Cloyingly Sweet Quotes & Sayings

One of the ways to learn is to know when you're making failures. — Robert Genn

Love that goes upward is worship;
Love that goes outward is affection;
Love that stoops is grace. — Donald Barnhouse

I come from a very sporty background because my mom is a gymnastics teacher. So growing up I was never sitting watching TV in the afternoons. I always played ball outside in the backyard. — Gal Gadot

I do not wish to be an artist. I only wish that art enables me to be. — Noah Purifoy

Did God mind that dreadful singing, he who made the nightingale and the lark? Probably not. Probably it was the soul of Mrs Crabtree he was listening to, the worshipping song of her heart, and that rang true as a bell. — Penelope Wilcock

Warned me that the tenuous balance that exists in my brain is easily set off kilter, but like everything else he said, — Marya Hornbacher

I was ashamed. I wouldn't be able to explain this properly to anyone. It had something to do with being seen. Everything was visible to them - swollen face, bloody arms, bloody legs, bloody clothes. These were the only things I was composed of, and everyone saw them - everyone understood them - as well as I could. It was a kind of nakedness, a feeling of nerve endings in the wind. — Leslie Jamison

In the fourth century, John Cassian described a condition among his fellow monks that he called "acedia": a "weariness or distress of heart . . . akin to dejection" that took "possession" of unhappy souls and left them lazy, sluggish, restless, and solitary. Later, acedia became widely translated as sloth, one of the seven deadly sins, and blended with melancholy in the popular mind. Both required, at the very least, confession and penitence. — Joshua Wolf Shenk

I like honesty more than my ego does. — Adam Santo

Word for word, Galland's version [of the One Thousand and One Nights] is the worst written, the most fraudulent and the weakest, but it was the most widely read. Readers who grew intimate with it experienced happiness and amazement. Its orientalism, which we now find tame, dazzled the sort of person who inhaled snuff and plotted tragedies in five acts. Twelve exquisite volumes appeared from 1707 to 1717, twelve volumes innumerably read, which passed into many languages, including Hindustani and Arabic. We, mere anachronistic readers of the twentieth century, perceive in these volumes the cloyingly sweet taste of the eighteenth century and not the evanescent oriental aroma that two hundred years ago was their innovation and their glory. No one is to blame for this missed encounter, least of all Galland. — Jorge Luis Borges