Dumartheray Soustons Quotes & Sayings

If I don't love my character, I can't do it. — Tahar Rahim

Father asked if there were any knights in the hall who would do honor to their houses by taking the black, but no one came forward, so he gave this Yoren his pick of the king's dungeons and sent him on his way. And later these two brothers came before him, freeriders from the Dornish Marches, and pledged their swords to the service of the king. Father accepted their oaths ... '
Jeyne yawned. 'Are there any lemon cakes? — George R R Martin

The gun, man. Remember the gun. My woman comes armed, Rush warned. — Abbi Glines

Fit no stereotypes. Don't chase the latest management fads. The situation dictates which approach best accomplishes the team's mission. — Colin Powell

I have a father who came from nothing and conquered the world. The last thing I'm going to do is sit here and spend his money and try to look pretty. That's not interesting to me at all. — Rashida Jones

Writers use narratives to select from everything there is, and make contexts by putting the pieces into relation; that's what writers do, they make contexts. — Paul Shepheard

Walls tagged with graffiti (one such piece of tagging: a stencil of a familiar Sith Lord's helmet with the phrase beneath it reading VADER LIVES). — Chuck Wendig

Evening is the delight of virtuous age; it seems an emblem of the tranquil close of busy life
serene, placid, and mild, with the impress of its great Creator stamped upon it; it spreads its quiet wings over the grave, and seems to promise that all shall be peace beyond it. — Edward Bulwer-Lytton, 1st Baron Lytton

I began to understand that suffering and disappointments and melancholy are there not to vex us or cheapen us or deprive us of our dignity but to mature and transfigure us. — Hermann Hesse

It's amazing how confused and distracted and misdirected so many people are. — Stephen Covey

Now that I've been thoroughly mind f--ked, I need a cigarette.. — Tarryn Fisher

My songs are like bees; they follow through the air some fragrant trace - some memory - of you, to hum around your shyness, eager for its hidden store.
When the freshness of dawn droops in the sun, when in the noon the air hangs low with heaviness and the forest is silent, my songs return home, their languid wings dusted with gold. — Rabindranath Tagore