Quotes 1621 till 1640 of 6607.
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Hors d'oeuvres have always a pathetic interest for me; they remind me of one's childhood that one goes through wondering what the next course is going to be like - and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d'oeuvres.
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Housework is what a woman does that nobody notices unless she hasn't done it.
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How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being.
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How can one know anything at all about people?
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How can you expect a man who's warm to understand one who's cold?
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How difficult it is to sound persuasive at the top of one's voice!
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How does it happen, Maecenas, that no one is content with that lot of which he has chosen or which chance has thrown his way, but praises those who follow a different course?
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How does one happen to write a poem: where does it come from? That is the question asked by the psychologists or the geneticists of poetry.
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How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a specter through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?
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How easy it is to judge rightly after one sees what evil comes from judging wrongly!
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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How hard it is, sometimes, to trust the evidence of one's senses! How reluctantly the mind consents to reality.
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How little it takes to make life unbearable: a pebble in the shoe, a cockroach in the spaghetti, a woman's laugh.
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How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something, but to be someone.
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How many inner resources one needs to tolerate a life of leisure without fatigue
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How one can live without being able to judge oneself, criticize what one has accomplished, and still enjoy what one does, is unimaginable to me.
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How sick one gets of being ''good,'' how much I should respect myself if I could burst out and make everyone wretched for twenty-four hours; embody selfishness.
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How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.
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How strange is the lot of us mortals! Each of us is here for a brief sojourn; for what purpose he knows not, though he senses it. But without deeper reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people.
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How wrong it is for a woman to expect the man to build the world she wants, rather than to create it herself.
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