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Modern dancers give a sinister portent about our times.

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Marilyn Monroe Paulo Coelho Abraham Lincoln C. S. Lewis Khalil Gibran Charlie Chaplin Gautama Buddha Isaac Newton

So that we don’t go mad in the leisure, we have color TV. So that there will never, never, be a moment of silence, we have radio and Muzak.
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My heroines are part of me and my heroes are part of what I’d like to know.
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The artist never entirely knows. We guess. We may be wrong, but we take leap after leap in the dark.
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I want one word on my tombstone – dancer.
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The acrobat is lost in a web of muscles the dancer is all but invisible in projected idea.
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What I could not learn was to think creatively on schedule.
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Dance in the body you have.
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Modern dancers give a sinister portent about our times. The dancers don’t even look at one another.
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There is something fearfully strengthening about cutting free even if the ties bandage the heart itself.
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Emily Dickinson provided four or more alternates for every word; Beethoven wrestled with endings to the point of exhaustion; in our day Jerome Robbins and his lack of decision are a byword in the dance profession.
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Dancers aren’t made of their technique, but their passion.
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No white man uses his feet the way an Indian does. He talks to the earth.
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Dancing is such a despised and dishonored trade that if you tell a doctor or a laywer you do choreography he’ll look at you as if you were a hummingbird.
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Theater people are always pining and agonizing because they’re afraid that they’ll be forgotten. And in America they’re quite right. They will be.
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The universe lies before you on the floor, in the air, in the mysterious bodies of your dancers, in your mind.
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Tolstoi’s scripts are almost indecipherable.
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