Danielov Kohoutovice Quotes

#1. An unpublished writer should doubt themselves. They should constantly wonder whether what they're creating has merit. And then, having doubted, they should take up their pen and see if they can't make it better.

Johnny Rich

#2. When I die I intend to take my music with me. I don't know what's out there, but I want to make sure it's in my key.

George Burns

#3. There will always be an underground.

Chuck Palahniuk

#4. But there is also purpose in that life which is almost barren of both creation and enjoyment and which admits of but one possibility of high moral behavior: namely, in man's attitude to his existence, an existence restricted by external forces.

Viktor E. Frankl

#5. It is better that the truth be known than that scandal be covered up.

Saint Augustine

#6. I didn't want to be a victim, some princess locked away in a tower, waiting to be saved. I wanted to be the hero of my story; I didn't need to be saved. At least I didn't want to be.

John Goode

#7. No one believes me when I talk about this, but I'm really, really maternal.

Megan Fox

#8. We look at the legacy of Frederick Douglass and Ida B. Wells and Ella Baker, Malcolm X and Martin King. We have, and part of the struggle now in the age of [Barack] Obama is how do we keep alive the legacy of Martin King?

Cornel West

#9. Bobbie ignored the macho posturing. Everyone dealt with pre-combat jitters in their own way. Bobbie preferred obsessive list making. But flexing and threats were good too.

James S.A. Corey

#10. I have no doubt in mind that I justify the space I take up in the world.

Steve Earle

#11. Because memory is time folding back on itself. To remember is to disengage from the present. In order to reach any kind of success in automobile racing, a driver must never remember.

Garth Stein

#12. Gradually as you become curator of your own contentment, you will learn to embrace the gentle yearnings of your heart.

Sarah Ban Breathnach

#13. Strange how we decorate pain.
These ribbons, for instance,
and the small hard teardrops of blood.
Who are they for?
Do we think the dead care?

Margaret Atwood