#shake

I read Shakespeare and the Bible, and I can shoot dice. That's what I call a liberal education. ↗

— Tallulah Bankhead

#bible #call #dice #i #i can

A comedy isn’t about being funny...a comedy is about characters who dare to know that they may choose a happy ending after all. ↗

— Gary D. Schmidt

#happy-ending #shakespeare #funny

Be patient, Ophelia. Love, Hamlet ↗

— Kurt Vonnegut

#love

Oh, William, what pitiable creatures we men are! When we go to church we make the devil angry, when we enjoy ourselves in the inns, we make God angry; we are the unlucky lot stuck between two fires! ↗

— Mehmet Murat ildan

#men

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#shakespeare

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it." - Lorenzo, Acte V, Scene 1 ↗

— William Shakespeare

#moonlight #the-merchant-of-venice #william-shakespeare #music

I think he'll be to Rome as is the osprey to the fish, who takes it by sovereignty of nature. ↗

— William Shakespeare

#nature

He was digging in his garden--digging, too, in his own mind, laboriously turning up the substance of his thought. Death--and he drove in his spade once, and again, and yet again. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools they way to dusty death. A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth. Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last... He shuddered. A good kissing carrion. He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground. As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kills us for their sport. Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true--truer somehow than truth itself. And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods. Besides, thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more. No more than sleep. Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up. For in that sleep of death, what dreams...? ↗

— Aldous Huxley

#hamlet #shakespeare #death

Liverpool fans were great to me, I still live near the city and they always come up and shake my hand. ↗

— Paul Ince

#city #come #fans #great #hand

The father of a daughter is nothing but a high-class hostage. A father turns a stony face to his sons, berates them, shakes his antlers, paws the ground, snorts, runs them off into the underbrush, but when his daughter puts her arm over his shoulder and says, 'Daddy, I need to ask you something,' he is a pat of butter in a hot frying pan. ↗

— Garrison Keillor

#ask #butter #daddy #daughter #face