Tatsu Discord Quotes & Sayings

It is worth noting the qualities this historian ascribes to them: they were fearless, high-principled, deeply versed in ancient and modern political thought, astute and pragmatic, unafraid of experiment, and - this is significant - convinced of man's power to improve his condition through the use of intelligence. — Barbara W. Tuchman

If they only married when they fell in love, most people would die unwed. — Robert Louis Stevenson

I told myself that if I didn't care, this wouldn't have hurt so much - surely that proved I was alive and human and all those touchy-feely things, for once and for all. But that wasn't a relief, not when I felt like a skyscraper with dynamite on every floor. — Jodi Picoult

Well, I'm clearly not ugly. — Megan Fox

You're tall, young man."

"Yes, I am."

"How long have you been that tall?"

"Um . . ." He smiled, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh. "A while now. — Kasie West

I'm a football fan in general. I'm always pulling for a good game. — Holly Robinson Peete

Sirrah, my companion chooses to engage you in knightly combat!" Halt said. The horseman stiffened, sitting upright in his saddle. Halt noticed that he nearly lost his balance at this unexpected piece of news.
Nightly cermbat?" he replied, "Yewer cermpenion ers no knight!"
Halt nodded hugely, making sure the man could see the gesture.
Oh yes he is!" he called back. "He is Sir Horace of the Order of the Feuille du Chene." He paused and muttered to himself, "Or should that have been Crepe du Chene? Never mind."
What did you tell him?" Horace asked, slinging his buckler around from where it hung at his back and setting it on his left arm.
I said you were Sir Horace of the Order of the Oakleaf." Halt said to him, then added uncertainly, "At least, I think that's what I told him. I may have said you were of the Order of the Oak Pancake. — John Flanagan

People ask me why I keep getting injured but I have just had to accept it is one of those things that happen. — Jamie Redknapp

The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete - the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art - throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to himself when she returned. — E. M. Forster