#alas

Our sense of worth, of well-being, even our sanity depends upon our remembering. But, alas, our sense of worth, our well-being, our sanity also depend upon our forgetting. ↗

— Joyce Appleby

#also #depend #depends #even #forgetting

Alas, all traditions lose their primal purity and we all fail our founders. ↗

— Karen Armstrong

#fail #founders #lose #our #primal

When we are true to ourselves, and follow these impulses that sweat from our compressed and broken souls we may just find the beauty, and the oh-so amazing way life can sneak up and smash us in the face! ↗

— Danielle Rohr

#danielle #denali #project #rohr #waitress

Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia. ↗

— John Green

#imagination

It is, alas, chiefly the evil emotions that are able to leave their photographs on surrounding scenes and objects and whoever heard of a place haunted by a noble deed, or of beautiful and lovely ghosts revisiting the glimpses of the moon? ↗

— Algernon H. Blackwood

#alas #beautiful #chiefly #deed #emotions

I'm about to do my second Bikram yoga class in Anchorage, Alaska. It's the only way to stay warm. I've got to get into shape. I've been eating nothing but fish and chips. ↗

— Emily Blunt

#alaska #been #chips #class #eating

I was so grateful to have made 'Into the Wild' before I made 'Speed Racer' because on 'Speed Racer' I was indoors every single day, every single scene, on a green screen. Some of the time, just to pass the time, I would think back to climbing mountains in Alaska. That really helped me. ↗

— Emile Hirsch

#back #because #before #climbing #day

Railway termini are our gates to the glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them, alas! we return. ↗

— E. M. Forster

#alas #gates #glorious #into #our

But alas, they are all sadly deficient, because they leave us under the domination of political and religious prejudices; and they are as inefficient as the sleepy dose of an ordinary sermon. ↗

— Adam Weishaupt

#because #deficient #domination #dose #inefficient

The following obituary appeared in the Pittsburgh Sun-Telegraph of Sept. 16, 1958: A GREAT POET died last week in Lancieux, France, at the age of 84. He was not a poet's poet. Fancy-Dan dilletantes will dispute the description "great." He was a people's poet. To the people he was great. They understood him, and knew that any verse carrying the by-line of Robert W. Service would be a lilting thing, clear, clean and power-packed, beating out a story with a dramatic intensity that made the nerves tingle. And he was no poor, garret-type poet, either. His stuff made money hand over fist. One piece alone, The Shooting of Dan McGrew, rolled up half a million dollars for him. He lived it up well and also gave a great deal to help others. "The only society I like," he once said, "is that which is rough and tough - and the tougher the better. That's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people." He found that kind of society in the Yukon gold rush, and he immortalized it. ↗

— Robert W. Service

#age