Quotes & Sayings About Pilots Dying

But charity begins surely with the char! — Ford Madox Ford

Think of all the nonsense you had to learn in psychology courses. None of which was testable. None of which was measurable. We had behaviorism, Freudian psychology, all of these theories that you learn in psychology. Totally untestable. Now, we can test it, because physics allows us to calculate energy flows in the brain. — Michio Kaku

The fact that a knight is temporarily on the edge of the board is of no great significance. — Anatoly Karpov

Indeed, he seemed utterly unaware of his effect on the boys around him. — Madeline Miller

Pampered vanity is a better thing perhaps than starved pride. — Joanna Baillie

Dear disgruntled artists: the key to success isn't kicking down the door; it's building your own. — Brian Celio

Wanderers eastward, wanderers west,
Know you why you cannot rest?
'Tis that every mother's son
Travails with a skeleton.
Lie down in the bed of dust;
Bear the fruit that bear you must;
Bring the eternal seed to light,
And morn is all the same as night. — A.E. Housman

If you think that," said Bean, "you're an idiot." "Actually, I do think that, and I'm not an idiot. — Orson Scott Card

In real life it is always the anvil that breaks the hammer ... — George Orwell

Unfortunately I am afraid, as always, of going on. For to go on means going from here, means finding me, losing me, vanishing and beginning again, a stranger first, then little by little the same as always, in another place, where I shall say I have always been, of which I shall know nothing, being incapable of seeing, moving, thinking, speaking, but of which little by little, in spite of these handicaps, I shall begin to know something, just enough for it to turn out to be the same place as always, the same which seems made for me and does not want me, which I seem to want and do not want, take your choice, which spews me out or swallows me up, I'll never know, which is perhaps merely the inside of my distant skull where once I wandered, now am fixed, lost for tininess, or straining against the walls, with my head, my hands, my feet, my back, and ever murmuring my old stories, my old story, as if it were the first time. — Samuel Beckett