Aynne Mcavoy Quotes & Sayings

My mother wrote lyrics and sang but was overtaken by life with four children and worked. — Joy Harjo

Like all who are impassioned, I take blissful delight in losing myself, in fully experiencing the thrill of surrender. And so I often write with no desire to think, in an externalized reverie, letting the words cuddle me like a baby in their arms. They form sentences with no meaning, flowing softly like water I can feel, a forgetful stream whose ripples mingle and undefine, becoming other, still other ripples, and still again other. Thus ideas and images, throbbing with expressiveness, pass through me in resounding processions of pale silks on which imagination shimmers like moonlight, dappled and indefinite. — Fernando Pessoa

I guess the President says the majority of the people didn't elect him, he doesn't have to listen to 'em anyway. — Star Jones

Currency trading is unnecessary, unproductive and totally immoral. It should be stopped. — Mahathir Mohamad

The best proof of love is trust — Joyce Brothers

She glared at him. "Why are you forever asking hard questions?"
He smiled. "Sooner or later you'll have to be able to answer one."
Daja shoved him, grinning. — Tamora Pierce

I looked at her from the corner of my eye. Some people are hard to imagine as children. — Joan Bauer

The body is the one thing you can't fake; it's just got to be there. — James Dickey

It is the ultimate honor for a coach to be his country's coach. — Mike Krzyzewski

I've become a less brave traveller since I became a dad, but in the past I was more foolhardy than brave. — David Mitchell

You cannot deal with a city if it's not socially integrated. — Eduardo Paes

You women could make someone fall in love even with a lie. — Georg Buchner

The money doesn't really matter. I've been a multi-millionaire for a long time. My sons are rich. — Joe Jamail

Faith is like the hand of the beggar that takes the gift while adding nothing to it. — Thomas Chalmers

After slipping on a negligee and making herself comfortable on the lounge, she became conscious that she was miserable and that the tears were rolling down her cheeks. She wondered if they were the tears of self-pity, and tried resolutely not to cry, but this existence without hope, without happiness, oppressed her, and she kept shaking her head from side to side, her mouth drawn down tremulously in the corners, as though she were denying the assertion made by some one, somewhere. She did not know that this gesture of hers was years older than history, that, for a hundred generations of men, intolerable and persistent grief has offered that gesture, of denial, of protest, of bewilderment, to something more profound, more powerful than the God made in the image of man, and before which that God, did he exist, would be equally impotent. It is a truth set at the heart of tragedy that this force never explains, never answers - this force intangible as air, more definite than death. — F Scott Fitzgerald