Cepiti Quotes & Sayings

My ideas are all the same but look different. — Maurizio Cattelan

They say that faint heart never won fair lady. It is amazing to me how fair ladies are won, so faint are often men's hearts! — Anthony Trollope

The elevator doors opened, and Ranger stepped out and spied Tank stretched out on the carpet.
"Fainted," I said.
Ranger walked to Tank and stood hands on hips, staring down at him. "Tank doesn't faint. I've been in firefights with him. He's a rock."
"Well, the rock fainted. — Janet Evanovich

Halt," said the elegant diplomat, "when you asked me to marry you, did you think we could just sneak off to a glade in the woods with a few close friends and get it done?"
Halt hesitated. "Well, no ... of course not."
As a matter of fact, that was exactly what he had thought. A simple ceremony, a few friends, some food and drink and then he and Pauline would be a couple. But he felt that it might not be wise to admit that right now. — John Flanagan

I'm holding a media mutiny. — Bart Scott

A friendship that can end never really began. — Publilius Syrus

We carry our ancestors in our names and sometimes we carry our ancestors through the sliding doors of emergency rooms and either way they are heavy, man, either way we can't escape. — Marie-Helene Bertino

The real difference between yoga and religion is this: Religion says believe, do not doubt, often citing the word of God and promises of an eternal afterlife, reciting dogma (unsubstantiated pre-modern myths), while yoga only points the way and urges its students to practice and experience for themselves. In this way yoga is very scientific in its approach to self-knowledge, transcendence and enlightenment. Its message is: Try the practice for yourself and only then can you truly believe. — Gudjon Bergmann

A sculpture is something that if it falls on your foot, it will break it. — John Chamberlain

The time of dangling insects arrived. White houses with caterpillars dangling from the eaves. White stones in driveways. You can walk at night down the middle of the street and hear women talking on the telephone. Warmer weather produces voices in the dark. They are talking about their adolescent sons. How big, how fast. The sons are almost frightening. The quantities they eat. The way they loom in doorways. These are the days that are full of wormy bugs. They are in the grass, stuck to the siding, hanging in the hair, hanging from the trees and eaves, stuck to the window screens. The women talk long-distance to grandparents of growing boys. They share the Trimline phone, beamish old folks in hand-knit sweaters on fixed incomes.
What happens to them when the commercial ends? — Don DeLillo