Ash Cans Quotes & Sayings

I consider my selfbeing ... that taste of myself, of I and me above and in all things, which is more distinctive than the taste of ale or alum, more distinctive than the smell of walnutleaf or camphor, and is incommunicable by any means to another man. — Gerard Manley Hopkins

If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. — Anais Nin

When a new post-war generation has grown to puberty and to youth and to manhood and womanhood, it should read, and it should be realistically told, of the futility, the idiocy, the utter depravity of war. For that matter, this instruction could begin at the age of six with the taking of those toy guns out of those toy holsters and throwing them in the ash-cans where they belong. — Edna Ferber

Los Angelenos dress like they've been focus-grouped. — Douglas Coupland

No one gets left behind, you know that. — Mark Bowden

So, Acheron," Kyrian said, hijacking their conversation. "What happened to your car? I saw the busted fender on it. How unlike you to crash into anything."
Nick cringed as Acheron turned towards him with an arched brow.
"Hey now," Nick said, holding his hands up in defence of himself, "it was not my fault.I was minding my own business when the trash can went suicidal, came out of nowhere, and jumped in front of the car."
"It was on the curb, Nick," Ash said drily. "Along with a number of screaming pedestrians, running for their lives."
"That's your story. I'm sticking to mine ... And there ought to be a law about homicidal trash cans, and fines for people who put them on the street. They're really dangerous ... Just saying. — Sherrilyn Kenyon

When I first concluded to print the book, I made an honest effort to construct it in the third person. — John Sergeant Wise

I remember Liz, her face white, delicate as an ash on the wind; her red lips staining the cigarette; her full breasts under the taut black jersey. She said to me, "But think how happy you can make a man someday." Yes, I'm thinking, and so far it's all right. But then I do a flipover and reach out in my mind to E., seeing a baseball game, maybe, perhaps watching television, or roaring with careless laughter at some dirty joke with the boys, beer cans lying about green and shiny gold, and ash trays. I spiral back to me, sitting here, swimming, drowning, sick with longing. I have too much conscience injected in me to break customs without disasterous effects; I can only lean enviously against the boundary and hate, hate, hate the boys who can dispel sexual hunger freely, without misgiving, and be whole, while I drag out from date to date in soggy desire, always unfulfilled. The whole thing sickens me. — Sylvia Plath