Slices Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
if-he-slices-budget-like-he-slices-golf-ball-nation-has-nothing-to-worry-about-bob-hope
sleep-oh-how-i-loathe-those-little-slices-of-death-
pizza-is-circular-so-is-hour-ill-take-two-slicesto-go-jarod-kintz
sleep-those-little-slices-death-how-i-loathe-them-edgar-allan-poe
i-dont-sleep-i-hate-those-little-slices-death
destiny-cuts-cake-love-three-slices-to-some-to-others-crumb-stefano-benni
wealth-is-not-pizza-where-if-i-have-too-many-slices-you-have-to-eat-dominos-box
square-box-round-pizza-triangle-slices-im-confused
she-asked-for-time-i-said-that-information-is-for-saleby-slice-60-slices-in-whole-pie-jarod-kintz
i-particularly-like-to-make-crunchy-slices-garlic-bread-to-serve-with-steamed-clams
we-fell-in-love-like-two-medium-pizzas-in-one-large-stomach-i-wish-dad-would-have-saved-few-slices-for-us-jarod-kintz
a-luxury-meal-was-prairie-sandwiches-two-slices-bread-with-wideopen-spaces-between-them-chic-murray
i-wasnt-feeling-well-in-first-half-i-felt-down-man-i-had-three-slices-pizza-before-game-food-took-me-down-leroy-loggins
three-eggs-two-slices-toast-cup-coffee-episode-mr-ed-a-violin-bowl-fruit-what-else-does-man-need-stanley-victor-paskavich
your-mind-is-knife-that-cuts-continuum-space-time-into-neat-slices-linear-experience-deepak-chopra
we-have-souls-little-slices-infinity-inside-us-anyone-with-soul-couldnt-be-forgotten-by-god-hed-never-leave-behind-part-himself-ash-krafton
perfect-sandwich-two-slices-white-bread-mustard-mayo-platinum-american-express-card-chris-pratt
the-coffee-was-boiling-over-charcoal-fire-large-slices-bread-butter-were-piled-one-upon-other-like-deals-in-lumber-yard-charles-dickens
my-favourite-food-at-moment-is-pasta-with-tons-shaved-parmesan-on-side-not-crumbly-but-like-hunks-you-know-what-i-meanwhen-you-get-thin-slices-kirsten-dunst
my-bitterness-is-not-abstract-substance-it-is-as-solid-as-christmas-cake-i-can-cut-it-in-slices-hand-it-round-there-is-still-plenty-left-for-caitlin-thomas
days-pale-slices-between-nights-they-blend-not-exactly-alike-transparencies-lightly-tinted-that-only-stacked-all-together-do-they-darken-to-fatal-john-updike
string-theory-envisions-multiverse-in-which-our-universe-is-one-slice-bread-in-big-cosmic-loaf-the-other-slices-would-be-displaced-from-ours-in-brian-greene
i-think-all-kids-need-snacks-mine-are-fruit-machines-i-give-them-things-like-apple-slices-berries-melon-do-i-let-them-eat-ice-cream-absolutely-but-emeril-lagasse
i-have-carbohydrate-proteinrich-diet-for-breakfast-i-typically-have-two-slices-bread-with-butter-jam-four-to-five-eggs-boiled-fried-few-vijender-singh
i-welcome-all-youre-welcomes-with-open-arms-open-zippers-my-love-for-her-is-sandwiched-between-two-slices-thank-you-jarod-kintz
youre-not-priority-if-youre-option-you-are-percentage-a-percentage-that-other-persons-time-effort-the-size-pie-never-changes-slices-do-tyconis-d-allison-ty
life-is-like-sandwich-birth-as-one-slice-death-as-other-what-you-put-inbetween-slices-is-up-to-you-is-your-sandwich-tasty-sour-alan-rufus
life-is-like-sandwich-birth-as-one-slice-death-as-other-what-you-put-inbetween-slices-is-up-to-you-is-your-sandwich-tasty-sour-allan-rufusorg-allan-rufus
they-dined-on-mince-slices-quince-which-they-ate-with-runcible-spoon-and-hand-in-hand-on-edge-sand-they-danced-by-light-moon-edward-lear
aside-from-some-extra-fiber-eating-two-slices-whole-wheat-bread-is-really-little-different-often-worse-than-drinking-can-sugarsweetened-soda-william-davis
the-toaster-lacking-real-bread-would-pretend-to-make-two-crispy-slices-toast-or-if-day-seemed-special-in-some-way-it-would-toast-imaginary-english-muffin-thomas-m-disch
huge-lemons-cut-in-slices-would-sink-like-setting-suns-into-dusky-sea-softly-illuminating-it-with-their-radiating-membranes-its-clear-smooth-surface-rainer-maria-rilke
when-i-get-home-after-being-away-for-work-my-wife-always-stuffs-fridge-with-loads-what-she-calls-nibbles-all-great-things-you-can-eat-straight-from-fridge-like-chunks-cheese-slic
when-im-writing-romance-is-always-most-important-thing-to-me-but-i-really-love-adding-in-slices-real-life-for-me-that-real-life-always-includes-jill-shalvis
when-you-will-you-learn-that-we-all-have-our-place-our-parts-to-play-i-scoffed-wincing-as-slices-on-my-back-pulled-when-will-you-learn-that-its-up-to-you-if-you-play-those-parts-
During this hour in the waking streets I felt at ease, at peace; my body, which I despised, operated like a machine. I was spaced out, the catchphrase my friends at school used to describe their first experiments with marijuana and booze. This buzzword perfectly described a picture in my mind of me, Alice, hovering just below the ceiling like a balloon and looking down at my own small bed where a big man lay heavily on a little girl I couldn't quite see or recognize. It wasn't me. I was spaced out on the ceiling. I had that same spacey feeling when I cooked for my father, which I still did, though less often. I made omelettes, of course. I cracked a couple of eggs into a bowl, and as I reached for the butter dish, I always had an odd sensation in my hands and arms. My fingers prickled; it didn't feel like me but someone else cutting off a great chunk of greasy butter and putting it into the pan. I'd add a large amount of salt - I knew what it did to your blood pressure, and I mumbled curses as I whisked the brew. When I poured the slop into the hot butter and shuffled the frying pan over the burner, it didn't look like my hand holding the frying-pan handle and I am sure it was someone else's eyes that watched the eggs bubble and brown. As I dropped two slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster, I would observe myself as if from across the room and, with tingling hands gripping the spatula, folded the omelette so it looked like an apple envelope. My alien hands would flip the omelette on to a plate and I'd spread the remainder of the butter on the toast when the two slices of bread leapt from the toaster. 'Delicious, ' he'd say, commenting on the food before even trying it.

Alice Jamieson
during-this-hour-in-waking-streets-i-felt-at-ease-at-peace-my-body-which-i-despised-operated-like-machine-i-was-spaced-out-catchphrase-my-friends-at-school-used-to-describe-their
So began my love affair with books. Years later, as a college student, I remember having a choice between a few slices of pizza that would have held me over for a day or a copy of On the Road. I bought the book. I would have forgotten what the pizza tasted like, but I still remember Kerouac. The world was mine for the reading. I traveled with my books. I was there on a tramp steamer in the North Atlantic with the Hardy Boys, piecing together an unsolvable crime. I rode into the Valley of Death with the six hundred and I stood at the graves of Uncas and Cora and listened to the mournful song of the Lenni Linape. Although I braved a frozen death at Valley Forge and felt the spin of a hundred bullets at Shiloh, I was never afraid. I was there as much as you are where you are, right this second. I smelled the gunsmoke and tasted the frost. And it was good to be there. No one could harm me there. No one could punch me, slap me, call me stupid, or pretend I wasn't in the room. The other kids raced through books so they could get the completion stamp on their library card. I didn't care about that stupid completion stamp. I didn't want to race through books. I wanted books to walk slowly through me, stop, and touch my brain and my memory. If a book couldn't do that, it probably wasn't a very good book. Besides, it isn't how much you read, it's what you read. What I learned from books, from young Ben Franklin's anger at his brother to Anne Frank's longing for the way her life used to be, was that I wasn't alone in my pain. All that caused me such anguish affected others, too, and that connected me to them and that connected me to my books. I loved everything about books. I loved that odd sensation of turning the final page, realizing the story had ended, and feeling that I was saying a last goodbye to a new friend.

John William Tuohy
so-began-my-love-affair-with-books-years-later-as-college-student-i-remember-having-choice-between-few-slices-pizza-that-would-have-held-me-over-for-day-copy-on-road-i-bought-boo
The North Korean capital, Pyongyang, is a city consecrated to the worship of a father-son dynasty. (I came to think of them, with their nuclear-family implications, as 'Fat Man and Little Boy.') And a river runs through it. And on this river, the Taedong River, is moored the only American naval vessel in captivity. It was in January 1968 that the U.S.S. Pueblo strayed into North Korean waters, and was boarded and captured. One sailor was killed; the rest were held for nearly a year before being released. I looked over the spy ship, its radio antennae and surveillance equipment still intact, and found photographs of the captain and crew with their hands on their heads in gestures of abject surrender. Copies of their groveling 'confessions, ' written in tremulous script, were also on show. So was a humiliating document from the United States government, admitting wrongdoing in the penetration of North Korean waters and petitioning the 'D.P.R.K.' (Democratic People's Republic of Korea) for 'lenience.' Kim Il Sung ('Fat Man') was eventually lenient about the men, but not about the ship. Madeleine Albright didn't ask to see the vessel on her visit last October, during which she described the gruesome, depopulated vistas of Pyongyang as 'beautiful.' As I got back onto the wharf, I noticed a refreshment cart, staffed by two women under a frayed umbrella. It didn't look like much-one of its three wheels was missing and a piece of brick was propping it up-but it was the only such cart I'd see. What toothsome local snacks might the ladies be offering? The choices turned out to be slices of dry bread and cups of warm water. Nor did Madeleine Albright visit the absurdly misnamed 'Demilitarized Zone, ' one of the most heavily militarized strips of land on earth. Across the waist of the Korean peninsula lies a wasteland, roughly following the 38th parallel, and packed with a titanic concentration of potential violence. It is four kilometers wide (I have now looked apprehensively at it from both sides) and very near to the capital cities of both North and South. On the day I spent on the northern side, I met a group of aging Chinese veterans, all from Szechuan, touring the old battlefields and reliving a war they helped North Korea nearly win (China sacrificed perhaps a million soldiers in that campaign, including Mao Anying, son of Mao himself). Across the frontier are 37, 000 United States soldiers. Their arsenal, which has included undeclared nuclear weapons, is the reason given by Washington for its refusal to sign the land-mines treaty. In August 1976, U.S. officers entered the neutral zone to trim a tree that was obscuring the view of an observation post. A posse of North Koreans came after them, and one, seizing the ax with which the trimming was to be done, hacked two U.S. servicemen to death with it. I visited the ax also; it's proudly displayed in a glass case on the North Korean side.

Christopher Hitchens
the-north-korean-capital-pyongyang-is-city-consecrated-to-worship-fatherson-dynasty-i-came-to-think-them-with-their-nuclearfamily-implications-as-fat-man-little-boy-and-river-run
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