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They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one. They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word. To-day, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal ***** of day by day brush one but lightly and are soon forgotten, but then—how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal.
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He should accept me as I am!†says the woman who is too nice. Accept you? Oh no, sister. Slap yourself. He should want you madly. Acceptance has nothing to do with it. He accepts a doormat. But he desires his dreamgirl.
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They that will not be counseled, cannot be helped. If you do not hear reason she will rap you on the knuckles.
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The language of the body is the key that can unlock the soul.
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Usually I write about what I care about, which is a weakness but I think also a strength.
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Everyone is a photographer now, remember. That's the great thing about photography.
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Falling down became second nature and it really didn't bother me.
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I'm scattered, and then that last hundred pages, bam, I'm a laser.
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I'm tired of explaining to Hollywood that people would laugh at me, because I go around America making them laugh every week. Nobody would be offended, nobody would think my leather pants are too controversial.
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It is often easier for our children to obtain a gun than it is to find a good school.
