The smallest deed is better than the grandest intention.

It has been well said that an author who expects results from a first novel is in a position similar to that of a man who drops a rose petal down the Grand Canyon of Arizona and listens for the echo.

Fiction is about everything human and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn't try to write fiction. It's not a grand enough job for you.

You grow ravenous. You run fevers. You know exhilarations. You can't sleep at night, because your beast-creature ideas want out and turn you in your bed. It is a grand way to live.

Grand. There's a word I really hate. It's a phony. I could puke every time I hear it.

"We all come into this world the same: naked, scared, and ignorant. After that grand entrance, the life we end up with is simply an accumulation of all the choices we make. Our choices can be our best friend or our worst enemy. They can deliver us to our goals or send us orbiting into a galaxy far, far away.

Isn't that what every girl dreamed? That she'd wake and find herself a princess? or blessed with magical powers and a grand destiny. Maybe there were people who lived those lives, maybe this girl was one of them but what about the rest of us? What about the nobodies and the nothings, the invisible girls? We learn to hold our heads as if we wear crowns, we learn to ring magic from the ordinary, that's how you survived when you weren't chosen, when there was no royal bloods in your veins, when the world owed you nothing, you demanded something of it anyway!

Hush now my child, this is all part of the grand cycle. Death and rebirth leads to soul's revival.

My grandpa always said asking a question is embarrass for a moment but not asking a question is embarrasing for a life time

With COVID 19 we are losing people everyday. There is no time to hate and to hold on to grudges. Life is too short for all of us, We don't know how long do we have to live . Make peace with everyone while you can.Reconcile with the people you love and with your family before is too late. Put the bad stories , bad history ,differences and rumors aside. Don't inherit hate from others, from your parents or grand parents. Never be happy to be torn apart from your family and not getting along with your family or family members. United we stand, divided we fall.Life is too short now and too risky. Make peace and share love always.

"I suppose I've overdosed on ideas more than a couple of thousand times in my lifetime and, all things considered, am still functioning exceptionally well. I'm busy with projects, and my mind, powered by an unlimited source of Inspirational, is still working on overdrive exceeding natural thought limits. I suppose that was a good buildup for the punchline, a fairly good verbal drumroll for the climax, and a good preparation paragraph predecessor to the grand finale:

For several years I tried hard to convince myself that others thought as I did. But, after a great deal of evaluating their methods of reasoning, I slowly began to realize just how different we rationalized. They mostly seem simplistic, and, as much as I have tried, I just can't reason in that, or in a likewise, manner. I admire simplicity though, and there is grandeur in it that is attractive. But I have a wild, untamed mind with loud, vivid thoughts that can't seem to settle in one moment. My moments regularly collide together resounding in the next and in the next and in the next. I take comfort in knowing that I was designed like this, and that I'm only different here in the temporal. God completely understands me, and He has set my purpose into motion. In His great Hands I reside.

Grandparents enjoy most the company of their grandchildren. For with them, they experience the miracle of being 10 again.

Her beauty must have been exhausting and not to mention troublesome. Glitter swiftly made its way into the vibrant strands that graced her lavish eyelashes. Each blink, each pressing moment, time seemed to have stopped and I felt as if her charm could fill an entire room and with every set of eyes locked onto her, somehow the glare of her shimmering wet lipgloss could take care of everyones problems, at least for one evening. That as soon as her heavenly music flowed through their wine glasses, that they too were apart of something such bigger, much grander. I believed, when I stood beside her, I became more handsome.

Admirer quelqu'un, s'inspirer de son parcours, c'est avant tout grandir et devenir soi.

Novelty. Security. Novelty wouldn't be a bad title. It had the grandness of abstraction, alerting the reader that large and thoughtful things were to be bodied forth. As yet he had no inkling of any incidents or characters that might occupy his theme; perhaps he never would. He could see though the book itself, he could feel its closed heft and see it opened, white pages comfortably large and shadowed gray by print; dense, numbered, full of meat. He sensed a narrative voice, speaking calmly and precisely, with immense assurance building, building; a voice too far off for him to hear, but speaking. ("Novelty")

The tears are falling freely now, and I don't care if he sees them. They're tears of relief for my nephew, worry for my grandfather and my brother, and shame for my mistake. I figure I earned them.

I didn't know I had it in me. There's more to all of us than we realize. Life is so much bigger, grander, higher, and wider than we allow ourselves to think. We're capable of so much more than we allow ourselves to believe.

The ball laughs, radiant, in the air. He brings her down, puts her to sleep, showers her with compliments, dances with her, and seeing such things never before seen his admirers pity their unborn grandchildren who will never see them.

Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the overcompensations for misery. And, of course, stability isn't nearly so spectacular as instability. And being contented has none of the glamour of a good fight against misfortune, none of the picturesqueness of a struggle with temptation, or a fatal overthrow by passion or doubt. Happiness is never grand.

" The following year the house was substantially remodeled, and the conservatory removed. As the walls of the now crumbling wall were being torn down, one of the workmen chanced upon a small leatherbound book that had apparently been concealed behind a loose brick or in a crevice in the wall. By this time Emily Dickinson was a household name in Amherst. It happened that this carpenter was a lover of poetry- and hers in particular- and when he opened the little book and realized that that he had found her diary, he was "seized with a violent trembling," as he later told his grandson. Both electrified and terrified by the discovery, he hid the book in his lunch bucket until the workday ended and then took it home. He told himself that after he had read and savored every page, he would turn the diary over to someone who would know how to best share it with the public. But as he read, he fell more and more deeply under the poet's spell and began to imagine that he was her confidant. He convinced himself that in his new role he was no longer obliged to give up the diary. Finally, having brushed away the light taps of conscience, he hid the book at the back of an oak chest in his bedroom, from which he would draw it out periodically over the course of the next sixty-four years until he had virtually memorized its contents. Even his family never knew of its existence.

The image of a wood has appeared often enough in English verse. It has indeed appeared so often that it has gathered a good deal of verse into itself; so that it has become a great forest where, with long leagues of changing green between them, strange episodes of poetry have taken place. Thus in one part there are lovers of a midsummer night, or by day a duke and his followers, and in another men behind branches so that the wood seems moving, and in another a girl separated from her two lordly young brothers, and in another a poet listening to a nightingale but rather dreaming richly of the grand art than there exploring it, and there are other inhabitants, belonging even more closely to the wood, dryads, fairies, an enchanter's rout. The forest itself has different names in different tongues- Westermain, Arden, Birnam, Broceliande; and in places there are separate trees named, such as that on the outskirts against which a young Northern poet saw a spectral wanderer leaning, or, in the unexplored centre of which only rumours reach even poetry, Igdrasil of one myth, or the Trees of Knowledge and Life of another. So that indeed the whole earth seems to become this one enormous forest, and our longest and most stable civilizations are only clearings in the midst of it.

Publishing a book of poetry is like dropping a rose petal down the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.....