Gitte Falkenberg Quotes

#1. We lost our son, Anne, as did many others, but we have our memories of him and souls cannot die. We can still walk with Walter in the spring.

L.M. Montgomery

#2. Tell 'em the truth and they call you a traitor,
Talk to 'em honestly and they call you a hater.

Immortal Technique

#3. It is false to believe that the sun revolves around the earth, but it is not absurd.

Terry Eagleton

#4. Let us look for secret things somewhere in the world on the blue shore of silence or where the storm has passed rampaging like a train. There the faint signs are left, coins of time and water, debris ,celestial ash and the irreplaceable rapture of sharing in the labour of soitude in the sand.

Pablo Neruda

#5. Now, you fuckers," I said as I rolled my head around my shoulders and palmed some knives. "Let me introduce myself.

Jeaniene Frost

#6. I'm just kinda tired. Like a monkey in the rain.

Haruki Murakami

#7. The butterfly lures us not only because he is beautiful, but because he is transitory. The caterpillar is uglier, but in him we can regard the better joy of becoming.

Cynthia Ozick

#8. Love is the dissolution of the illusion of separation.

Shaun Chamberlin

#9. Violence is the common origin of all regimes. Life, discussion, and political choice occur only against a background of violence.

Maurice Merleau Ponty

#10. It was now so much a part of him, that it could not have been torn from him without destroying him almost entirely: as they say in surgery, his love was no longer operable.

Marcel Proust

#11. I'm high maintenance, but I'm worth it.

Lara Logan

#12. You have let something out of the bag before you yourself knew what it was all about. That can be awfully dangerous

Haruki Murakami

#13. That's the real secret to job creation - not borrowing and spending more money in Washington.

Paul Ryan

#14. I do believe that if you haven't learnt about sadness, you cannot appreciate happiness.

Nana Mouskouri

#15. When we remember our former selves, there is always that little figure with its long shadow stopping like an uncertain belated visitor on a lighted threshold at the far end of some impeccably narrowing corridor.

Vladimir Nabokov