Realigned Crossword Quotes & Sayings

There is no imagination wherewith man is besotted, more foolish, none so pernicious as this,- that persons not purified, not sanctified, not made holy in their life, should afterwards be taken into that state of blessedness which consists in the enjoyment of God. Neither can such persons enjoy God, nor would God be a reward to them. Holiness is perfected in heaven: but the beginning of it is invariably confined to this world. — John Owen

"Thanks be to God," says the Admiral, "the air is soft as in April in Seville, and it is a pleasure to be in it, so fragrant it is." — Christopher Columbus

Writers transform: they throw a hand grenade into the notion of reality that people carry around in their heads. That's very dangerous, very destructive, but not to do it means you are satisfied with the status quo - and that's a kind of danger as well, because a kind of violence is already being perpetuated. — John Edgar Wideman

Cruelty had been his weapon. But such a tool is dangerous and can spread further than you intend. — Ross Turner

Double crap on a cracker the size of my butt — Jennifer L. Armentrout

The first thing to recognize is that no startup has time to do optional things. — Ben Horowitz

Town designers are responsible for the total life of the town far more surely than doctors are responsible for the individual lives of their patients--for much medical history is act of God, whereas almost all town planning history is, alas, act of man. And compared with this all the professional squabbles, all the statistics, all the traffic flow, all the architectural fads, do not matter a damn. — Ian Nairn

Your head could fit in the muzzle of this thing," Vik said, awestruck. "Seriously. Come on and let's see."

"I'm not sticking my head in a cannon thing. Stick your own head in."

"I have highly temperamental hair. It'll get nestlike. You don't care when your hair gets nestlike, Tom. You can't possibly. — S.J. Kincaid

To write is to pour one's innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one's hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god which guides it - and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower. — Colette

I want to be alone with my thought. — Homer