Everything comes to him who waits -- if he waits till it comes.
Delay is natural to a writer. He is like a surfer-he bides his time, waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in. Delay is instinctive with him. He waits for the surge (of emotion? of strength? of courage?) that will carry him along.
Everything comes to him who waits, except a loaned book.
Not necessity, not desire - no, the love of power is the demon of men. Let them have everything - health, food, a place to live, entertainment - they are and remain unhappy and low-spirited: for the demon waits and waits and will be satisfied.
A trapped soul waits for redemption. It waits. And waits. For her to take her last breath.
I got to watch my heroes meet him and saw how they reacted, whether it was Joe Strummer or Tom Waits. It was peculiar. I'm so stoked to meet Tom Waits, and he's so nervous to meet my dad. It's a head spin.
The first time I heard Tom Waits, it was like everything just flipped. It was just this fascination with him. My cousin showed me 'Small Change,' and I just couldn't get over that this was a white guy singing.
Because in a small dark room, a broken child lies on a filthy bed and stares up at a high window. He waits for me, too. And I—I who have failed at everything and have failed everyone—I must not, I cannot, I will not fail him.
I had to learn the hard way. There was a blindness, without any education or will or drive. Everything I started in the beginning from skate shops to record labels to a million and one side hustles that I went in without knowing how I was going to do it, a lot of those ventures just went out of business.
Feelings aren't forever. Time waits for no one, but progress waits for man to enact it.
Ah, but the servant waits, while the master baits.
[Wladimir] Klitschko has got the experience, so if Tyson [Fury] waits on him, Klitschko will out-box him. But if he uses his speed and reach it will be a great chance for him to win.
My cat, Kevin, has adorable habits - he waits for me while I'm showering because he loves to have his face washed when I'm done. And he also knows I keep treats for him beside the bed; he loves his treat at night before he goes to sleep - you know, like all men!
While truth is always bitter, pleasantness waits upon evildoing.
The poetic temperament is the worst for golf. It dreams of brilliant drives, iron shots laid dead, and long putts holed, while in real golf success waits for him who takes care of the foozles and leaves the fine shots to take care of themselves.
I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.