“When a man is at peace with his gods and ancestors, his harvest will be good or bad according to the strength of his arm.”

Procrastination is a lazy man’s apology.

A functioning, robust democracy requires a healthy educated, participatory followership, and an educated, morally grounded leadership.

There is nothing to fear from someone who shouts.

Do not be in a hurry to rush into the pleasures of the world like the young antelope who danced herself lame when the main dance was yet to come.

What a man does not know is greater than he.

It is the story that owns and directs us. It is the thing that makes us different from cattle; it is the mark on the face that sets one people apart from their neighbors.

One of the truest tests of integrity is its blunt refusal to be compromised.

When suffering knocks at your door and you say there is no seat for him, he tells you not to worry because he has brought his own stool.

It has always been quite apparent to me that no important story can fail to tell us something of value to us.

Every generation must recognize and embrace the task it is peculiarly designed by history and by providence to perform.

A coward may cover the ground with his words but when the time comes to fight he runs away.

Wisdom is like a goatskin bag; every man carries his own.

The damage done in one year can sometimes take ten or twenty years to repair.

Whenever you see a toad jumping in broad daylight, then know that something is after its life.

The language of young men is pull down and destroy; but an old man speaks of conciliation.

My weapon is literature.

The world is over-armed and peace is under-funded.

Before i could stop myself, i punched his arm. Careful, he said in a low voice. They might think were flirting.

Heaven is laying in my sweet baby’s arms, hell is when my baby’s not here.

My arms hurt from how tightly patch held me. Now thats what i call a scream, he said, grinning at me.

Carter started down the stairs, but I grabbed his arm. “Hang on. What about traps?” He frowned. “Traps?” “Didn’t Egyptian tombs have traps?” “Well…sometimes. But this isn’t a tomb. Besides, more often they had curses, like the burning curse, the donkey curse—” “Oh, lovely. That sounds so much better.

We are bound no longer by the straitjacket of the past and nowhere is the change greater than in our profession of arms. What, you may well ask, will be the end of all of this? I would not know! But I would hope that our beloved country will drink deep from the chalice of courage.

Be not merely a man of letters! Let literature be an honorable augmentations to your arms, not constitute the coat or fill the escutcheon!

His fingers slide into my hair, and I hold on to his arms to stay steady as we press together like two blades at a stalemate.