Everything comes to him who waits -- if he waits till it comes.
Everything comes to him who hustles while he waits.
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.
It was up to him to pay back to the world in beauty and caring what Leslie had loaned him in vision and strength.
Truly in the heart there is a void that can not be removed except with the company of Allah. And in it there is a sadness that can not be removed except with the happiness of knowing Allah and being true to Him. And in it there is an emptiness that can not be filled except with love for Him and by turning to Him and always remembering Him. And if a person were given all of the world and what is in it, it would not fill this emptiness.
If he can give his readers no reason why they should read his book, except that the events happened to him, it is not a valid 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.
From the perfection of Allah's ihsan is that He allows His slave to taste the bitterness of the break before the sweetness of the mend. So He does not break his believing slave, except to mend him. And He does not withhold from him, except to give him. And He does not test him (with hardship), except to cure him.
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.
You want to give him the book of his own life, the book that will locate him, parent him, arm him for the changes.
Dynasty was the opportunity to take charge of my career rather than waiting around like a library book waiting to be loaned out.
Then began an experience that turned my life around-working on a book with a black kid as hero. None of the manuscripts I'd been illustrating featured any black kids-except for token blacks in the background. My book would have him there simply because he should have been there all along. Years before I had cut from a magazine a strip of photos of a little black boy. I often put them on my studio walls before I'd begun to illustrate children's books. I just loved looking at him. This was the child who would be the hero of my book.
One can survive everything, nowadays, except death, and live down everything except a good reputation.
A hypochondriac is one who has a pill for everything except what ails him.
That's the trouble, I can't forget him. He was everything to me, except mine.