Svat Ludmila Quotes & Sayings

I have spent the past several years working so hard to just move on, and to try and build a life for myself. — Monica Lewinsky

What she might have told him was that taxidermy, like sex, is a very personal subject; the manner in which we impose it on others should be discreet. — John Irving

All art, like all love, is rooted in heartache. — Alfred Stieglitz

There is in God, some say, a deep but dazzling darkness. — Madeleine L'Engle

When it becomes serious, you have to lie. — Jean-Claude Juncker

Come, what do we gain by evasions? We are under the harrow and can't escape. Reality, looked at steadily, is unbearable. And how or why did such a reality blossom (or fester) here and there into the terrible phenomenon called consciousness? Why did it produce things like us who can see it and, seeing it, recoil in loathing? Who (stranger still) want to see it and take pains to find it out, even when no need compels them and even though the sight of it makes an incurable ulcer in their hearts? People like H. herself, who would have truth at any price. — C.S. Lewis

I never started writing because I wanted to write myself stuff. It was really more that I had these stories to tell, and I wanted to work with people that I respected and liked. — Josh Lawson

The hours ahead, like all her nights with him, would be added, she thought, to that savings account of one's life where moments of time are stored in the pride of having been lived. — Ayn Rand

Father and I have the best relationship. Sometimes our thoughts are so similar it's almost as if we're the same person. When people see us they are blown away by our bond, by the respect he holds for me, by the admiration I hold for him. — Cecelia Ahern

The eyes closed. Cammed each night out of that safe furrow the bulk of this city's waking each sunrise again set virtuously to plowing, what rich soils had he turned, what concentric planets uncovered? What voices overheard, flinders of luminescent gods glimpsed among the wallpaper's stained foliage, candlestubs lit to rotate in the air over him, prefiguring the cigarette he or a friend must fall asleep someday smoking, thus to end among the flaming, secret salts held all those years by the insatiable stuffing of a mattress that could keep vestiges of every nightmare sweat, helpless overflowing bladder, viciously, tearfully consummated wet dream, like the memory bank to a computer of the lost? She was overcome all at once by a need to touch him, as if she could not believe in him, or would not remember him, without it. — Thomas Pynchon