Ziektes Door Quotes & Sayings

The knock would come at the door; I'd open, with relief, desire. He was so momentary, so condensed. And yet there seemed no end to him. We would lie in those afternoon beds, afterwards, hands on each other, talking it over. Possible, impossible. What could be done? We thought we had such problems. How were we to know we were happy? But — Margaret Atwood

I believe the reason I love painting so much is that it forces one to be objective. — Max Beckmann

For, truly speaking, whoever provokes me to a good act or thought has given me a pledge of his fidelity to virtue,
he has come under the bonds to adhere to that cause to which we are jointly attached. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes, life is like mountain climbing. After you've achieved your biggest goals, you must return to the starting point to complete the journey and share your story with others to encourage them for their climb. — Tom Cunningham

I lay my hand over his and give it an empathetic squeeze. "I know what it's like to be damaged."
Brad raises his eyes to mine. "I don't know, Gabby. We're all damaged, right? It's what we make of the wreckage that matters. — Beth Michele

A young writer is easily tempted by the allusive and ethereal and ironic and reflective, but the declarative is at the bottom of most good writing. — Garrison Keillor

Long term, I have a lot of confidence in the United States. We have an excellent record in terms of innovation. We have great universities that are involved in technological change and progress. We have an entrepreneurial culture, much more than almost any other country. — Ben Bernanke

I always say separate your abilities from your disabilities. You know, if I could play the violin, I don't have to play it standing up. I can play it sitting down and so on. — Itzhak Perlman

I will go to my grave believing that participation is best driven by the well-stocked shop window. — Sebastian Coe

She felt something similar, but worse in a way, about hundreds and hundreds of books she'd read, novels, biographies, occasional books, about music and art - she could remember nothing about them at all, so that it seemed rather pointless even to say that she had read them; such claims were things people set great store by but she hardly supposed they recalled any more than she did. Sometimes a book persisted as a coloured shadow at the edge of sight, as vague and unrecapturable as something seen in the rain from a passing vehicle; looked at directly it vanished altogether. Sometimes there were atmospheres, even the rudiments of a scene; a man in an office looking over Regent's Park, rain in the street outside - a little blurred etching of a situation she would never, could never, trace back to its source in a novel she had read some time, she thought, in the past thirty years. — Alan Hollinghurst