This is the artist, then, life's hungry man, the glutton of eternity, beauty's miser, glory's slave.
A miser grows rich by seeming poor; an extravagant man grows poor by seeming rich.
I'm a rich man, but I don't want to be a miser.
A man's as miserable as he thinks he is.
The white man's happiness cannot be purchased by the black man's misery.
For this is the mark of a wise and upright man, not to rail against the gods in misfortune.
I think feminism's a bit misinterpreted. It was about casting off all gender roles. There's nothing wrong with a man holding a door open for a girl. But we sort of threw away all the rules, so everybody's confused. And dating becomes a sloppy, uncomfortable, unpleasant thing.
I wrote a story about a man who is orphaned during the 1927 Mississippi River flood in Louisiana, and he's on the banks of levee, and he's starving. And there are other people starving, too. And he's so desperate, he's seven years old, that he finds a pig that's been abandoned. He kills it with a hammer, and he drags it back.
The man with a toothache thinks everyone happy whose teeth are sound. The poverty-stricken man makes the same mistake about the rich man.
The man that thinks he loves his mistress for her own sake is mightily mistaken.
We gave up some of our country to the white men, thinking that then we could have peace. We were mistaken. The white man would not let us alone.
Mister Cee's a legend, man.
Can I throw harder than Joe Wood? Listen mister, no man alive can throw any harder than Smokey Joe Wood.
I mistrust the judgment of every man in a case in which his own wishes are concerned.
I love my dad. There is no doubt about that. He is a wonderful man and a good person. Like many father/son relationships, we have our struggles, our misunderstandings, and our miscommunications. We are very different people, but also very similar at the same time.
I think Mitt Romney is a good man.
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning. I was much further out than you thought, and not waving but drowning. I was much too far out all my life, And not waving but drowning.
Passion is the mob of the man, that commits a riot upon his reason.
When I started modelling, I'd raise my arms and it was all muscle and all the other models had nothing. Really, everybody thought I was a man. I don't have to do much to have muscles. It's just genetic.
With a modem, anyone can follow the world and report on the world-no middle man, no big brother. I guess this changes everything.
