A Quote by Sam Taylor-Johnson
My parents were Beatle fans, but my mom was especially a Lennon fan, so I was exposed to him more. I remember her playing 'Double Fantasy' quite often.
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For my 10th birthday, what I wanted was Beatle boots and a Beatle wig. My parents couldn't find Beatle boots, but down at the dime store, Woolworths or someplace, they found a Beatle wig!
The thing you must remember is that I'm the Number One John Lennon fan. I love him to this day and I always did love him
I can remember coming downstairs before school every day and my mom would be reading her Bible and doing her devotion and praying. Both my parents were prayer warriors.
I am, of comics I was never as big of a fan as I probably could have been I suppose but I'm definitely a fan of science fiction fantasy. My interests were in fantasy more than comics growing up.
My mom and I were super close when I was a kid, her and I sort of ran off from her ex-husband. It wasn't such a good time for us and I remember listening to The Distillers with her. One time I actually asked her, 'Mom, can I shave my head into a mohawk?'
Initially, the only thing that mattered to me - I was too young to understand the politics of the day - was that there was a woman who was covering the NFL. I asked my mom if I could be a sportscaster when I grew up. My mom was an adventurous spirit herself. Much to my mom's credit, she said, "Yes, you can." It didn't matter to her that no other women were doing it at the time. It didn't matter to her that there was a double standard. It just mattered that her daughter had a dream and she was going to help her pursue that.
Her hair was a damp mass of curls at the back of her neck, and Will looked away from her before he could remember what it felt like to put his hands through that hair and feel the strands wind about his fingers. It was easier at the Institute, with Jem and the others to distract him, to remember that Tessa was not his to recall that way. Here, feeling as if he were facing the world with her by his side--feeling that she was here for him instead of, quite sensibly, for the health of her own fiance--it was nearly impossible.
When people come up to me expecting me to be just like what they thought a Beatle would be, they're disappointed. I never was a Beatle, except musically. I don't think any of us was. What is a Beatle anyway? I'm not a Beatle or an ex-Beatle or even the George Harrison. I'm just a man. Very ordinary.
My parents were always playing records: My mom was really into the Beatles and Fleetwood Mac, and my dad was more Billy Squire, Whitesnake, '80s hair metal. But I think there's that crucial point where you become an adolescent and you don't want to listen to your parents' music.
Her visits to her former hometown were infrequent and often painful. Pilgrimages fueled by the tepid oxygen of family duty, unease, guilt. The more Esther loved her parents, the more helpless she felt, as they aged, to protect them from harm. A moral coward, she kept her distance.
John Lennon was definitely my favorite Beatle, hands down.
A lot of people I know hate Paul McCartney in general. I guess I understand, but I'm a fan. I think he's a little underrated in my peer group - unlike John Lennon. He's not my favorite Beatle, but he's a goddamn good songwriter and he makes a lot of really cheesy, schmaltzy stuff but he's still underrated.
My parents always wanted me to do the right thing. My mom, I think her exact words were, 'You're not a chicken in the coop playing in the scraps, you're an eagle.' I was like, 'Oh, OK... ' But really, I've used that throughout my life.
Both my parents were born in the Philippines. My dad is full Filipino, but my mom looks a little mixed, and her mom's name is Estelita Coquico.
When a woman is frozen of feeling, when she can no longer feel herself, when her blood, her passion, no longer reach the extremities of her psyche, when she is desperate; then a fantasy life is far more pleasurable than anything else she can set her sights upon. Her little match lights, because they have no wood to burn, instead burn up the psyche as though it were a big dry log. The psyche begins to play tricks on itself; it lives now in the fantasy fire of all yearning fulfilled. This kind of fantasizing is like a lie: If you tell it often enough, you begin to believe it.
In Irena’s head the alcohol plays a double role: it frees her fantasy, encourages her boldness, makes her sensual, and at the same time it dims her memory. She makes love wildly, lasciviously, and at the same time the curtain of oblivion wraps her lewdness in an all-concealing darkness. As if a poet were writing his greatest poem with ink that instantly disappears.
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