Tirso De Molina Quotes & Sayings

If the only tool you have is a hammer, it's hard to eat spaghetti. — David Allen

My job is to scream cockle-doodle-doo. Don't blame me if the sun doesn't rise. — Janet Skeslien Charles

I'm not a gardener. I wish I was. — Kate Winslet

According to Padilla, remembered Amalfitano, all literature could be classified as heterosexual, homosexual, or bisexual. Novels, in general, were heterosexual. Poetry, on the other hand, was completely homosexual. Within the vast ocean of poetry he identified various currents: faggots, queers, sissies, freaks, butches, fairies, nymphs, and philenes. But the two major currents were faggots and queers. Walt Whitman, for example, was a faggot poet. Pablo Neruda, a queer. William Blake was definitely a faggot. Octavio Paz was a queer. Borges was a philene, or in other words he might be a faggot one minute and simply asexual the next. — Roberto Bolano

Under the attempt to perform the impossible there sets in a general disintegration. When legislation fails, those who look upon it as a sovereign remedy simply cry out for more legislation.
A sound and wise statesmanship which recognizes and attempts to abide by its limitations will undoubtedly find itself displaced by that type of public official who promises much, talks much, legislates much, expends much, but accomplishes little.
The deliberate, sound judgement of the country is likely to find it has been superseded by a popular whim. — Calvin Coolidge

All finite things have their roots in the infinite, and if you wish to understand life at all, you cannot tear out its context. And that context, astounding even to bodily eyes, is the heaven of stars and the incredible procession of the great galaxies. — William Macneile Dixon

Before Christmas, I host a party for our kids and all their friends. We love to make a mess while decorating gingerbread houses. — Kourtney Kardashian

Intense stereotypies - stereotypies an animal spends hours a day doing - almost never occur in the wild, — Temple Grandin

The dark hills, with the darker spruces marching over them, looked grim on early falling nights, but Ingleside bloomed with firelight and laughter, though the winds come in from the Atlantic singing of mournful things.
"Why isn't the wind happy, Mummy?" asked Walter one night.
"Because it is remembering all the sorrow of the world since it began," answered Anne. — L.M. Montgomery