Unwroght Quotes & Sayings

Every time I write a personal check, I feel like I've gone back in time. What year is it? Who's president? Do I even have the right to vote? — L.T. Vargus

Well, I hate to tell you this," she said, "but your friend is an asshole."
"He's not my friend," said Simon. "And I couldn't agree with you more, actually."
-Maia & Simon about Jace, pg.49- — Cassandra Clare

But we are here, all of us. And we're here because I love you, more than the life that was mine. Because I believed you loved me the same way ... will you tell me that's not true?
No, he said after a moment, so softly I could barely hear him. His hand tightened harder on mine. No, I willna tell ye that. Not ever, Claire. — Diana Gabaldon

How often have I met and disliked writers whose books I love; and conversely, hated the books and then wound up liking the writer? Too often. — Lev Grossman

Sanji: That's right he's a rubberman
Chopper: What do you mean?
Sanji: I mean he's a monster — Sanji

In general, from the violation of a few simple laws of humanity arises the wretchedness of mankind - that as a species we have in our possession the as yet unwroght elements of content - and that, even now, in the present darkness and madness of all thought on the great question of social condition, it is not impossible that man, the individual, under certain unusual and highly fortuitous conditions, my be happy — Edgar Allan Poe

Comedy is a very, very, very stringent business. — Chuck Jones

It's man's impact on our world that appeals to me more than just nature running wild. — Tim Gunn

For tolls too briefly the sounds of mercy ... In fear we ponder the use of thunder for peace — Shawn Phillips

Let the disappointments pass
Let the laughter fill your glass
Let the illusions last until they shatter
Whatever you might hope to find
among the thoughts that crowd your mind
There won't be many that ever really matter. — Jackson Browne

What I enjoy in a narrative is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose upon the fine surface: I read on, I skip, I look up, I dip in again. Which has nothing to do with the deep laceration the text of bliss inflicts upon language itself, and not upon the simple temporality of its reading. — Roland Barthes