Dogshead Quotes & Sayings

I want someone who can handle me. And I'm not the easiest person to handle. — Robin Givens

That's life" said the philosopher each time he was almost laid prostrate, "It's often our best friends who make us fall — Victor Hugo

I love home. I'll stay up there for days on end, I won't even go down the driveway to look for the mail. — Dan Fogelberg

There was yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and meads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the spring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer. — Herman Melville

The proud cannot accept the authority of God giving direction to their lives. (See Helaman 12:6.) They pit their perceptions of truth against God's great knowledge, their abilities versus God's priesthood power, and their accomplishments against His mighty works. — Ezra Taft Benson

Whatever the details of union may be, there's no doubt we need more policy coordination in Europe. — Gerhard Schroder

I almost jumped when the door opened. Alex came back inside, wearing black sweatpants; I swallowed as I saw his chest bare. "Forgot my T-shirt," he said sheepishly. His bag was on the floor near the bed, and I watched the lantern light play on his skin as he crossed to it. Squatting by the bag, he pulled out a T-shirt; I sat frozen, taking in the movement of his back and shoulders.
I stood up, my heart hammering. "Wait. Can I just ... ?" I trailed off as he turned to look at me.
"What?" he said, rising to his feet.
An embarrassed laugh escaped me. I shook my head. "Just
before you put that on, can I ... ?" In slow motion, I went over to him. I reached out toward his chest and then stopped, my fingers hesitating an inch from his skin. "Is
this all right?"
Alex stood very still, a soft smile on his face. "Anything you want is all right. — L.A. Weatherly

Jazz told people about the special music that came out of America and about America in general and this kind of liberty and freedom that we have. — Al Jarreau

Not that I'm complaining. It was better than my old dream, where Harma Dogshead was feeding me to her pigs."
"Harma's dead." Jon said.
"But not the pigs. They look at me the way Slayer used to look at ham. Not to say that the wildlings mean us harm. Aye, we hacked their gods apart and made them burn the pieces, but we gave them onion soup. What's a god compared to a nice bowl of onion soup? I could do with mine myself. — George R R Martin

Someone once told me be interested, not interesting - that really clicked for me. — Jack Dangermond

For this cause also children cannot be happy, for they are not old enough to be capable of noble acts; when children are spoken of as happy, it is in compliment to their promise for the future. — Aristotle.

I prefer to make a mistake because I am too kind than to perform miracles without any kindness. — Mother Teresa

What will drive people if they don't have money or reward? The reward is the end of war, the end of poverty, most crime, and the end of begging for medical care. Everyone will be cared for and educated. There will be no taxation, and no advantage group. No technical elitism, or any other kind of elitism. If that isn't incentive enough, then I don't know what is. — Jacque Fresco

His lips were like a caress as he brushed them across mine; slow and soft.
He lingered, breathing in deeply as if he couldn't breathe without me. Eventually, he moved on to plant a tender kiss on my bottom lip, before pilling back and looking at me. His cocky grin was gone, replaced with something tender and nervous. His thumb ran over my lip once, before he let go, and smiled. -Loc 1471 ARC — Nichole Chase

It matters enormously if I alienate anyone from the truth. — C.S. Lewis

Poetry was not meant to be a workhorse; it was not designed to paint pretty moral pictures of life; it was not brought into being to confuse us with cryptograms, or high platitudes, or pompous pretensions. The poet was meant to be a seer; he was designed to run toward the intensities and magnificences of life, to bathe his hands in reality. But where the mystic ran toward Reality in silence and lost himself in it, the poet as soon as he had experienced it, ran back toward humanity crying the good news and putting it into shimmering webs of words. — Francis Beauchesne Thornton