"Humanism and Divinity are as complementary to one another in theorder of culture, as are Nature and Grace in the order of being."

-- Christopher Dawson

#Order Quotes #Grace Quotes #Culture Quotes

“There is no word for feeling nostalgic about the future, but that's what a parent's tears often are, a nostalgia for something that has not yet occurred. They are the pain of hope, the helplessness of hope, and finally, the surrender to hope.”

Source : Michael Ian Black (2012). “You're Not Doing It Right: Tales of Marriage, Sex, Death, and Other Humiliations”, p.106, Simon and Schuster
“Everyone has a story. I don't believer anyone can go through life without encountering at least one amazing thing.”
“Stevie Wonder doing [carpool karaoke] it was a massive turning point because he's Stevie Wonder. Like, there's no one else in the world who can go, I don't really want to do it. And you go oh, so it's good enough for Stevie Wonder but it's not good enough for you?”
“I'm sure you can even find ménage à trois in medieval tales.”

Source : Source: www.interviewmagazine.com
“Dagwood Bumstead was a great unrecognized hero of American literature. He showed up every day, he got knocked down every day, he never got to eat his sandwich every day, the dog jumped on him every day, his wife was giving him a hard time and he showed up every day.”
“I tell everybody the same thing: You have to make every dish so when you taste it, you should remember it when you go home.”
“In my experience when critics raise these objections, they invariably violate one of seventeen principles for interpreting the Scriptures....For example, assuming the unexplained is unexplainable....failing to understand the context of the passage....assuming a partial report is a false report...neglecting to interpret difficult passages in light of clear ones; basing a teaching on an obscure passage; forgetting that the Bible uses nontechnical, everyday language; failing to remember the Bible uses different literary devices...”
“She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.”

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