[...] marriage is one thing, and love is another...You need to have a solid canvas; nobody stops you to weave the arabesques...

Like all of us sinners, General Betrishchev was endowed with many virtues and many defects. Both the one and the other were scattered through him in a sort of picturesque disorder. Self-sacrifice, magnanimity in decisive moments, courage, intelligence--and with all that, a generous mixture of self-love, ambition, vanity, petty personal ticklishness, and a good many of those things which a man simply cannot do without.

Self-interest, fear of physical pain, drove him to that grotesque act of self-abasement. Its insincerity was clearly to be seen. He ceases to be a wrongdoer. He ceases also to be a creature capable of moral choice.

Que as nossas palavras ressoem para sempre pela eternidade e que nunca sejam esquecidas. Se por ventura se perderem perdidos estaremos.

Hence the great irony: Hayek, one of the greatest champions of individual liberty and economic freedom the world has ever known, believed that knowledge was communal. Dewey, the champion of socialism and collectivism, believed that knowledge was individual. Hayek's is a philosophy that treats individuals as the best judges of their own self-interests, which in turn yield staggering communal cooperation. Dewey's was the philosophy of a giant, Monty Pythonesque crowd shouting on cue: "We're All Individuals!

"Today we are living the grotesque spectacle of the poisoning

I distrust every idea that doesn't seem obsolete and grotesque to my contemporaries.

Most of us have learned to be dispassionate about evil, to look it in the face and find, as often as not, our own grinning reflections with which we do not argue, but good is another matter. Few have stared at that long enough to accept that its face too is grotesque, that in us the good is something under construction. The modes of evil usually receive worthy expression. The modes of good have to be satisfied with a cliche or a smoothing down that will soften their real look.

Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

There are times when a feeling of expectancy comes to me, as if something is there, beneath the surface of my understanding, waiting for me to grasp it. It is the same tantalizing sensation when you almost remember a name, but don't quite reach it. I can feel it when I think of human beings, of the hints of evolution suggested by the removal of wisdom teeth, the narrowing of the jaw no longer needed to chew such roughage as it was accustomed to; the gradual disappearance of hair from the human body; the adjustment of the human eye to the fine print, the swift, colored motion of the twentieth century. The feeling comes, vague and nebulous, when I consider the prolonged adolesence of our species; the rites of birth, marriage and death; all the primitive, barbaric ceremonies streamlined to modern times. Almost, I think, the unreasoning, bestial purity was best. Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I'll laugh. And then I'll know what life is.

The only artists I have ever known who are personally delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequently are perfectly uninteresting in what they are. A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.

People commonly travel the world over to see rivers and mountains new stars garish birds freak fish grotesque breeds of human they fall into an animal stupor that gapes at existence and they think they have seen something.

The Southern whites are in many respects a great people. Looked at from a certain point of view they are picturesque. If one will put oneself in a romantic frame of mind one can admire their notions of chivalry and bravery and justice.

All men are somewhat ridiculous and grotesque just because they are men and in this respect artists might well be regarded as man multiplied by two. So it is was and shall be.

Every man sees in his relatives and especially in his cousins a series of grotesque caricatures of himself.

Lapped in poetry wrapped in the picturesque armed with logical sentences and inalienable words.

As a means of contrast with the sublime the grotesque is in our view the richest source that nature can offer.

I think there's an instinct to make grotesque horror films that are purely carnal like the 'Saw' movies.

A garden is a complex of aesthetic and plastic intentions and the plant is to a landscape artist not only a plant - rare unusual ordinary or doomed to disappearance - but it is also a color a shape a volume or an arabesque in itself.

Used to be conservatives revered the Average American that Norman Rockwell oil painting of diner food humble faith honest toil and Capraesque virtue.

How is it possible that a being with such sensitive jewels as the eyes such enchanted musical instruments as the ears and such fabulous arabesque of nerves as the brain can experience itself anything less than a god.

The language of excitement is at best picturesque merely. You must be calm before you can utter oracles.

When I first thought of the idea for 'Sweet Valley High ' I loved the idea of high school as microcosm of the real world. And what I really liked was how it moved things on from 'Sleeping Beauty'-esque romance novels where the girl had to wait for the hero. This would be girl-driven very different I decided - and indeed it is.

I find beauty in the grotesque like most artists.