Akram Nadwi Quotes & Sayings

I actually have more shoes than anyone will ever know. — Tamara Mellon

We are all hydrogen's diaspora. — John Zande

I have two children. They are more fun than anything in the world, and it's more immediate fun than the hard slog of writing. — Denise Mina

I know you might think it pointless, but I just wish I could fix it. It's bad enough to bungle things professionally and . . . well . . . romantically. It would be nice if I could at least get a friendship right. — William Ritter

What if marrying Shelley meant that she would end up just like him, unable to realize a thing's happening or a moment's passing? What if it were like a contagious disease, so that soon she would be wandering around in a daze and incapable of putting her finger on any given thing and saying, that is that? — Anne Tyler

When "Why not do it?" barely outweighs "Why do it?" - don't do it. — Mignon McLaughlin

As far as the rest of the biosphere is concerned, we could be wiped out and it would adjust, it would get on with the next step in evolution. But — Orson Scott Card

I don't want to live with the guilt of messing up someone's retirement fund. — Romesh Wadhwani

This happened back east of course. I've heard that term a lot since coming to this part of the country. But I never think of the term as a marker of geography. It's a reference to time, a statement about time, about all the densities of being and experience, it's time disguised, it's light-up time, shifting smoky time tricked out as some locus of stable arrangement. When people use that term they're talking about the way things used to be before they moved out here, the way the world used to be, not just New Jersey or South Philly, or before their parents moved, or grandparents, and about the way things still exist in some private relativity theory, some smoky shifting mind dimension, or before the other men and women came this way, the ones in Conestoga wagons, a term we learned in grade school, a back-east term, stemming from the place where the wagons were made. (pg.333) — Don DeLillo