Stavin Oak Quotes & Sayings

She fizzed when she smiled. — Dorothy Koomson

Father: 'Anything but journalism.' I rebelled. — Malcolm Gladwell

The most creative approach is often the simple approach. — Phil Cooke

The wise who control their body, who control their tongue, the wise who control their mind, are indeed well controlled. — Max Muller

And there they were being so responsible, practicing safe sex and all. She'd been a fool to believe all that hype, she thought. The only hundred percent safe sex was between Barbie and Ken, and she'd heard rumors that they weren't doing it anymore. — Christopher Pike

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WHAT TO BEGIN NEXT

I can't decide what work, what study, to being next, among the several possible. If there is no spirit, no soul, no divine dimension or value, then whatever we do is just killing time, meaningless and idle. On the other hand, if God and the mystery of spirit overlap with this time and place in simultaneous layering, then anything we work on performs eternity and is the very motion of mystery. Each gesture and word and idea appears in this moment's presence and in the other as well. This is a great truth of being.

Whether a particular actions leads toward a future heaven or hell is not worth considering. Even when you will die is not important. Eternity creates itself at this point. This moment is where you grow nearer and nearer God. Time and the infinite curl together in every nick, touch, taw, tine, and root fiber. Here and now is where you can be shown the miracle of what continuously occurs. — Bahauddin

For leaders to be effective, they need to connect with people. — John C. Maxwell

I've worked with little kid actors before, and when they start crying or anything like that, it makes my job so easy, because you react. A little kid crying, there's not much else to do. — Liam Hemsworth

We are willing to stand by the revelations of God. — Wilford Woodruff

Writer is a Film Director of letters. — Rajesh Nanoo

And in all those escapes he could not help being astonished by the beauty of this land that was not his. He his in its breast, fingered its earth for food, clung to its banks to lap water and tried not to love it. On nights when the sky was personal, weak with the weight of its own stars, he made himself not love it. Its graveyards and its low-lying rivers. Or just a house - solitary under a chinaberry tree; maybe a mule tethered and the light hitting its hide just so. Anything could stir him and he tried hard not to love it. — Toni Morrison