I'm feeling very discontent.
Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barded steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
- Shakespeare
(one day victory?)
“It's so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
“To be alive at all is to have scars. ”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
“Can you honestly love a dishonest thing?”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
“So many old and lovely things are stored in the world's attic because we don't want them around us and we don't dare throw them out.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
“You know most people live ninety per cent in the past, seven per cent in the present, and that only leaves them three per cent for the future.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
“Only God sees the sparrow fall, but even God doesn't do anything about it.”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
(boy that one's really sobering
)
“...intentions, good or bad, are not enough. There's luck or fate or something else that takes over...”
― John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent
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