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I love women, but I feel like you can't trust some of them. Some of them are liars, you know? Like I was in the park and I met this girl, she was cute and she had a dog. And I went up to her, we started talking. She told me her dog's name. Then I said, 'Does he bite?' She said, 'No.' And I said, 'Oh yeah? Then how does he eat?' Liar.

I'm a fan of horrors. I love the ones that make you jump. My girlfriend hates it. I've been dating her for one-and-a-half years and I'm crazy about her, but she's terrified of horror films. Not the cute 'Will you hold me?' way, but she's weeping. With 'House of Wax,' we'll be sleeping and I'll go to the bathroom and she's sitting up waiting for me.

Well, yeah. At a certain point, you've got to be really honest with yourself. Like, 'Why am I doing this? What are my motivations?' Like, if you get into it because you want to be famous? Then you've got a long row to hoe. But if you really feel like it's a labour of love and it's something you're actually legitimately good at, then it's not that hard to keep plugging away.

One can get lost in their garden and the rest of the world ceases to exist, if only for a while. Anger disipates with every shovel of dirt moved, pleasure is found in the simplest forms, excitement is felt as each tiny plant matures and then triumph with the harvest of the first tomato of the season. The love of gardening never goes away. Even if someone is unable to garden themselves, they enjoy the gardens of others.

The Soul is made of consciousness and mind; it is made of life and vision. It is made of the earth and the waters; it is made of air and space. It is made of light and darkness; it is made of desire and peace. It is made of anger and love; it is made of virtue and vice. It is made of all that is near; it is made of all that is afar. It is made of all.

We cannot look upon our lives as dreams of a dreamer who has no awakening in all time. We have a personality to which matter and force are unmeaning unless related to something infinitely personal, whose nature we have discovered, in some measure, in human love, in the greatness of the good, in the martyrdom of heroic souls, in the ineffable beauty of nature, which can never be a mere physical fact nor anything but an expression of personality.

Men have, for the most part, done with lamenting their lost faith. Sentimental tears over the happy, simple Christendom of their fathers are a thing of the past. They are proclaiming now their contempt for Christ's character, and their disgust at the very name of love. Scorn and hatred, difference and division, must be more than ever our lot, if we would be the followers of Christ in these days. Conventional religion and polite unbelief are gone forever.

Many love music but for music's sake, Many because her touches can awake Thoughts that repose within the breast half-dead, And rise to follow where she loves to lead. What various feelings come from days gone by! What tears from far-off sources dim the eye! Few, when light fingers with sweet voices play, And melodies swell, pause, and melt away, Mind how at every touch, at every tone, A spark of life hath glistened and hath gone.

Those are a success who have lived well, laughed often, and loved much; who have gained the respect of intelligent people and the love of children, who have filled their niche and accomplished their task, who leave the world better than they found it, whether by a perfect poem or a rescued soul; who never lacked appreciation of the earth's beauty or failed to express it; who looked for the best in others and gave the best they had.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you, For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.