Honeybones Quotes & Sayings

The ability to love is the divine power of human. — Debasish Mridha

If black people mistrust white people, they are mistrusting racism, and that is appropriate. — Jasmine Guy

I'm going to be a princess that fights dragons. Ain't no good to sit up in your tower and watch the prince have all the fun. — Pepper D. Basham

He was not such a special person. He loved to read very much, and also to write. He was a poet, and he exhibited me many of his poems. I remember many of them. They were silly, you could say, and about love. He was always in his room writing those things, and never with people. I used to tell him, What good is all that love doing on paper? I said, Let love write on you for a little. But he was so stubborn. Or perhaps he was only timid. — Jonathan Safran Foer

School literally doesn't care about you unless you're good at writing stuff down or you're good at memorising or you can solve bloody maths equations. What about the other important things in life? — Alice Oseman

He wore round glasses held together with a lot of Sellotape because of all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. — J.K. Rowling

Do not give alms promiscuously. Select the unworthy poor and make them happy. To give to the deserving is a duty, but to help the improvident, drinking class is clear generosity, so that the donor has a right to be warmed by a selfish pride and count on a most flattering obituary. — George Ade

It's amazing, the tremendous capacity of that marvelous final great Heavenly City that Jesus has gone to prepare and is now all prepared for us and on its way here, just ready for its new tenants which Jesus is going to raise from both the dead and the living in the Rapture at His Second Coming and take us all away to be there with Him! — David Berg

Oh Tigger, where are your manners?"
"I don't know, but I bet they're having more fun than I am. — A.A. Milne

Risk is a four-letter word, but you know something? So is safe. — Chiara Kelly

When the main crowd of worshipers reached the short bridge spanning the pond, the ragged sound of honky-tonk music assailed them. A barrelhouse blues was being shouted over the stamping of feet on a wooden floor. Miss Grace, the good-time woman, had her usual Saturday-night customers. The big white house blazed with lights and noise. The people inside had forsaken their own distress for a little while. Passing near the din, the godly people dropped their heads and conversation ceased. Reality began its tedious crawl back into their reasoning. After all, they were needy and hungry and despised and dispossessed, and sinners the world over were in the driver's seat. How long, merciful Father? How long? A stranger to the music could not have made a distinction between the songs sung a few minutes before and those being danced to in the gay house by the railroad tracks. All asked the same questions. How long, oh God? How long? — Maya Angelou