Caesar 27s Wife Quotes & Sayings

There's something strange and powerful about black-and-white imagery. — Stefan Kanfer

Hymn sheets; we're not even the slightest bit compatible. — Suzanne Wright

In this life or the next, I hold you to your promise Mikhail Ivelitsch. — Travis Luedke

Great is the power of Eloquence; but never is it so great as when it pleads along with nature, and the culprit is a child strayed from his duty, and returned to it again with tears. — Laurence Sterne

What I feel like - 'cause I wanna be married, of course - I feel like the type of girl I would be with is a fellow superhero. So we get that 'already flying and now we're just flying together' thing. — Kanye West

It was as though she had some alter ego who told her she did not belong here. But she had never known anywhere else, and where else could there be? — Penelope Lively

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

He was learning to love idleness, idleness no longer as stretches of freedom reclaimed by stealth here and there from involuntary labour, surreptitious thefts to be enjoyed sitting on his heels before a flowerbed with the fork dangling from his fingers, but as a yielding up of himself to time, to a time flowing slowly like oil from horizon to horizon over the face of the world, washing over his body — J.M. Coetzee