I didn't hit other people or hit purposefully, I just hit. Some object would be at fault. My anger was at myself, every time, all vanity. As an adolescent I was a slammer of drawers and a packer of suitcases. I was responsible for scenes.Control came imperfectly to all of us: we reached it at different times of life, frustrated, shot into indignation, by different things - some that are grown out of, and others not.Of all my strong emotions, anger is the one least responsible for any of my work. I don't write out of anger. For one thing, simply as a fiction writer, I am minus an adversary - except, of course, that of time - and for another thing, the act of writing in itself brings me happiness.
To say nothing is saying something. You must denounce things you are against or one might believe that you support things you really do not.
To be acceptable is for one to ignore his weakness while knowing his strength, to cover the scar even though it's always there, however, to be impossible is for one to see his weakness as, not an adversary, but the cherry on top of his strength, to rearrange the scar so that it compliments his features.
If your success is not amazing to your critics, it disturbs, infuriates, and frustrates them, and if they're not careful; may go hang themselves and go to hell.
Satan wants you to believe that you don't have a choice in the matter. You can't be happy until things go the way that you want them to. Once you have the perfect marriage, your finances under control, a better job, or a nicer home - then you'll be happy. LIES, LIES, LIES. You will never be happy until you make the decision to do so.
Life is an illusionist, proficient at its art.It proves to be bitter, an adversaryBut is indeed a friend in disguise, a silent well wisher.It forces us into arduous stations and assesses our limitations.It guides us to the path of defeat, even so secretly desires that we prove it wrong,It demands for us to rise despite the odds and lead it to, the path of victory.It is but a master illusionist.