Igjen In English Quotes & Sayings

At my age the bones are water in the morning until food is given them. — Pearl S. Buck

The difficulty in our education up till now lies, for the most part, in the fact that knowledge did not refine itself into will, to application of itself, to pure practice. The realists felt the need and supplied it, though in a most miserable way, by cultivating idea-less and fettered "practical men." Most college students are living examples of this sad turn of events. Trained in the most excellent manner, they go on training; drilled they continue drilling. — Max Stirner

One thing I can't do, and I hope that there are other people out there that feel the same way, is climb a rope. Oh my gosh, it's so hard to climb rope! It's all about grip and arms. — Katy Perry

It was so easy to blame the mother. Life a miserable contradiction, endless desire but limited supplies, your birth just a ticket to your death: why not blame the person who'd stuck you with a life? OK, maybe it was unfair. But your mother could always blame her own mother, who herself could blame the mother, and so on back to the Garden. People had been blaming the mother forever, and most of them, Andreas was pretty sure, had mothers less blameworthy than his. — Jonathan Franzen

I've got a tough act to follow. — Scott Caan

My idea of Heaven is what we've got right now, right here!-All this beauty and pleasure and fun and inspiration and spirit and fellowship and joy, all of this and more so and more of it! — David Berg

Tomorrow morning, he decided, I'll begin clearing away the sand of fifty thousand centuries for my first vegetable garden. That's the initial step. — Philip K. Dick

'You ... you're
'
'A virgin?' Jonah's voice cracked in the middle of that hated word.
'Holy fucking merciful Christ giving Peter a blow job.'
'Jesus,' Jonah breathed.
'Came first?' Amelia said, popping out of the ladies' room with impeccable timing. 'God, Ethan, that was the best blasphemy ever!' — Amy Lane

He blinked in the gloom. He was wearing heavy black trousers and a waistcoat over a stiff white shirt. His exoself, having chosen an obsession which would have been meaningless in a world of advanced computers, had dressed him for the part of a Victorian naturalist.
The drawers, he knew, were full of beetles. Hundreds of thousands of beetles. He was free, now, to do nothing with his time but study them, sketch them, annotate them, classify them: specimen by specimen, species by species, decade after decade. The prospect was so blissful that he almost keeled over with joy. — Greg Egan