#begin

In my end is my beginning. ↗

— Mary Queen of Scots

#end

I used to dream about escaping my ordinary life, but my life was never ordinary. I had simply failed to notice how extraordinary it was. Likewise, I never imagined that home might be something I would miss. ↗

— Ransom Riggs

#home #new-beginnings #dreams

When boasting ends, there dignity begins. ↗

— Owen D. Young

#boasting #dignity #ends

Trust is to human relationships what faith is to gospel living. It is the beginning place, the foundation upon which more can be built. Where trust is, love can flourish. ↗

— Barbara Smith

#beginning #built #faith #flourish #foundation

In a village of La Mancha, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack, an old buckler, a lean hack, and a greyhound for coursing. An olla of rather more beef than mutton, a salad on most nights, scraps on Saturdays, lentils on Fridays, and a pigeon or so extra on Sundays, made away with three-quarters of his income. The rest of it went in a doublet of fine cloth and velvet breeches and shoes to match for holidays, while on week-days he made a brave figure in his best homespun. He had in his house a housekeeper past forty, a niece under twenty, and a lad for the field and market-place, who used to saddle the hack as well as handle the bill-hook. The age of this gentleman of ours was bordering on fifty; he was of a hardy habit, spare, gaunt-featured, a very early riser and a great sportsman. They will have it his surname was Quixada or Quesada (for here there is some difference of opinion among the authors who write on the subject), although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that he was called Quexana. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair's breadth from the truth in the telling of it. ↗

— Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

#age

But I know the rage that drives you. That impossible anger strangling the grief, until the memory of your loved ones is just poison in your veins. And one day you catch yourself wishing the person you loved had never existed, so you'd be spared your pain. ↗

— Christopher J. Nolan

#anger

When the writing is good, a book becomes a mirror. The reader will see an uncanny familiarity and respond accordingly. ↗

— Jen Knox

#jen-knox #musical-chairs #philosophy #psychology #reading

Our charity begins at home, And mostly ends where it begins. ↗

— Horace Smith

#charity #ends #home #mostly #our

But you can't start. Only a baby can start. You and me - why, we're all that's been. The anger of a moment, the thousand pictures, that's us. This land, this red land, is us; and the flood years and the dust years and the drought years are us. We can't start again. ↗

— John Steinbeck

#beginnings #starting-over #anger

The artist is always beginning. Any work of art which is not a beginning, an invention, a discovery is of little worth. ↗

— Ezra Pound

#artist #beginning #creation #discovery #art