"to experience a thing makes it true, the same thing believed is a lie" - anon to me.

that, many times, is an underlying theme to my stories.


"perfection is a state in which things are as they are, rather than as they are not. Therefore, everything is perfect." - anon to me. roughly translated to the venacular of the world: "it is what it is"

from Faust: a devil in the hand is better than two in hell...

your turn

"A witty saying proves nothting"- Voltaire

"Imagine if a Jewish liberal ran for president... Fox News would crucify him"
and
"This week we heard from the anti-Christ in waiting, Osama bin Laden, who wants everyone in the West to convert to Islam to stop the war on terror. Well that sounds very realistic doesn't it. I'm glad to see he hasn't lost his mind sitting up there in his little cave." Pat Condell

"The denominator of the Happiness fraction has been reduced to zero and the fraction becomes magnificent infinity."

~ Yevgeny Zamyatin, We

Also, that one bit in The Great Gatsby where the narrator tells Gatsby he can't live in the past, and Gatsby responds with "Sure I can!". I think I laughed out loud at that.

Death is Life's way of telling you you're fired.

fired? man...

i left one out; also from faust:

i am too old for mere amusement, and too young to be without desire.

Favorite quote!

This one comes from Chekhov's "The Seagull" (a play I think every writer should read.)

This is a monologue from the character Trigorin, who is an old, successful writer. It's long.



Hm! . . . You talk of fame and happiness, of some brilliant interesting life; but for me all these pretty words, if I may say so, are just like marmalade, which I never eat. You are very young and very kind, but I don't know what is so delightful about my life. You have heard of obsessions, when a man is haunted day and night, say, by the idea of the moon or something? Well, I've got my moon. Day and night I am obsessed by the same persistent thought; I must write, I must write, I must write. . . . No sooner have I finished one story than I am somehow compelled to write another, then a third, after a third a fourth. I write without stopping, except to change horses like a postchaise. I have no choice. What is there brilliant or delightful in that, I should like to know? It's a dog's life! Here I am talking to you, excited and delighted, yet never for one moment do I forget that there is an unfinished story waiting for me indoors. I see a cloud shaped like a grand piano. I think: I must mention somewhere in a story that a cloud went by, shaped like a grand piano. I smell heliotrope. I say to myself: Sickly smell, mourning shade, must be mentioned in describing a summer evening. I lie in wait for each phrase, for each word that falls from my lips or yours and hasten to lock all these words and phrases away in my literary storeroom: they may come in handy some day. When I finish a piece of work, I fly to the theatre or go fishing, in the hope of resting, of forgetting myself, but no, a new subject is already turning, like a heavy iron ball, in my brain, some invisible force drags me to my table and I must make haste to write and write. And so on for ever and ever. I have no rest from myself; I feel that I am devouring my own life, that for the honey which I give to unknown mouths out in the void, I rob my choicest flowers of their pollen, pluck the flowers themselves and trample on their roots. Surely I must be mad? Surely my friends and acquaintances do not treat me as they would treat a sane man? "What are you writing at now? What are we going to have next?" So the same thing goes on over and over again, until I feel as if my friends' interest, their praise and admiration, were all a deception; they are deceiving me as one deceives a sick man, and sometimes I'm afraid that at any moment they may steal on me from behind and seize me and carry me off, like Póprishtchin, to a madhouse.

I forgot music related quotes. There are tons of them, so I'll just stick to one.

"When I can work out how it was
Then I'll tell you.
TV stained my memories, yeah,
I don't think it shows.
Remember through sounds,
Remember through smells,
Remember through colors,
Remember through towns
With fear and fascination,
On what was here
And what's replacing them now.

Interchange causes a mall,
And crowded chain restaurants.
More housing developments go up,
Named after the things they replace.
So welcome to Minnow Brook,
And welcome to Shady Space."

~ Isaac Brock (of Modest Mouse)