Mendieta Artist Quotes & Sayings

kind, to gaze in triumph at his gory head. So, remembering all this, let us all rejoice and feast together tonight. And in the morning I shall give you all your promised treasure. — Michael Morpurgo

Selfish isn't a dirty word. It means we take care of ourselves and are able to give back. — Jillian Michaels

May He who is the Brahman of the Hindus, the Ahura-Mazda of the Zoroastrians, the Buddha of the Buddhists, the Jehovah of the Jews, the Father in Heaven of the Christians give strength to you to carry out your noble idea. — Swami Vivekananda

I've been a fan since I was a kid of that sort of bump-in-the-night stuff. I don't tend to go in too much for the slash-and-burn-'em or the walker kills on 'The Walking Dead.' That stuff's not necessarily the stuff that frightens me or gets me going. It's more the terror of waiting, the thriller aspects, that I find compelling. — Dallas Roberts

The very thing you want to run away from is often the thing you need to address. — Truth Devour

Whether we like it or not, we remain a dominant military superpower. — Barack Obama

Being a parent is a life sentence. You see, that's why normal people should not have children. Because, if you raise a kid with only love and support, I guarantee that kid will be in rehab by the time he is sixteen. Why ? Because you never introduced him to mister back-of-your-hand. You know why I only broke into a liquor store once ? 'Cos my father introduced me to mister back-of-his-hand. And it's wiley side-kick. Mister foot-in-my-ass. — Christopher Titus

I've been writing poems since I was sixteen. Back then, poems were an obvious release for all the frustrations and anxieties associated with adolescence. Mostly, they were a way for me to impress girls, even though I never remember any girls being impressed. — Tony Magistrale

Sometimes you can only feel something by its absence. By the empty spaces it leaves behind. — Gayle Forman

We love to start from a real place, whether it's us or our friends or working on a story from a writer's friend. — Abbi Jacobson

Silent as a flower, her face fell in dismay, aware that the ghost of lust ate and left, sensing that there was a different scent of perfume consuming the room, and that she had numbered and counted the he loves me, he loves me not of each petal, where the lifeless dust had settle. — Anthony Liccione