#sentences

Certain brief sentences are peerless in their ability to give one the feeling that nothing remains to be said. ↗

— Jean Rostand

#brief #certain #feeling #give #nothing

It's always nice to end your sentences with an exclamation mark, and not a comma. ↗

— Joey Santiago

#comma #end #exclamation #mark #nice

In Washington, I found myself as a 31-year-old in a room with the president, vice president, and secretaries of state and defense, and I was unfazed by it. But get me around a rock star I grew up with and I have trouble completing sentences. ↗

— Joe Scarborough

#completing #defense #found #get #grew

Originality is not seen in single words or even in sentences. Originality is the sum total of a man's thinking or his writing. ↗

— Isaac Bashevis Singer

#his #man #originality #seen #sentences

Hemingway was really early. I probably started reading him when I was just eleven or twelve. There was just something magnetic to me in the arrangement of those sentences. Because they were so simple - or rather they appeared to be so simple, but they weren't. ↗

— Joan Didion

#arrangement #because #early #eleven #hemingway

I mean people just have a way of - y'know they'll review your record in two sentences and put you in this little stupid box that you don't want to be in. ↗

— Elliott Smith

#i #just #know #little #mean

The words of the world want to make sentences. ↗

— Gaston Bachelard

#sentences #want #words #world

All the lessons of history in four sentences: Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad with power. The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceedingly small. The bee fertilizes the flower it robs. When it is dark enough, you can see the stars. ↗

— Charles A. Beard

#dark #destroy #enough #exceedingly #fertilizes

Something's going to happen that's going to make us all pay attention at the type of sentences some people are serving and the conditions in which they are served. ↗

— Christopher Darden

#conditions #going #happen #make #pay

Awakened by a thousand dogs, a passing truck, the tailspin of a poisoned mosquito (or, perhaps, merely the silence of my dreams), I had, before remembering who and where I was, seen only that green sun suspended in the firmament of my room (her uterus bottled in preserving fluids) and, through seconds that became millennia, millennia aeons, felt the steadfastness of my orbit around that cold glow of love, a marvelous fatal steadfastness, before my pupils dilated and shadows and unease once more defined reality, the steel box naked but for a mattress and insomnious bugs where I had lived, in a coma of heartbreak and drunkenness, the six months since Primavera's death. ↗

— Richard Calder

#death