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Quote by Drew Hayden Taylor

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Take Us To Your Chief And Other Stories

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Drew Hayden Taylor
Drew Hayden Taylor

Drew Hayden Taylor, born on July 1, 1962, is a renowned Canadian playwright known for his works that extensively explore Indigenous culture and the conflicts and integrations between Indigenous peoples and mainstream society. more

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“The classified documents TRUMP stored in his boxes included information regarding defense and weapons capabilities of both the United States and foreign countries; United States nuclear programs; potential vulnerabilities of the United States and its allies to military attack; and plans for possible retaliation in response to foreign attack. The unauthorized disclosure of these classified documents could put at risk the national security of the United States, foreign relations, the safety of the United States military, and human sources and the continued viability of sensitive intelligence collection methods.”

National SecurityEspionageIndictmentDonald J TrumpClassified Documents
Book:The Federal Indictment of Donald Trump in the Classified Documents Case
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“Обвинявам се в самадоволство, прикрито зад самобичуване. Обвинявам се, че не умея да обичам. Обвинявам се, че търся само одобрението на жените, а никога не се интересувам от проблемите им. Обвинявам се в естетика без етика. Обвинявам се в интелектуални чикии(впрочем и физически). Обвинявам се в мисловен онанизъм (впрочем и физически). Обвинявам се , че приписвам личните си недостатъци на моето поколение. Обвинявам се , че смесвам разлюбване с повърхостност (защото неспособният на любов не може да разлюби). Обвинявам се ,че търся идеалната жена, макар и да знам, че тя не съществува, и то за да подхранвам вечната си незадоволеност и да се жалвам самоугоднически.”

Windows On The WorldFerderic Beigbeder
Author:Frédéric Beigbeder
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“Menos mal que no morí de los momentos en que quise morir; que no salté del puente, ni cubrí las muñecas de sangre, ni me acosté en los rieles, allá lejos. Menos mal que no até la cuerda a la viga del techo, ni compré en la farmacia, con una receta falsa, una dosis de sueño eterno. Menos mal que tuve miedo: de los cuchillos, de las alturas, pero sobre todo de no morir completamente y quedarme por ahí —aún más perdida que antes— escrutando sin ver. Menos mal que el techo fue siempre demasiado alto y yo ridículamente pequeña para la muerte. Si yo hubiera muerto de uno de esos momentos, no oiría ahora tu voz, que me llama mientras escribo este poema, que acaso no parece, pero es, un poema de amor.”

SentimentalTristezaSoledadSuicidio
Book:Y amores imperfectos
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