Backbencher Gujarati Quotes & Sayings

I'm not a masochistic reader. If something is just too dense or not enjoyable, even though I'm told it should be good for me, I'll put it down. That said, most of what I read would be considered high-end or good for you, I suppose. But, I also think that reading should be enjoyable. — Josh Radnor

Putting aside competitive interests for a new kind of collaboration, Maryland pioneered a real-time encounter notification service to alert primary care doctors when their patients are hospitalized. — Martin O'Malley

If I had a dollar for every time I couldn't sleep, I could buy a billion locks and finally read a book in peace. — Aesop Rock

Young people in college were not even born when the Berlin Wall fell, and so they are not really cognizant of the Cold War and what that meant. Now, truly, the genie is out of the bottle and you have the possibility that terrorists ... could be stealing a bomb or buying a bomb — Valerie Plame

Varys smiled. "Here, then. Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less." "So power is a mummer's trick?" "A shadow on the wall," Varys murmured, — George R R Martin

It still amazes me that we insist on teaching algebra to all students when only about 20 percent will ever use it and fail to teach anything about parenting when the vast majority of our students will become parents. — Nel Noddings

Writers, like elephants, have long, vicious memories. There are things I wish I could forget. — William S. Burroughs

We can't change the past, Soldier. We can only be grateful for the life of a new day, and move on. — Sheila Turnage

With the fire of acts, Ravana, is Heaven brilliant and Hell aflame. — William Buck

I never spoke - unless addressed
And then, 'twas brief and low
I could not bear to live - aloud
The Racket shamed me so
And if it had not been so far
And any one I knew
Were going - I had often thought
How noteless - I could die - — Emily Dickinson

The final stretch of drive ended at a small cottage nestled in a grove of ancient live oaks. The weathered structure, with chipping paint and shutters that had begun to blacken at the edges, was fronted by a small stone porch framed by white columns. Over the years, one of the columns had become enshrouded in vines, which climbed toward the roof. A metal chair sat at the edge, and at one corner of the porch, adding color to the world of green, was a small pot of blooming geraniums.
But their eyes were drawn inevitably to the wildflowers. Thousands of them, a meadow of fireworks stretching nearly to the steps of the cottage, a sea of red and orange and purple and blue and yellow nearly waist deep, rippling in the gentle breeze. Hundreds of butterflies flitted about the meadow, tides of moving color undulating in the sun. — Nicholas Sparks