From “The Romance of an Ugly Policeman” by P. G. Wodehouse: “Battersea Park Road’s speciality is Brain, not Crime. Authors, musicians, newspaper men, actors, and artists are the inhabitants of these mansions. A child could control them. They assault and batter nothing but pianos; they steal nothing but ideas; they murder nobody except Chopin and Beethoven.”
From “I and My Chimney” by Herman Melville: “Finding matters coming to such a pass, I and my pipe philosophized over them awhile, and finally concluded between us, that little as our hearts went with the plan, yet for peace’s sake, I might write out the chimney’s death-warrant, and, while my hand was in, scratch a note to Mr. Scribe. Considering that I, and my chimney, and my pipe, from having been so much together, were three great cronies, the facility with which my pipe consented to a project so fatal to the goodliest of our trio; or rather, the way in which I and my pipe, in secret, conspired together, as it were, against our unsuspicious old comrade-this may seem rather strange, if not suggestive of sad reflections upon us two. But, indeed, we sons of clay, that is my pipe and I, are no whit better than the rest. Far from us, indeed, to have volunteered the betrayal of our crony. We are of a peaceable nature, too. But that love of peace it was which made us false to a mutual friend, as soon as his cause demanded a vigorous vindication. But I rejoice to add, that better and braver thoughts soon returned.”
From Robert G. Ingersoll, found in Parallel Myths by J. F. Bierlein:
“Life is a narrow vale between the cold
And barren peaks of two eternities.
We strive in vain to look beyond the heights,
We cry aloud; the only answer
Is the echo of our wailing cry.
From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead
There comes no word; but in the dead of night
Hope sees a star, and listening love can hear
The rustle of a wing.
These myths were born of hopes, and fears and tears,
And smiles; and they were touched and colored
By all there is of joy and grief between
The rosy dawn of birth and death’s sad night;
They clothed even the stars with passion,
And gave to gods the faults and frailties
Of the sons of men. In them the winds
And waves were music, and all the lakes and streams,
Springs, mountains, woods, and perfumed dells,
Were haunted by a thousand fairy forms.
In the end, fate and timing do not just happen out of coincidence. They are products of earnest, simple choices, that make up miraculous moments. Being resolute, making decisions without hesitation, that is what makes timing. He wanted her more than I did. And I should have been more courageous. It was not the traffic light’s fault, it was not timing. It was my many hesitations. ~Kim Jung Hwan, Reply 1988
You men are always thinking on the eternal there it is. We women are content to ponder the pettier things in life. ~Lady Harriet, Wives and Daughters
I’m not stalking you, I’m just running into you in a premeditated manner. ~When in Rome.
I’ve got a grandma in jail and I’d really like to get her out. ~Veronica Mars
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird, of flower, or shape, which it doth latch.
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;
For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,
The most sweet-favour or deformed’st creature,
The mountain, or the sea, the day, or night,
The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.
Incapable fo more, replete with you
My most true mind thus mak’th mine eye untrue
~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 113