Mommyish How Bout Quotes & Sayings

In long-term relationships ... we are called upon to navigate that delicate balance between separateness and connectedness ... we confront the challenge of sustaining both
without losing either. — Harriet Lerner

Wit goes for the jugular, not the jocular, and it's the opposite of football; instead of building character, it tears it down. — Florence King

That's how a good story works. It changes how you feel. It brings you to a greater appreciation, a greater joy, of your own existence. — Chuck Palahniuk

I do not know what I thought Paris would be like, but it was not that way. It rained nearly every day. — Ernest Hemingway,

When we refuse to do what we are supposed to do at the right time, the consequence is that of pain and tragedy. — Sunday Adelaja

The real hallmark of learning is transferring what you've learned into new contexts. — Eric Mazur

I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow;
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper's cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

- London — William Blake

Our glass train, on fragile tracks
Beneath bombs that fall like the flood
To wash away the shards
- But all this sorrow will recede
And we will leave
Two by two
And until then, I will only think of you. — Danny M. Cohen

Death is a challenge. It tells us not to waste time ... It tells us to tell each other right now that we love each other. — Leo Buscaglia

I love my own kind - womankind. — Qiu Miaojin

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. — William Shakespeare