Lynettes Flowers Quotes & Sayings

I used to get up and write every day, even if I wasn't working on a specific thing. Now, when I have a thing I'm in the middle of, I do that, but when I'm not, time can go by when I'm not writing at all. — Noah Baumbach

You gave me Christopher Robin, and then
You breathed new life in Pooh.
Whatever of each has left my pen
Goes homing back to you.
My book is ready, and comes to greet
The mother it longs to see
It would be my present to you, my sweet,
If it weren't your gift to me. — A.A. Milne

Sirs, if it were not for that one red spot I would have conquered the world!!! — Napoleon Bonaparte

including Edna Millay, there were five such women: essayist Maeve Brennan, columnist Neith Boyce, novelist Edith Wharton, and social visionary Charlotte Perkins Gilman. — Kate Bolick

He was Carmine Marcello DeMarco ... and even broken, he was beautiful. — J.M. Darhower

There never yet have been, nor are there now, too many good books. — Martin Luther

Ranger pulled onto the shoulder and reprogrammed the GPS system. "Lucky for you, you look good in a T-shirt," Ranger said. "Lucky for you I don't have a gun on me." Ranger turned to me. His voice was low and even, but there was a whisper of incredulous disbelief. "You're not carrying a gun?" "Didn't seem necessary for us both to have one. — Janet Evanovich

I have been accused of being a Pollyanna, but I think there are plenty of people dealing with the darker side of human nature, and if I am going to write about people who are kind and generous and loving and thoughtful, so what? In my life I have met astonishingly good people. — Ann Patchett

There are many more kind people than not-so-kind people, said Mma Ramotswe. — Alexander McCall Smith

You do not become a critic until it has been completely established to your own satisfaction that you cannot be a poet. — Theophile Gautier

The canvases which Mr. St. Jones referred to with a paintbrush that was long and slightly bowed: for the most part interiors, or undergrounds, of pocked and craggy holes, rock vaults with mossy floors and slimy walls, or narrow scenic vistas that skinny silver streams squirmed through like sidewinders flipped on their backs, beneath downward grasping tentacles of roots, stalactites dagger-sharp and dangling by threads of stone, stalagmites teetering, all doused, frozen in molten electric white that suggested what a glimpse of hell might be, too beautiful, some still lifes too, great bulbous beets, hoary legumes, giant scallions, white carrots, tomatoes, berries, squash in huge radiant bowls, and portraits, signed by Ionia, of shadows, from which gleamed eyes and teeth and nails and, here and there, a glowing bubble, or scrotum, caught the eye. Near the door a counter clacked but rather quietly. — Douglas Woolf