Art Quotes - Page 479

I go for really smart guys, ones who are well-read and can banter and argue. Men need to be able to take me out and have a few drinks, but by the end of the night we'll be talking about Nietzsche.

Give me a hot coal glowing bright red, Give me an ember sizzling with heat, These are the jewels made from my beak. We fly between the flames and never get singed We plunge through the smoke and never cringe. The secrets of fire, its strange winds, its rages, We know it all as it rampages Through forests, through canyons, Up hillsides and down. We track it. We'll find it. Take coals by the pound. We'll yarp in the heart of the hottest flame Then bring back its coals an make them tame. For we are the colliers brave and beyond all We are the owls of the colliering chaw!

All great scientists have, in a certain sense, been great artists; the man with no imagination may collect facts, but he cannot make great discoveries.

There will be no song on our lips if there be no anguish in our hearts.

If my heart is overwhelmed and I cannot hear your voice, I hold on to what is true. I will believe.

I tell of hearts and souls and dances... Butterflies and second chances; Desperate ones and dreamers bound, Seeking life from barren ground, Who suffer on in earthly fate The bitter pain of agony hate, Might but they stop and here forgive Would break the bonds to breathe and live And find that God in goodness brings A chance for change, the hope of wings To rest in Him, and self to die And so become a butterfly.

Only in the heart can one experience the divine presence of truth.

The War Party has two wings: the Democrats and the Republicans. All others are outsiders, whose ability to storm the gates is 'legally' restricted by a nearly impassable series of bureaucratic obstacles designed to keep them out while still maintaining the 'democratic' illusion, i.e. the phony two-party system, which is in reality a single entity.

There's not one human being on the planet earth who has never felt, at some point, unaccepted. At some point in our lives, we feel like we're not good enough, but we have to step back and realize that we are.

In the UK, most of the nasheeds that I did were in my native language, Urdu. Youngsters who could not understand the language came up to me... [and] said it was a great experience to just listen. That was actually very heart warming for me.

I suppose that some days I wake up I have to wake up and be responsible, reliable and down to earth, and some days I don't.

Illusion and wisdom combined are the charm of life and art.

The Sabbath day has become a day of pleasure, a day of boisterous conduct, a day in which the worship of God has departed, and the worship of pleasure has taken its place. I am sorry to say that many of the Latter-day Saints are guilty of this. We should repent.

Shadow conceals—light reveals. To know what to reveal and what to conceal, and in what degrees to do this, is all there is to art.

The role of art for me is the visualization of attitude, of the human attitude towards life, towards the world.

Contentment ... has an internal quietness of heart that gladly submits to God in all circumstances.

I used to be good with kids, but as I get older, I'm grumpy and terrible with them. As for doing a gig at a 6-year old's birthday party, you couldn't pay me enough.

Did you know Richard Nixon is the only president whose formal portrait was painted by a police sketch artist?

Money never stays with me. It would burn me if it did. I throw it out of my hands as soon as possible, lest it should find its way into my heart.

The moment I accept that there's an artistic, redeeming quality in puns, I have a horrible feeling I'll get hooked.

No man, with a man's heart in him gets far on his way without some bitter, soul-searching disappointment. Happy is he who is brave enough to push on to another stage of the journey.

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortable as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteeen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.

A large part of the art of instruction lies in making the difficulty of new problems large enough to challenge thought, and small enough so that, in addition to the confusion naturally attending the novel elements, there shall be luminous familiar spots from which helpful suggestions may spring.

This world is full of broken things: broken hearts, broken promises, broken people.