“Gardens are not made by singing 'Oh, how beautiful, ' and sitting in the shade.”
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And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leaves 'It's pretty, but is it Art?'
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, and the women come out to cut up what remains, jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains and go to your gawd like a soldier.
All the people like us are we, and everyone else is They.
We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse.
