Children see magic because they look for it.
Routine feeds the illusion of safety.
Compliment but do not covet.
If you think anyone is sane you just don’t know enough about them. The key — and this is very relevant in our case — is to find someone whose insanity dovetails with your own.
He loved constantly, instantly, spontaneously, without thought or words. That's what he taught me. Love is not something you think about, it is a state in which you dwell. That was his gift.
Sometimes this high-tech world calls for low-tech solutions.
He was a writer and words were his weapons.
Faith isn't an act of intelligence, it's an act of imagination.
It's wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.
Little-boy love...the cleanest pain I've ever known. Love without desire, conditions, or limits - a pure and radiant glow in the heart that could make me giddy and sad and glorious all at once. Where does it go? Why, in all their experiments, did the Magi never try to capture that purity in a bottle? Perhaps they couldn't.
Unless you can change the past, you’re wasting the present on this guilt
Nobody's perfect... Well, there was this one guy, but we killed him.
I think I'm what they call a never-was.
Love needs room to grow. Like a rose. Or a tumor.
Why understand when you can believe?
That's the scary thing about hope," she said. "If you let it go too long it turns into faith.
Turtles hate heights. They don't even like being a few feet off the ground. It's the main reason they have resisted evolution for so long-fear of heights. Turtle thinking goes thus: Sure, first our scales turn into feathers and the next thing you know we're flying and chirping and perching on trees. We've seen it happen. Thanks, but we're staying right here in the mud where we belong. You're not going to see us flying full-tilt boogie into a sliding glass door.
An adventure story is fear recalled in comfort.
If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.
Blessed are the dumbfucks.
I think there was always some scrawny dreamer sitting at the edge of the firelight, who had the ability to imagine dangers, to look into the future in his imagination and see possibilities, and therefore survived to pass his genes on to the next generation.
You think you know how this story is going to end, but you don't.
Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair.
One of them hissed-not the hiss of a cat, a long, steady tone-more like the hiss of air escaping the rubber raft that is all that lies between you and a dark sea full of sharks, the hiss of your life leaking out at the seams.
The fact that 'A Dirty Job' has comedy and supernatural horror in it, that both are woven in and out of it with a whimsical tone, despite the fact that it's about death, makes it hard to characterize with standard genre labels - but I have no problem with that. I'd call it a funny story about death, and leave it at that.
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