A Quote by Woody Allen

How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not "the thing with feathers." The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich. — © Woody Allen
How wrong Emily Dickinson was! Hope is not "the thing with feathers." The thing with feathers has turned out to be my nephew. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich.
When Emily Dickinson writes, “Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul,” she reminds us, as the birds do, of the liberation and pragmatism of belief.
In painting feathers, you want to create the look of feathers, but if you try to paint all the feathers, you have nothing but disaster.
Without feathers it isn't easy to fly: my wings have got no feathers. [Lat., Sine pennis volare hau facilest: meae alae pennas non habent.] [Alt., Flying without feathers is not easy; my wings have no feathers.]
Hope is a thing with feathers
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.
Kevin Costner has feathers in his hair and feathers in his head. The Indians should have called him 'Plays with Camera.'
Kevin Costner has feathers in his hair and feathers in his head. The Indians should have called him 'Plays with Camera.
Some readers may be disturbed that I wrote 'The Secret Life of Emily Dickinson' in Emily's own voice. I wasn't trying to steal her thunder or her music. I simply wanted to imagine my way into the head and heart of Emily Dickinson.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.
Hope may or may not be a Thing with Feathers. But it’s definitely a Thing with Claws.
I have been in love with Emily Dickinson's poetry since I was 13, and, like an anonymous post on findagrave.com says, 'Dear Emily - I hope I have understood.' Emily's poems are sometimes difficult, often abstract, on occasion flippant, but her mind is inside them.
I'm one of those people who was taught not to ruffle any feathers. Of course, I have no problem ruffling feathers.
Flying without feathers is not easy: my wings have no feathers.
A few days back someone sent me two feathers. Two bird's feathers in a sheet of note-paper with a coronet, and fastened with a seal. Sent from a place a long way off; from one who need not have sent them back at all. That amused me too, those devilish green feathers.
Feathers filled the small room. Our laughter kept the feathers in the air. I thought about birds. Could they fly is there wasn't someone, somewhere, laughing?
Ani felt a stirring, a hope, a winged thing waking up in her chest and brushing her heart with it's feathers.
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