I can sympathize with everything, except suffering.
If you don't hit the target, you're never gonna score
The girl never really lived, and so she has never really died.
Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
I want to be good. I can't bear the idea of my soul being hideous.
The quivering, ardent sunlight showed him the lines of cruelty round the mouth as clearly as if he had been looking into a mirror after he had done some dreadful thing.
There was purification in punishment. Not 'Forgive us our sins,' but 'Smite us for our iniquities' should be the prayer of a man to a most just God.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Thin-lipped wisdom spoke at her from the worn chair, hinted at prudence, quoted from that book of cowardice whose author apes the name of common sense.
We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.
But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.
I was saying the other day, how often the most vulnerable area for goalies is between their legs.
His sudden mad love for Sibyl Vane was a psychological phenomenon of no small interest. There was no doubt that curiosity had much to do with it, curiosity and the desire for new experiences; yet it was not a simple but rather a very complex passion.
Well you can't win the lottery if you don't have a ticket
You don't buy them; they don't come in package.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.
Men marry because they are tired; women, because they are curious; both are disappointed.
Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter.
The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
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