“Look at Van Gogh’s paintings: there’s as much joy in them as there is pain. Suffering is only a single color, and by itself it’s boring.”

Love attacks. It sneaks up like a pride of lions or a pack of hyenas and eats your heart out while you watch.

Love is raw, and violent, and instantaneous. You don’t fall in love; you get trampled by it.

I once heard some idiot on the radio saying that all great art has suffering as its dominant theme, and that the greatest artists are only able to create because they suffer immensely in their own lives. What a bunch of bullshit.

It seems to be that loneliness is a small price to pay for peace and quiet.

Love is the bully on the playground who takes your lunch money and gives you a black eye in return, the arsonist who burns your house down with you in it, the witch who lures you into her home with candy and boils you alive for dinner.

You can tell how boring a person is by the lack of fear in their eyes when someone is flipping through photos on their phone.

The bigger the risks, the better off you are. Otherwise you’re just boring.

The two hours onstage is great. But I can only play a show and then take a night off. I have to sing for two hours, and then I’ve gotta rest it for a night. So it’s the other 46 hours that are just boring as heck.

Now, the country is in a terrible state, and you’ve blamed it on a number of things: Unemployment rate, the value of the pound and all that… wrll, it’s because the national anthem is boring.

I mused for a few moments on the question of which was worse, to lead a life so boring that you are easily enchanted, or a life so full of stimulus that you are easily bored.

Writing is a mode of being. If I write I live.

I hate just showing up, hitting a mark, doing your work, and going home. It’s very boring. But being part of the creation of the whole thing is very exciting.

Too often boring players have been pushed forward as great by figures alone. For sheer entertainment, he will keep cricket alive.