Bokhara Quotes & Sayings

First people lose their hair, then their vices, then their motivation. Then a toupee brings it all flowing back. — Bauvard

I don't cry when I lose. There's always a new hand coming up. — Sheldon Adelson

Life is what's happening while you're worrying. — Ajahn Brahm

The real problem with Donald Trump is, if you engage him, it will only make things worse. It's like - it's a little bit what you were taught as a kid to not engage the bully, because they will continue to pick on you. — Amy Walter

Nature and wisdom are not, but should be, companions. — Tobias Smollett

When God speaks, when the Word speaks, energy is translated into matter. What is atomic fission? It is matter translated back into energy - poof! it disappears. Creation began with energy. In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God. The Word was God. — J. Vernon McGee

George Washington, Andrew Jackson, William Henry Harrison, Zachary Taylor, Ulysses Grant, Rutherford Hayes, James Garfield, Benjamin Harrison, Theodore Roosevelt and Dwight Eisenhower all rode their wartime heroics into the White House. — Jeff Greenfield

You may have forgotten the Way:
But those who came before
Did not forget you.
Saying of Master Bahaudin Naqshband of Bokhara — Idries Shah

Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder. — Gareth Murphy

Is there any saint without a sin? — Lailah Gifty Akita

I hate pulling out ... I mean, I'm really bad at the whole parking thing ... — Josh Stern

LONDON. TRINITY TERM one week old. Implacable June weather. Fiona Maye, a High Court judge, at home on Sunday evening, supine on a chaise longue, staring past her stockinged feet toward the end of the room, toward a partial view of recessed bookshelves by the fireplace and, to one side, by a tall window, a tiny Renoir lithograph of a bather, bought by her thirty years ago for fifty pounds. Probably a fake. Below it, centered on a round walnut table, a blue vase. No memory of how she came by it. Nor when she last put flowers in it. The fireplace not lit in a year. Blackened raindrops falling irregularly into the grate with a ticking sound against balled-up yellowing newsprint. A Bokhara rug spread on wide polished floorboards. Looming at the edge of vision, a baby grand piano bearing silver-framed family photos on its deep black shine. On the floor by the chaise longue, within her reach, the draft of a judgment. — Ian McEwan