest, and they hang suspended beyond the hunter's reach long after they are dead. It is of no use to argue with such men. They have not an apprehensive intellect, but merely, as it were a prehensile tail.
What kind of hard SF do I write? Everything from near-future, Earth-centric techno-thrillers to far-future, far-flung interstellar epics.
I was pretty far gone, but not so far gone that I thought anyone with half a toehold in reality would think what we were doing was a good idea.
I don't think America has ever had a center the way London is the center of England or Dublin is the center of Ireland.
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