Postmature Infant Quotes & Sayings

If my mind's not trying to fix something or create something, I don't know what to do. It just throws me off. — Will.i.am

It isn't any single thing," Mrs. Waite repeated earnestly, the tears on her cheeks, "It's just that - well, look, Natalie. This is the only life I've got - you understand? I mean, this is all. And look what's happening to me. I spend most of my time just thinking about how nice things used to be and wondering if they'll ever be nice again. If I should go on and on and die someday and nothing was ever nice again - wouldn't that be a fine thing? I get to feeling like that and then I think I'll make things be nice, and make him behave, and just make everything all happy and exciting again the way it used to be - but I'm too tired. — Shirley Jackson

The most fundamental paradox is that, if we're never to use force, we must be prepared to use it and to use it successfully. We Americans don't want war, and we don't start fights. We don't maintain a strong military force to conquer or coerce others. The purpose of our military is simple and straightforward: We want to prevent war by deterring others from the aggression that causes war. If our efforts are successful, we will have peace and never be forced into battle. There will never be a need to fire a single shot. That's the paradox of deterrence. — Ronald Reagan

Gold will never free your father, the price, my dear, is you instead. — Bob Dylan

So much of college is girls labeling other girls terrible things when they don't like their behavior, but using concerned language so they have plausible deniability is they get accused of being bitches: That girl is not cheerfully doing what the rest of us are doing, so she is probably 'depressed' or 'has an eating disorder' or 'is weird with guys,' and so on. — Mindy Kaling

I would give everything if I could only keep my family. — Johnny Depp

The figs on the fig tree in the yard are green; Green, also, the grapes on the green vine Shading the brickred porch tiles. The money's run out. How nature, sensing this, compounds her bitters. Ungifted, ungrieved, our leavetaking. The sun shines on unripe corn. Cats play in the stalks. Retrospect shall not soften such penury - Sun's brass, the moon's steely patinas, The leaden slag of the world - But always expose The scraggy rock spit shielding the town's blue bay Against — Sylvia Plath