Mailhouse Or Mail Quotes & Sayings

it is remarkable that the wild apple, which I praise as so spirited and racy when eaten in the fields or woods, being brought into the house, has frequently a harsh and crabbed taste. The Saunter-er's Apple not even the saunterer can eat in the house. — Henry David Thoreau

Thank everyone who calls out your faults, your anger, your impatience, your egotism; do this consciously, voluntarily. — Jean Toomer

Imagine Oshkosh straitjackets for little insane children. — Steven Wright

I have seen too many of my male friends - no matter whether they're on the football field or inside a church - bash gays and then revel in their machismo or piety. — Cory Booker

The harshest people I've met over the years have had two things in common: they don't fully trust anybody, and they view relationships as a means to an end. — Donald Miller

I resent the idea that people would blame the messenger for the message, rather than looking at the content of the message itself. — Anita Hill

Elinor Lipman is to tweets what Shakespeare is to sonnets. — Firoozeh Dumas

Mouth to continue, Haymitch plummets off the stage and knocks himself unconscious. He's disgusting, but I'm grateful. With every camera gleefully trained on him, I have just enough time to release the small, choked sound in my throat and compose myself. I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance. I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Gale. For a moment, I yearn for something ... the idea of us leaving the district ... making our way in the woods ... but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered for Prim? Haymitch is whisked away on a stretcher, and Effie Trinket is trying to get the ball rolling again. What an — Suzanne Collins

there is the truism, so ably articulated by Luther in his response to Erasmus on the will, that the task of the preacher is to preach God's Word, not to second-guess what the practical problems such causes may — Andrew David Naselli

Oh, who could have foretold That the heart grows old? — W.B.Yeats