A Quote by Taylor Caldwell

The feeble soul merely whines and complains. — © Taylor Caldwell
The feeble soul merely whines and complains.
He whines, he complains, he ducks out of the most obvious responsibility. He is vain, petty and maddening, but he doesn't ever quit.
I can't stand it when a player whines to me or his teammates or his wife or the writers or anyone else. A whiner is almost always wrong. A winner never whines.
We found water. We passed into a more fertile country where were grass and fruit. We found the trail to Babylon because the soul of a free man looks at life as a series of problems to be solved and solves them, while the soul of a slave whines, 'What can I do who am but a slave?
I know my own soul, how feeble and puny it is: I know the magnitude of this ministry, and the great difficulty of the work; for more stormy billows vex the soul of the priest than the gales which disturb the sea.
Everyone complains of his memory, and nobody complains of his judgment.
What use do I put my soul to? It is a serviceable question this, and should frequently be put to oneself. How does my ruling part stand affected? And whose soul have I now? That of a child, or a young man, or a feeble woman, or of a tyrant, of cattle or wild beasts.
A thankful person is thankful under all circumstances. A complaining soul complains even in paradise.
A feeble executive implies a feeble execution of the government. A feeble execution is but another phrase for a bad execution; and a government ill executed, whatever may be its theory, must be, in practice, a bad government.
A feeble executive implies a feeble execution of the government.
Persuasion is the resource of the feeble; and the feeble can seldom persuade . . .
I don't mean to get dark again, but my grandfather has been battling terminal illness. And you know, he never complains. And he has a lot of reasons to complain, but he never complains. And he lost his son a long time ago, when I was a young boy - my uncle. And he never complained.
He who complains of the weather, complains of the God who ordained the weather!
God is merely tuning the soul, as an instrument, in this life. And these joys of the Christian, are only the notes and chords that are sounded out in the preparation--preludes to the perfect harmony that shall flood the soul--forerunners of the perfected and rapturous joy that shall bless the soul, in that exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
In a painting no one complains that the subject is posed, but everybody complains about what looks posed in a photograph. Except, I've found that if I go very close in to the face, then the posed expression no longer exists. The face becomes a landscape of the lakes of the eyes and the hills of the nose and the valley of the cleft of the chin.
Now we are not merely to stick knowledge on to the soul: we must incorporate it into her; the soul should not be sprinkled with knowledge but steeped in it.
A winner never whines.
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