Deasupra In Engleza Quotes & Sayings

Poetry is the essence of everything, and it's through deep contact with reality and living fully that you reach poetry. Very often I see photographers cultivating the strangeness or awkwardness of a scene, thinking it is poetry. No. Poetry is two elements which are suddenly conflict - a spark between two elements. But it's given very seldom, and you can't look for it. It's like if you look for inspiration. No, it just comes by enriching yourself and living. — Henri Cartier-Bresson

In the same way that I tend to make up my mind about people within thirty seconds of meeting them, I also make up my mind about whether a business proposal excites me within about thirty seconds of looking at it. I rely far more on gut instinct than researching huge amounts of statistics. — Richard Branson

Correlation does not equal causality. When two things travel together, it is tempting to assume that one causes the other. Married people, for instance, are demonstrably happier than single people; does this mean that marriage causes happiness? Not necessarily. The data suggest that happy people are more likely to get married in the first place. As one researcher memorably put it, If you're grumpy, who the hell wants to marry you? — Anonymous

When you beat a team so often - especially like this season when Chelsea had already lost three times to us - you know people expect you to do it again. But you also know they're going to be even more motivated to finally win. — Dennis Bergkamp

When God plays chess, you will notice that he never has to move a single piece ... in order to win. — Lionel Suggs

The whole film is about people being convinced that they can reduce themselves to their archetypes. — Atom Egoyan

I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by abscence? — Audrey Niffenegger

Madame was in her room upstairs. She wore an open dressing gown that showed between the shawl facings of her bodice a pleated chamisette with three gold buttons. Her belt was a corded girdle with great tassels, and her small garnet coloured slippers had a large knot of ribbon that fell over her instep. She had bought herself a blotting book, writing case, pen-holder, and envelopes, although she had no one to write to; she dusted her what-not, looked at herself in the glass, picked up a book, and then, dreaming between the lines, let it drop on her knees. She longed to travel or to go back to her convent. She wished at the same time to die and to live in Paris. — Gustave Flaubert