Moister Quotes & Sayings

Ban the words "always" and never from your vocabulary — Karen Salmansohn

See yonder rock from which the fountain gushes; is it less compact of adamant, though waters flow from it? Firm hearts have moister eyes. — Walter Scott

The winters were getting colder, starting earlier, lasting longer, with more snows than he could remember from childhood. As soon as man stopped adding his megatons of filth to the atmosphere each day, he thought, the atmosphere had reverted to what it must have been long ago, moister weather summer and winter, more stars than he had ever seen before, and more, it seemed, each night than the night before: the sky a clear, endless blue by day, velvet blue-black at night with blazing stars that modern man had never seen. — Kate Wilhelm

Everything that is strong in me has gone into my art work. — Robert Crumb

Above all I commend the study of Christ. Let Him be your library. — Charles Spurgeon

Read a lot. Write a lot. Have fun. — Daniel Pinkwater

That which he projects ahead of him as his ideal, is merely his substitute for the lost narcissism of his childhood - the time when he was his own ideal. — Sigmund Freud

...it is the smallest house in the Lane. And besides that, it is the only one that is rather dilapidated and needs a coat of paint. But Mr. Banks, who owns it, said to Mrs. Banks that she could have either a nice, clean, comfortable house or four children. But not both, for he couldn't afford it. And after Mrs. Banks had given the matter some consideration she came to the conclusion that she would rather have Jane...and Michael...and John and Barbara, who were Twins and came last. So it was settled... — P.L. Travers

A hotter, moister atmosphere is an atmosphere primed to trigger disasters. — Michael Oppenheimer

Golf is a game of coordination, rhythm, and grace; women have these to a high degree. — Babe Didrikson Zaharias

The novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous - no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature - irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them. — E. M. Forster