Cowards die a thousand deaths, but the brave only die once.
Cowards die a thousand deaths, but the brave only die once.
Dying was nothing and he had no picture of it nor fear of it in his mind. But living was a field of grain blowing in the wind on the side of a hill. Living was a hawk in the sky. Living was an earthen jar of water in the dust of the threshing with the grain flailed out and the chaff blowing. Living was a horse between your legs and a carbine under one leg and a hill and a valley and a stream with trees along it and the far side of the valley and the hills beyond.
A beautiful vacuum filled with wealthy monogamists, all powerful and members of the best families all drinking themselves to death.
The real reason for not committing suicide is because you always know how swell life gets again after the hell is over
They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one's country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.
There is no lonelier man in death, except the suicide, than that man who has lived many years with a good wife and then outlived her. If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it.
Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death and in which the degree of brilliance in the performance is left to the fighter's honor.
Fear of death increases in exact proportion to increase in wealth.
You're an expatriate. You've lost touch with the soil. You get precious. Fake European standards have ruined you. You drink yourself to death. You become obsessed by sex. You spend all your time talking, not working. You are an expatriate, see You hang around cafTs.
Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories