Fiddleheads Quotes & Sayings

Nobody is more inferior than those who insist on being equal. — Friedrich Nietzsche

Mediaevalism, with its saints and martyrs, its love of self-torture, its wild passion for wounding itself, its gashing with knives, and its whipping with rods - Mediaevalism is real Christianity, and the mediaeval Christ is the real Christ. When the Renaissance dawned upon the world, and brought with it the new ideals of the beauty of life and the joy of living, men could not understand Christ. — Oscar Wilde

One of the magical things about photography is the transformation that takes place when you photograph something. Something that inherently has very little going for it in terms of the interest you take in it, can become infinitely more interesting when rendered as a photograph. It's no longer a building. It's a photograph. — Grant Mudford

What I loved about it was language-wise it wasn't that finely-tuned-perfect-insult-for-the-perfect-situation that sometimes we try and do on Veep. — David Mandel

You know, modern liberals are just, I think frankly, totally off the deep end ... their only answer is to yell racism and hide. — Newt Gingrich

If I stand here, I can see the Little Red Haired girl when she comes out of her house ... Of course, if she sees me peeking around this tree, she'll think I'm the dumbest person in the world ... But if I don't peek around the tree, I'll never see her ... Which means I probably AM the dumbest person in the world ... which explains why I'm standing in a batch of poison oak. — Charles M. Schulz

But usually not. Usually she thinks of the path to his house, whether deer had eaten the tops of the fiddleheads, why they don't eat the peppermint saprophytes sprouting along the creek; or she visualizes the approach to the cabin, its large windows, the fuchsias in front of it where Anna's hummingbirds always hover with dirty green plumage and jeweled throats. Sometimes she thinks about her dream, the one in which her mother wakes up with no hands. The cabin smells of oil paint, but also of pine. The painter's touch is sexual and not sexual, as she herself is ... When the memory of that time came to her, it was touched by strangeness because it formed no pattern with the other events in her life. It lay in her memory like one piece of broken tile, salmon-coloured or the deep green of wet leaves, beautiful in itself but unusable in the design she was making — Robert Hass