I don't blame my own parents for the way I grew up, as quite often there is little choice in these issues.
None of my own experiences ever finds its way into my work. However, the stages of my life - motherhood, middle age, etc. - often influence my subject matter.
Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write.
I believe that my own Christian faith does indeed make universal claims.
My own children are John Cena fans- which really pisses me off by the way.
I've made sacrifices. I'm not anti-fashion but I've always had a bit of a punk attitude. That's important, I think. I do my own thing.
I'll eat a nugget of my own poop for 20 bucks. I'll pay you 20 bucks and I'll eat it.
If I had my own world I'd build you an empire from here to the far lands to spread love like violence!
Actually, most things I say in public lead more or less directly to my own compositional practice, so I should be careful about generalizing lest they come back to haunt me.
In my own recent String Trio I attempt to superimpose two quite different sets of formal strategies, both of which, ultimately, refer back to historical precedent.
There's no doubt I was a bit of a misfit in the Hollywood of the forties. The race for glamour left me far behind. I didn't really want to keep up. I wanted my stardom without the usual trimmings. Because of this, I was branded a rebel at the very least. But I don't regret that for a minute. My appetite was my own and I simply wouldn't have it any other way.
I live by my own rules (reviewed, revised, and approved by my wife).. but still my own.
I wanted to go to a place where I could think, really sink into my own imagination, or ride it, or drift along it, as in a balloon. The kind of place that probably all writers crave. The kind of place where the outside world is still and quiet and you get a chance to listen, to peer, to go inward
Is that what I wanted? To be in the middle of something complicated and dramatic? To be a cheerleader for someone else’s romance? Or to have a romance of my own?
And at the start of every new day, I still believed I could choose my own beginning, one that was scrubbed clean of everything past
I don't compete with other discus throwers. I compete with my own history.
Sometimes I think I am going mad. I live for days in the mystery and tears of things so that the commonest object, the most familiar face- even my own- become ghostly, unreal, enigmatic. I get into an attitude of almost total scepticism, nescience, solipsism, in a world of dumb, sphinx-like things that cannot explain themselves. The discovery of how I am situated- a sentient being on a globe in space overshadows me. I wish I were just nothing.
My own interest in basic aspects of electron transfer between metal complexes became active only after I came to the University of Chicago in 1946.
Come on. I don't have any problem violating my own insights in practice.
Currently I am working on another three books, doing a lot of magazine work, am shooting for fifteen stock agencies, plus my own photo library - all this keeps me quite busy!
No, because I don't want to hear what's hot and feel I have to copy it. I'll just make up my own thing.
I had an allowance, but I had to do things around the house to earn it. I think I always wanted my own money.
I always felt my emancipation into truly being a grown-up was when I had to figure out how to fold up a king-size fitted bottom sheet on my own.
I was to be buried inside my own creation, the better to keep its secrets. I will not tell you more, for your sake. But if you ask, I will answer.
My personal history would not be disappointing to readers, but it is my own affair which I want to keep to myself. I am in fact in no way more important than is the typesetter for my books, the man who works the mill; no more important than the man who binds my books and the woman who wraps them and the scrubwoman who cleans up the office.
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