Quotes 1181 till 1200 of 3899.
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He types his labored column - weary drudge! Senile fudge and solemn: spare, editor, to condemn these dry leaves of his autumn.
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He wants to live on through something-and in his case, his masterpiece is his son. all of us want that, and it gets more poignant as we get more anonymous in this world.
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He was a horse of goodly countenance, rather expressive of vigilance than fire; though an unnatural appearance of fierceness was thrown into it by the loss of his ears, which had been cropped pretty close to his head.
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He was a manager, one of the singers, I guess talent coordinator for the local talent in Harlem. His name was Lover Patterson. He was living right across the street from where my dad had his restaurant. I guess he saw a lot of kids come in, a lot of my buddies.
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He was a self-made man who owed his lack of success to nobody.
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He was a silly guy. Out - do the other guy. That was his effort at all times.
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He was a tubby little chap who looked as if he had been poured into his clothes and had forgotten to say ''when!''
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He was always late on principle, his principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.
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He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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He was then in his fifty-fourth year, when even in the case of poets reason and passion begin to discuss a peace treaty and usually conclude it not very long afterwards.
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He was thinking alone, and seriously racking his brain to find a direction for this single force four times multiplied, with which he did not doubt, as with the lever for which Archimedes sought, they should succeed in moving the world, when some one tapped gently at his door.
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He who asks of life nothing but the improvement of his own nature… is less liable than anyone else to miss and waste life.
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He who begins by loving Christianity better than truth, will proceed by loving his own sect or church better than Christianity, and end in loving himself better than all.
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He who bestows his goods upon the poor shall have as much again, and ten times more.
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He who boasts of his descent, praises the deed of another.
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He who busies himself with things other than improvement of his own self becomes perplexed in darkness and entangled in ruin. His evil spirits immerse him deep in vices and make his bad actions seem handsome.
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He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.
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He who distinguishes the true savor of his food can never be a glutton; he who does not cannot be otherwise.
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He who does not mind his belly, will hardly mind anything else.
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He who doesn't have the spirit of his time, has all its misery.
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