Real love shouldn’t be disposable.
The truth is, I don’t have a real clue what love is – how to find it, how to give it. Once upon a time I thought I knew.
Real love finds you once, if you’re lucky.
I’m a total wreck. Afraid to let anyone near. Afraid they’ll see the real me.
But hey, I’m not exactly sold on the idea that love is, in fact, real. Will it find me one day, overtake me, infiltrate my life like sunlight snakes through the cold of morning? Can love thaw me? will it ever?
I like to read away as much of the afternoon as possible, until real life rears its ugly head.
Mostly what happens in the novels never happened in real life.
When you’re conscious and writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the lights on for your reader.
I try to write the books I would love to come upon that are honest, concerned with real lives, human hearts, spiritual transformation, families, secrets, wonder, craziness – and that can make me laugh.
The real payoff is the writing itself, that a day when you have gotten your work done is a good day, that total dedication is the point.
Or you might shout at the top of your lungs or whisper into your sleeve, “I hate you, God.” That is a prayer too, because it is real, it is truth, and maybe it is the first sincere thought you’ve had in months.
One key factor in the downward spiral in our educational system is that there is too much stroking and too little real feedback.
Take Time Out. It’s not a real vacation if you’re reading email or calling in for messages.
Ah! What avails the classic bent And what the cultured word, Against the undoctored incident That actually occurred? And what is Art whereto we press Through paint and prose and rhyme- When Nature in her nakedness Defeats us every time?
Just knowing that the world is round Here I’m dancing on the ground Am I right side up or upside down? Is this real or am I dreaming?
I’m not a real gadgety person. In fact, some people think that I’m kind of primitive.
The toughest nights when I was a young, unknown comedian were opening for these real old-time Italian singers. I’m like Grace Jones to them. “This guy is nuts-talking about socks. Where’s the wife jokes, where’s the fat jokes?”
The first real thought that I had of something that I might do was to write for car magazines, because I always had a car thing.
Photography is an austere and blazing poetry of the real.
It is, generally, in the season of prosperity that men discover their real temper, principles, and designs.