Rockhampton Morning Quotes & Sayings

In summer the empire of insects spreads. — Adam Zagajewski

And why had those prayers focused heavenward? Well, kind of made sense, didn't it? Even when there were no more options for the body, the heart's wishes find a way out, ans as with all warmth, love rises. Besides, the will to fly was in the nature of the soul so its home had to be up above. And gifts did come from the sky, like spring rain and summer breezes and fall sun and winter snow. — J.R. Ward

love you for your smart-ass mouth, and your purity, and your kindness, and your rambling, and your love of family, and for the way you care about those you love. But most of all, I love you because you're you, and you accept me for who I am. — Nina Levine

I can only imagine how that went. Oh, hello. Your daughter is a Silver now, and she's going to marry a prince. You'll never see her again, but we'll send you some money to help out. Even trade, don't you think? — Victoria Aveyard

Ingratitude is the soul's enemy ... Ingratitude is a burning wind that dries up the source of love, the dew of mercy, the streams of grace. — Bernard Of Clairvaux

Because that's what normal people do when everything goes sideways. They pick up all their shit and make something that doesn't stink. — Mia Storm

Writing became an obsessive compulsive habit but I had almost no money so I thought about being an urban firefighter and having lots of free time in which to write or becoming an English teacher and thinking about books and writers on a daily basis. That swayed me. — David Guterson

Some writers are the kind of solo violinists who need complete silence to tune their instruments. Others want to hear every member of the orchestra - they'll take a cue from a clarinet, from an oboe, even. I am one of those. My writing desk is covered in open novels. I read lines to swim in a certain sensibility, to strike a particular note, to encourage rigour when I'm too sentimental, to bring verbal ease when I'm syntactically uptight. I think of reading like a balanced diet; if your sentences are baggy, too baroque, cut back on fatty Foster Wallace, say, and pick up Kafka, as roughage. If your aesthetic has become so refined it is stopping you from placing a single black mark on white paper, stop worrying so much about what Nabokov would say; pick up Dostoyevsky, patron saint of substance over style. — Zadie Smith