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Be the master of your fate, be the captain of your soul, but do not hesitate, should the chance befall you, to be the slave of your heart.

Robert Breault

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Robert Breault
Captains
Master
Slave
Fate
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Hesitate
Heart
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The shy and the extroverted have this in common — that they both fancy they are the center of attention.
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In the end you don't so much find yourself as you find someone who knows who you are.
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If Creation were a crime, would not God be the prime suspect?
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Occasionally ask, What is the connection between what I want most in life and anything I plan to do today?
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The key to enjoying the moment is to always carry a list of Things I Gotta Do That Can Wait.
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In the end there doesn't have to be anyone who understands you. There just has to be someone who wants to.
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It's curious the way we get nostalgic for some hoped-for thing that never happened, as if something that never happened were in the past.
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We lack resolve and blame fate, mistaking the drift for the tides.
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What you must accept as a parent is that you cannot always be there for your child without sometimes ruining everything.
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Life is a series of family photos in which eventually you stop showing up.
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There have been days when I sought respite from my life, only to find myself calling every hour to check on it.
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Ever wonder what crime you committed that you are confined to a small enclosure above your sinuses, under permanent skull arrest?
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Every great painting is left incomplete at the point where its completion is obvious.
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Among life's regrets is all the time wasted being early for everything.
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In childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking out. In memories of childhood, we press our nose to the pane, looking in.
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Does a rose exist that I might behold it? Or do I exist that a rose might be beheld?
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Alas, by the time Fate caught up with my life, Chance had it all planned.
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Every great artist raises art to a science, and every great scientist raises science to an art, hence we have Michelangelo's David and Einstein's Theory of Relativity.
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Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven't thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed.
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Sometimes I wonder — if I were drop-dead handsome, and every woman I met actually dropped dead, would I ever get tired of it?
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