There will always be competition, especially in showbiz. There's always someone younger and hungrier standing behind you; there's always someone with more contacts; there's always someone whose grandfather or father is a filmmaker. I think your job is just to be there 100% - you work hard, and there are no shortcuts to success.
We have certain demons who are motivated by the smell of food. They tend to get rather violent whenever they smell it. I personally wouldn't be caught eating anything because I would end up dead. You might not. But you'd still have to fight them, and since some of them are rather ugly and really, really smelly, it might spoil your appetite. Then again, maybe not. Doesn't spoil Noir's. I think it makes him hungrier, especially when he guts them. Sick, but true. (Asmodeus)
We are not here in this world to find elegant solutions, pregnant with initiative, or to serve the ways and modes of profitable progress. No, we are here to provide for all those who are weaker and hungrier, more battered and crippled than ourselves. That is our only certain good and great purpose on earth, and if you ask me about those insoluble economic problems that may arise if the top is deprived of their initiative, I would answer 'To hell with them.' The top is greedy and mean and will always find a way to take care of themselves. They always do.
If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people." "A zillion?" "Even a zillion. A little hatred goes a long, long way. It grows and grows. And it's hungry." "Like Cimmamum?" "Even hungrier. You keep feeding it more and more people, and the more it gets, the more it wants. It's never satisfied. And pretty soon it squeezes all the love out of your heart"--I pointed to her heart; she looked down at her chest--"and all you'll have left is a hateful heart.
If you start by hating one or two people, you won't be able to stop. Pretty soon you'll hate a hundred people." "A zillion?" "Even a zillion. A little hatred goes a long, long way. It grows and grows. And it's hungry." "Like Cimmamum?" "Even hungrier. You keep feeding it more and more people, and the more it gets, the more it wants. It's never satisfied. And pretty soon it squeezes all the love out of your heart"-I pointed to her heart; she looked down at her chest-"and all you'll have left is a hateful heart.
Everyone was always hungry. The poorer you were, the hungrier you were, and with the hunger came weakness and irritability. It became difficult to think clearly and you needed to think clearly to work out how to survive the next day, how to get food. You were sure you could still work if you could find work, and you could look for it if only you could eat. But how were you going to get food, for yourself, for your children, for your wife or husband, for your parents? There were simply too many people within those walls for the calories that were let in. How were you to get food when there just wasn't enough of it? What were you going to have to do? With hunger of this severity came fatigue, a weakness that transcended tiredness and permeated your sinews and bones. As your limbs got ever lighter, they felt progressively heavier with each new day.
So when people asked me why I was moving away from the city of my dreams, I asked them why I wouldn't. It's not about greener pastures. It's never been about that. All it's ever been about is exploring and falling and pulling myself back together. Every time I do, I get stronger. I get faster. I get smarter. I get sweeter, hungrier, and happier. Dreams are mobile, fate doesn't live in one city, and karma is your shadow. I was offered a career opportunity that knocked quietly. It wasn't a million dollar check on my doorstep, it was more like the passing words of a stranger at a bar that change your perspective of the world. Something clicked and I had to accept.
Over and over again I sail towards joy, which is never in the room with me, but always near me, across the way, like those rooms full of gayety one sees from the street, or the gayety in the street one sees from a window. Will I ever reach joy? It hides behind the turning merry-go-round of the traveling circus. As soon as I approach it, it is no longer joy. Joy is a foam, an illumination. I am poorer and hungrier for the want of it. When I am in the dance, joy is outside in the elusive garden. When I am in the garden, I hear it exploding from the house. When I am traveling, joy settles like an aurora borealis over the land I leave. When I stand on the shore I see it bloom on the flag of a departing ship. What joy? Have I not possessed it? I want the joy of simple colours, street organs, ribbons, flags, not a joy that takes my breath away and throws me into space alone where no one else can breathe with me, not the joy that comes from a lonely drunkenness. There are so many joys, but I have only known the ones that come like a miracle, touching everything with light.
The people are hungry, ' Mihali said. He lifted his hands, spreading them to encompass the city. 'The people need to be fed. They need bread and wine and soup and meat. But not just that. They need friendship.' He pointed to a minor noble, some viscount decked out in his finest foppish frills, who poured a bottle of St. Adom's Festival wine into the cups of a half-dozen street urchins. 'They need companionship, ' Mihali said. 'They need love and brotherhood.' He turned to Tamas. He reached out with one hand, putting a palm to Tamas's cheek. Instinct told Tamas to step back. He found that he couldn't. 'You gorged them on the blood of the nobility, ' Mihali said gently. 'They drank, but were not filled. They ate of hatred and grew hungrier.' He took a deep breath. 'Your intentions were... well, not pure, but just. Justice is never enough.' He let go of Tamas and turned to the square. 'I will put things right, ' he said. He puffed out his chest and spread his arms. 'I will feed all of Adro. It is what they need.
A March Calf Right from the start he is dressed in his best - his blacks and his whites Little Fauntleroy - quiffed and glossy, A Sunday suit, a wedding natty get-up, Standing in dunged straw Under cobwebby beams, near the mud wall, Half of him legs, Shining-eyed, requiring nothing more But that mother's milk come back often. Everything else is in order, just as it is. Let the summer skies hold off, for the moment. This is just as he wants it. A little at a time, of each new thing, is best. Too much and too sudden is too frightening - When I block the light, a bulk from space, To let him in to his mother for a suck, He bolts a yard or two, then freezes, Staring from every hair in all directions, Ready for the worst, shut up in his hopeful religion, A little syllogism With a wet blue-reddish muzzle, for God's thumb. You see all his hopes bustling As he reaches between the worn rails towards The topheavy oven of his mother. He trembles to grow, stretching his curl-tip tongue - What did cattle ever find here To make this dear little fellow So eager to prepare himself? He is already in the race, and quivering to win - His new purpled eyeball swivel-jerks In the elbowing push of his plans. Hungry people are getting hungrier, Butchers developing expertise and markets, But he just wobbles his tail - and glistens Within his dapper profile Unaware of how his whole lineage Has been tied up. He shivers for feel of the world licking his side. He is like an ember - one glow Of lighting himself up With the fuel of himself, breathing and brightening. Soon he'll plunge out, to scatter his seething joy, To be present at the grass, To be free on the surface of such a wideness, To find himself. To stand. To moo.