Gnassingbe Quotes & Sayings

If you watch a movie, it never happens that you see a character that is in every single scene. — Patrick Huard

In any organization men would move up form the bottom to the top. That develops loyalty, ambition and talent, because there is a chance for promotion. — Alfred P. Sloan

It is said that nothing in our lives is ever lost, that nothing can prevent its having been. That is why, so very often the weight of the past lies ineluctably upon the present. But that is why it is so real in memory, so wholly itself, so far beyond replacement. — Marcel Proust

I thought I dreamed you." The words whisper from my parched throat.
His head tilts to one side, his mouth shifting to something less sarcastic, more amused. "That may be the most enchanting thing I've ever been told after spending the night with a girl. — Tammara Webber

The office of presbyters is a permanent one. — Charles Hodge

The multicolored kitten snuggled between her breasts.
Lucky cat.
"I thought maybe something like ... Sweetums."
"What? That's a wussy name. She'd totally get her ass kicked by all the other neighborhood cats. You can't call her ... that. See I can't even say it. It's too ridiculous."
Abby chuckled, and the sound drifted over him like a warm breeze.
"I suppose you want me to call her Rowdy, or Bullet or Chainsaw," she said.
"Those aren't bad." He liked it when she teased him. "Maybe you could name her something like Flash, or Blaze, or Storm.
"Or maybe I could call her pooty pie."
"Oh my God." He slapped his forehead. "You're killing me. You'd be better off sticking with Sweetums."
"Ha!" She pointed her finger at him. "You said it." Before he could wrap his hand around that finger and pull her against him, he gave the kitten-who purred contentedly between Abby's breasts-a rub between the ears.
Lucky damn cat. — Candis Terry

And Grace calls out, 'You are not just a disillusioned old man who may die soon, a middle-aged woman stuck in a job and desperately wanting to get out, a young person feeling the fire in the belly begin to grow cold. You may be insecure, inadequate, mistaken or potbellied. Death, panic, depression, and disillusionment may be near you. But you are not just that. You are accepted.' Never confuse your perception of yourself with the mystery that you really are accepted. — Brennan Manning

I'm very happy - if I can do even a little bit of work to get the short story out more, I'm thrilled. — George Saunders

All rebellions are ordinary and an ultimate bore. They are copied out of the same pattern, one much like another. The driving force is adrenalin addiction and the desire to gain personal power. All rebels are closet aristocrats. That's why I can convert them so easily. Why — Frank Herbert

Practicality requires that we stop somewhere in the process, but nothing actually says we can't keep on writing and revising. In fact, most writers continue to develop ideas and themes from one book to the next in what is essentially a lifelong evolution and revision. — Ralph L. Wahlstrom

I tell you, old friend, I'd rather be stuck here in a Strander burrow than blowing smoke rings in Glipwood, where the Fangs spit and howl and kill our spirits. At least we're here because we choose to be. We're here out of bravery and not cowardice. — Andrew Peterson

Looking outside of yourself for love and acceptance, leaves your happiness in the hands of others. — Debra Beck

Why precisely do we want to change land ownership? The answer seems to me to be quite clear: to inhibit land speculation, to inhibit the private exploitation of the scarcity-value of land, to inhibit as we might say the cornering of land. — E.F. Schumacher

All I knew was what I wasn't, and it took me some years to discover what I was.
Which was a writer.
By which I mean not a "good" writer or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hourse are spent arranging words on pieces of paper. Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. Why did the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits seem sinister to me in the summer of 1956? Why have the night lights in the bevatron burned in my mind for twenty years? What is going on in these pictures in my mind? — Joan Didion