Infernum 2019 Quotes & Sayings

We all now tell stories by cutting from one dramatic scene to the next, whereas Victorian novelists felt free to write long passages of undramatic summary. — Ken Follett

When you see a worthy person, endeavor to emulate him. When you see an unworthy person, then examine your inner self. — Confucius

It is impossible to know God and His laws, without knowing His Word. — Sunday Adelaja

I want to create amazing art and content that inspires people to want to be the best versions of themselves everyday, and never let anyone (even themselves) hold them back. — Rachele Brooke Smith

I did grow up in a household in which I felt that to be myself was to damage the people I loved. — Andrew Solomon

You are not weak just because your heart feels so heavy. — Andrea Gibson

You can lead a happy life if you recognize that it's limited and completely unpredictable from one moment to the next. — Wolfgang Schauble

The deadliest foe of democracy is not autocracy but liberty frenzied. — Otto Hermann Kahn

Even the smallest landscape can offer pride of ownership not only to its inhabitants but to its neighbors. The world delights in a garden ... Creating any garden, big or small, is, in the end, all about joy. — Julie Moir Messervy

Intolerance is a form of egotism, and to condemn egotism intolerantly is to share it. — George Santayana

The future may be an enemy. Time can turn happy days and nights into nothing. — Elizabeth Hardwick

I think 'write what you know' is the single worst piece of writing advice. Instead, write what you're really interested in. Write what is going to keep you awake at night; write what you don't understand; write to figure something out. Good novels are journeys into the unknown, for their authors as well as their readers. — Toni Jordan

What drew him towards the outside was not the student, not the goat, not even the man in the down-at-heel shoes who joined them. Simply the street, like a blanched life-drained cadaver, fettered his whole attention. Never before had he seen it look so monstrously real, lit by the tired face of the moon, quiet and grave. There was about it, as it were, a sort of despairing dignity. You might have thought that the street had been killed by the weight of its suffering, that it had that moment died after long agony. It was old, the street, hobbling and twisted with age. Some of its houses were already crumbling in ruins. For years now it had sheltered the petty life of men. And now they had elected it to express the extent of their weariness. Naked beneath the prodigious brightness of the moon, it revealed all that men hid in the depths of their beings, the little hopes, the hates so huge. No longer could it hide anything; it cried out its despair from every corner. — Albert Cossery