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Aren't you going to tell me I'm not so bad? she asked. Mmm-no. I was thinking how every man loves a hot girl with a history of making mistakes. Because it's always possible she'll make one with you.
Joe Hill
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More quotes by Joe Hill
It was like wondering how evil had come into the world or what happens to a person after he dies: an interesting philosophical exercise, but also curiously pointless, since evil and death happened, regardless of the why and the how and what-it-meant.
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There's only room for one hero in this story-and everyone knows the devil doesn't get to be the good guy.
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Already, though, she understood the difference between being a child and being an adult. The difference is when someone says he can keep the bad things away, a child believes him.
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The mad sometimes drilled holes in their own heads to let the demons out. To relieve the pressure of thoughts they could no longer bear. Jude understood the impulse. Each beat of his heart was a fresh and staggering blow felt in the nerves behind his eyes and in his temples. Punishing evidence of life.
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Were talking about an attitude. Delayed gratification is there, planning, be able to give up something now to get something later.
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I have nothing to say for myself, only that I have always tried to make this earth a little bit better
Joe Hill
... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.
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She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.
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Taking a thing apart is always faster than putting something together. This is true of everything except marriage.
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I didn't know the inner me was hungry, I said to Art. That's because it already starved to death.
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I mean, when the world comes for your children, with the knives out, it's your job to stand in the way.
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When you think about it, most of the good ideas came along to make sin a whole lot easier.
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I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.
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Workers of the world awaken. Break your chains, demand your rights. All the wealth you make is taken, by exploiting parasites. Shall you kneel in deep submission from your cradle to your grave? Is the height of your ambition to be a good and willing slave?
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Innocence ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Innocent little kids rip the wings off flies, because they don’t know any better. That’s innocence
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The language of sin was universal, the original Esperanto.
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Who knows what may lie around the next corner? There may be a window somewhere ahead. It may look out on a field of sunflowers.
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Sooner or later a black car came for everyone.
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Work and pray, live on hay, youll get pie in the sky when you die.
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He understood that the ghost existed first and foremost within his own head. That maybe ghosts always haunted minds, not places. If he wanted to take a shot at it, he’d have to turn the barrel against his own temple.
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