Likes Quotes (page 428)
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[T]his expressed only a little of what she felt. The rest was that she had never been loved before. She had believed it, but this was different; this was the hot wind of the desert, at the approach of which the others dropped dead, like mere sweet airs of the garden. It wrapped her about; it lifted her off her feet, while the very taste of it, as of something potent, acrid and strange, forced open her set teeth.
Henry James
When you ask "Do you wanna dance, my barefoot Cinderella? Don't need no slippers or a party dress, the way you're lookin' right now is what I like the best", and then you... Say "do you wanna take a chance? Stay with me forever, no one will ever be more beautiful my barefoot, my barefoot Cinderella.
Miley Cyrus
I wonder if it won't be the same with the children as it has been with us. No matter how long each one of them lives, won't their lives feel to them unfinished like ours, only just beginning? I wonder how far they will go. And then their children will grow up and it will be the same with them. Unfinished lives. Oh, dearie, what children all of us are.
Ernest Poole
LET'S GIVE THE WORLD TO THE CHILDRENLet's give the world to the children just for one daylike a balloon in bright and striking colours to play withlet them play singing among the starslet's give the world to the childrenlike a huge apple like a warm loaf of breadat least for one day let them have enoughlet's give the world to the childrenat least for one day let the world learn friendshipchildren will get the world from our handsthey'll plant immortal trees
Nazim Hikmet
The next morning he boarded the train for the six-hour journey south that would bring him to the strange gothic spires and arches of St. Pancras Station. His mother gave him a small walnut cake that she had made for the journey and a thermos filled with tea; and Richard Mayhew went to London feeling like hell.
Neil Gaiman
And only the enlightened can recall their former lives; for the rest of us, the memories of past existences are but glints of light, twinges of longing, passing shadows, disturbingly familiar, that are gone before they can be grasped, like the passage of that silver bird on Dhaulagiri.
Peter Matthiessen
