I don't look at myself on the outside. Sometimes you feel like you're not really there and need one more [take], because I feel like something is coming out. I don't really know what but I need to get it out.
I think every person in a group has a right to protest something and not like something. I always find it to be interesting when people take that position before they've seen it.
There wasn't a cloud in the sky, no wind, and everything was quiet around us - all we could hear were birds chirping in the woods. The war seemed like something in a faraway land that had nothing to do with us. We sang songs as we hiked up the hill, sometimes imitating the birds we heard. Except for the fact that the war was still going on, it was a perfect morning.
Turkey was fantastic, Turkey was like mystical and such a special place. Just unique, something that's really hard to describe, such beauty, those mountains and the stone is kind of, eroded? Special erosion which makes what you see just something that seems, it's been made for a movie, it's like something out of fantasy except it's real.
We want to stay with the animatronics because it gives you such a wonderful feel of Chucky's movement. It feels like something that has been brought to life, as opposed to a smooth piece of animation.
I think most Israelis prefer not to know. So for them, texts about the occupation are like something that's been written in a foreign language that they can't understand. If they want, you can translate it to them. But it is their choice. In general, though, I think Israelis don't want to know. Very few do. Basically, I write to the converted.
If there is a conflict in your mind between what you know and what you are seeing, paint what you see because if you don't, the result will look like something that isn't there.
I don't want a picture to look like something it isn't. I want it to look like something it is.
I could show you a picture right now where I look like something from The Hills Have Eyes. Talk about an awkward stage. Puberty was not good at all.
I remember getting into the plane, and I was kind of fearful. I didn't know why. I just felt like something was going to happen, and we landed and I thought that was interesting because I was just thinking we were going to crash. I just remember my feet touching the ground, and that's all I remember.
My first big career purchase when I was, like, 17 was a Louis Vuitton laptop bag. Now, seeing the exhibit [Louis Vuitton's "Series 3" exhibition in London], it's exciting because I feel like I kind of know it. It's weird - it's almost like something you grow up with and you just know a little bit about it. Now that I'm immersed in it, it's kind of insane.
I don't believe in landing on one genre. That's too limiting. I don't think about that when I'm writing and recording. I just make what I feel should happen. Genres almost feel like something that's more for the listener; a need to organize it in categories.
You have weak artificial intelligence, which is a robot or a computer system that follows a list of protocols and it's like yes/no answers that can be as complex as you want, and then you have strong A.I., which is basically like a human, like something that can think up a thought that's never been thought up or paint a painting or write a poem.
I went back into the older stories and reworked them, because I became a better writer over the years and could spot flaws. I loved having another chance to make them stronger, and to bring them closer to me, made them less like a greatest hits compilation, and more like something written in the same extended burst.
The real self and the public self are intertwined, like a tumor around an organ, and you can't cut the tumor or you'll kill the organ, so they live together, until the tumor chokes the organ off - but which self is the tumor?. Or it's like something out of Star Trek. The Borg.
You know what's funny about the people who say mean things? There's a certain part of Twitter that is literally shouting into the void, and then sometimes when the void shouts back it's like, "Whoa! I wasn't expecting that. I got called out." And then if you have a conversation, you find out they like something or they like that or they have questions about that.
America has had to deal with eccentric dictators in the past: Idi Amin, Muammar Qaddafi, Ming the Merciless... but now the security of the world is threatened by Kim Jong-il, a nerdy, pompadoured, platform shoe-wearer who looks like something you'd put on the end of your child's pencil.
My tough and grotesque images were thrown on the roads and were stepped on by my critics, and I was talked about with scorn. I felt regret that readers only seemed to like something they were accustomed to.
I have Black guys who tell me they put my books on their bed stands to read at night like something for guidance or information. That really pleases me a lot. I think my work has changed some things. It's changed me.
Authors of all races, be they Greeks, Romans, Teutons, or Celts, Can't seem just to say anything is the thing it is but have to go out of their way to say that it is like something else.
Moments later a huge male with a cropped mohawk came out. Rehvenge was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit and had a black cane in his right hand. As he came slowly over to the Brotherhood's table, his patrons parted before him, partly out of respect for his size, partly out of fear from his reputation. Everyone knew who he was and what he was capable of: Rehv was the kind of drug lord who took a personal interest in his livelihood. You crossed him and you turned up diced like something off the Food Channel.
You're the only girl I've seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.
I don’t know. D’you think? He’s pretty wide in the chest.” The girl looked at me, and I was frozen. So I said, “Yeah. I work out.” Violet asked me, “What are you? What’s your cup size?” I shrugged and played along. “Like, nine and a half?” I guessed. “That’s my shoe size.” Violet said, “I think he’d like something slinky, kind of silky.” I said, “As long as you can stop me from rubbing myself up against a wall the whole time.” “Okay,” said Violet, holding her hands up like she was annoyed. “Okay, the chemise last week was a mistake.
It was like something you have dreaded and feared and dodged for years until it seemed like all your life, then despite everything it happened to you and all it was was just pain, all it did was hurt and so it was all over, all finished, all right.
She opened her mouth but did not immediately speak, and I felt, simultaneously, the impulse to coax the words from her and the impulse to suppress them. I always thought I wanted to know a secret, or I wanted an event to unfold – I wanted my life to start – but in those rare moments when it seemed like something might actually change, panic shot through me.
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