#sentence

I was told to challenge every spiritual teacher, every world leader to utter the one sentence that no religion, no political party, and no nation on the face of the earth will dare utter: 'Ours is not a better way, ours is merely another way. ↗

— Neale Donald Walsch

#another way #better #better way #challenge #dare

Censorship is saying: 'I'm the one who says the last sentence. Whatever you say, the conclusion is mine.' But the internet is like a tree that is growing. The people will always have the last word - even if someone has a very weak, quiet voice. Such power will collapse because of a whisper. ↗

— Ai Weiwei

#because #censorship #collapse #conclusion #even

Resolve to edge in a little reading every day, if it is but a single sentence. If you gain fifteen minutes a day, it will make itself felt at the end of the year. ↗

— Horace Mann

#edge #end #every #every day #felt

I mean people just have a way of - y'know they'll review your record in two sentences and put you in this little stupid box that you don't want to be in. ↗

— Elliott Smith

#i #just #know #little #mean

Then starting home, he walked toward the trees, and under them, leaving behind him the big sky, the whisper of wind voices in the wind-bent wheat. ↗

— Truman Capote

#home

The way this whole novel thing came together was, I sold them one bill of goods and then didn't communicate very well. I am like Captain Run-on Sentence. ↗

— Ahmet Zappa

#bill #came #captain #communicate #goods

Many men would take the death-sentence without a whimper, to escape the life-sentence which fate carries in her other hand. ↗

— T.E. Lawrence

#fate #life-sentence #death

It is cold at six-forty in the morning on a March day in Paris, and seems even colder when a man is about to be executed by firing squad. ↗

— Frederick Forsyth

#execution #first-line #first-lines #first-sentence #frederick-forsyth

Awakened by a thousand dogs, a passing truck, the tailspin of a poisoned mosquito (or, perhaps, merely the silence of my dreams), I had, before remembering who and where I was, seen only that green sun suspended in the firmament of my room (her uterus bottled in preserving fluids) and, through seconds that became millennia, millennia aeons, felt the steadfastness of my orbit around that cold glow of love, a marvelous fatal steadfastness, before my pupils dilated and shadows and unease once more defined reality, the steel box naked but for a mattress and insomnious bugs where I had lived, in a coma of heartbreak and drunkenness, the six months since Primavera's death. ↗

— Richard Calder

#death

It was a short one-paragraph item in the morning edition. ↗

— Haruki Murakami

#first-sentence