A Quote by William Boyd

I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad. — © William Boyd
I have this lock of hair that keeps falling across my forehead. It drives me mad.
People don't really talk about falling in love anymore. And yet falling in love is the great engine that drives all the best art - or falling out of love or being heartbroken - drives all the best books, drives all the best music, and yet we've sort of stopped talking about it.
A hairdresser who did my hair said, "You, my darling, have something that we call successful' hair," which is basically battered hair that's split and falling out in the back because you've had to blow-dry it every day. I don't want my hair falling out, so I wear wigs!
Chess is not something that drives people mad; it is something that keeps mad people sane.
Boys are just boys after all, but sometimes girls really seem to be the turn of a pale wrist, or the sudden jut of a hip, or a clutch of very dark hair falling across a freckled forehead. I'm not saying that's what they really are. I'm just saying sometimes it seems that way, and that those details (a thigh mole, a full face flush, a scar the precise shape and size of a cashew nut) are so many hooks waiting to land you.
the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.
A large bare forehead gives a woman a masculine and defying look. The word "effrontery" comes from it. The hair should be brought over such a forehead as vines are trailed over a wall.
I play with doing a forehead bun a lot, just a bantu knot right in front of the forehead and keep it in with a clip. And I like doing real pinup styles but based on my natural hair.
When I was at Babbo, I was covered in scars and scabs and burned bits - melted hair, ribbed burns I got reaching across the top of a hot skillet... I sliced off the tip of my finger. I cleaved my forehead - a deep, ugly wound. Luckily, it regenerated.
Losing drives me mad. It hurts.
All my life, people have asked me what I was so mad about. 'Why you so mad?' And I was never mad. I'm not mad, I just look mad.
Standup keeps me grounded and keeps me in touch. I get to go from small towns to big cities, across Canada and the U.S., and you're out there and talking to people. You get a sense of what they respond to.
Fate is trying to kill me. I miss my dog. What's a doctor going to say? You're not ill, you're mad as a muffin? They'll either lock me up or tell me to get a grip and no one will believe the truth anyway.
I have a big personality, and I think big personality plus blond hair makes me come across as glib. With dark hair, people look at your face more. Before, it was all about the hair.
I remember the day I saw my hair was thinning. I don't remember caring much. I don't care. It's just hair. It never bothered me much. I was pretty young, too. And it happened and is happening very slowly. I have a feeling dead people get really mad when we complain about losing hair.
I hope that my work helps people - that's the thing that drives me and keeps me going.
But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family. He was also the nicest, in lots of ways. He never got mad at anybody. People with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily, but Allie never did, and he had very red hair.
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