Mezzetti Spaghetti Quotes & Sayings

The CEO of Monsanto had been disemboweled alive. — Nancy Kress

On a simple level, you need directors who are good at action and can choreograph an action scene, but you need them to also have that sense of fun and that sense of movement and that ability to get the actors to really respond to the material in the way that you want them to. It's a very big thing. — Adrian Hodges

Do you think the solitude in which I live has a more amusing decor than any other solitude? Do you think it is any nicer for remembering that were times very late at night when you and I shared our alone-ness? I will take my full share of responsibility for all this tragedy but I cannot spread beyond the limits of my reach and gasp. — F Scott Fitzgerald

The bicycle is a curious vehicle. Its passenger is its engine. — John Howard

Every time I get mad, I grab my hammer and make a bookshelf or something. — Anthony Mackie

It seemed like a nice neighborhood to have bad habits in. — Raymond Chandler

arrow goes foreword after being pulled backward. A bullet goes forward after the trigger being pulled backwards. Every human being will be happy only after they face their difficulties in their path...So don't be afraid to face them for they will push you forward — Unknown

[Y]ou were too alert to the figurative possibilities of words not to see the phrase [angle of repose] as descriptive of human as well as detrital rest. As you said, it was too good for mere dirt; you tried to apply it to your own wandering and uneasy life ... I wonder if you ever reached it. — Wallace Stegner

Or there, in the clay-baked piedmont of the South, that lean and tan-faced boy who sprawls there in the creaking chair among admiring cronies before the open doorways of the fire department, and tells them how he pitched the team to shut-out victory to-day. What visions burn, what dreams possess him, seeker of the night? The packed stands of the stadium, the bleachers sweltering with their unshaded hordes, the faultless velvet of the diamond, unlike the clay-balked outfields down in Georgia. The mounting roar of eighty thousand voices and Gehrig coming up to bat, the boy himself upon the pitching mound, the lean face steady as a hound's; then the nod, the signal, and the wind-up, the rawhide arm that snaps and crackles like a whip, the small white bullet of the blazing ball, its loud report in the oiled pocket of the catcher's mitt, the umpire's thumb jerked upwards, the clean strike. — Thomas Wolfe