How many times can a man turn his head pretending he just doesn't see?

The option of war can appear initially to be the most rapid. But let us not forget that after winning the war, peace must be built.

Virtue cannot dwell with wealth either in a city or in a house.

Moroccan women’s battle for their rights has been an uphill one. Yet, they fought it with valor, steadfastness and self-abnegation.

Who knows? But we can make it simple again.

Before you say you can't do something, try it.

Can I get Control?
Do you like me Vulnerable?
I'm armed and I'm equal
More fun for the people...

Khen ai khéo vẽ cảnh tiêu sơ.

Our prevailing notions of history are exceedingly narrow and exceedingly selective. And basically the process of selection is one that aims to reassure ourselves that the myths that we believe in can be sustained. ... Recognize the truths, the realities that I want to and ignore the ones that I find inconvenient.

Bitch, I ain't no fucking G, I'm a cannibal!
I ain't trying to shoot you, I'm trying to chop you into pieces and eat you!

Far away in the thirties and forties she (the girl you want to be) is waiting her turn. Her body, brain, her soul are in your girlish hands. She cannot help herself. What will you leave for her? … Will you throw away her inheritance?

A toast to the dead, for children with cancer and AIDS; a cure exists, and you probably could have been saved.

There is something refreshingly ironic about people lying on the beach contracting skin cancer in an attempt to acquire a purely illusory appearance of good health, while germ-laden medical waste washes up on the sand all around them. (entitled Surf's Down Forever, p. 207)

The erotic is not a question only of what we do; it is a question of how acutely and fully we can feel in the doing. Once we know the extent to which we are capable of feeling that sense of satisfaction and completion, we can then observe which of our various life endeavors bring us closest to that fullness.

Chim sợ cành cong.

A war was on. ... On July 14 he was expelled from his home with the rest of his family. He never returned to the city he loved. He never forgot the scenes of in 1948, nor did he forget the idea of violent resistance. Can the Israeli reader understand how he felt?