Best 29 quotes of Jim Beaver on MyQuotes

After appearing for eight seasons as a beloved character on 'Supernatural,' it's not surprising that I get most of my recognition on the street from that, and it happens with some frequency. But I'm not a guy who gets recognized often.

Because of the wonderfully positive response to 'Life's That Way,' I am considering writing some more autobiographical stuff - maybe another book. I don't know. It doesn't help that I'm lazy.

Deadwood was a magical experience. It was an absolute culmination of everything Ive ever wanted to do as an actor as an artist, and I was enormously proud to have been involved with it.

Drama is about conflict and it's about putting obstacles in the path of people you who care about.

First day working with Tom Hiddleston. He is my ideal as an actor: brilliant, reliable, human, decent, open, and friendly. He charmed my daughter as he has charmed me. I think my kid charmed him, too. This is a fellow I could joyfully spend the rest of my career working with. He's that good and that generous.

Forgiveness is not something that you do for someone else; it's something you do for yourself, To forgive is not to condone, it is to refuse to continue feeling bad about an injury.

How incredibly far our lives drift from where we knew with all certainty they would go. How little today resembles what yesterday thought it would look like.

I miss the cast and crew of Supernatural immensely. I know it's a cliche to say your cast and crew are like your family, but it's really the case there.

I thought being in the wheelchair might be kind of limiting for me as an actor. It turned out cool in a lot of ways. Of course, at the end of the day, I can get up out of the chair and go home, but I'm very acutely aware that most people can't, so I try to give the situation that depth.

I've attempted to flood the path with light where I could, and where I could not I've wanted at least to hold up a candle so that others coming this way might not stumble too painfully.

I've done a bunch of jobs since 'Deadwood' went off the air, but it's always been a very high bar that those other shows have to live up to.

I've got a lot of shows under my belt that are ancient history solely because they were on the air before this video revolution came along and ensured that canceled shows could continue to have a bit of a presence.

I welcome every chance I get to interact with fans. I've made some very close friendships amongst fans, and I look forward to seeing them.

Lifes That Way was an extraordinarily difficult book to write, because it wasnt written as a book. It was written as a journal of events that were happening as I wrote it, without the space or time either to digest or analyze those events and without the hindsight and peace that writing in the aftermath would have provided.

My wife Cecily Adams was dying of cancer, my daughter Madeline was struggling to overcome an autism diagnosis, and my father was dying, all at the same time. Writing the journal was a cathartic experience, and an extremely positive one.

Obviously I struck gold with Deadwood. No pun intended.

Today we fight. Tomorrow we fight. The day after, we fight. And if this disease plans on whipping us, it better bring a lunch, 'cause it's gonna have a long day doing it.

When I was a kid, the high point of the day was to go to the mailbox and see if any mail came for me, and I'm still stuck in that mode.

While I was drying off Maddie after her bath tonight, she said, 'I love you' to me for the first time. It sounded like 'All lub boo,' but I didn't care. To reciprocate, I showed her what an ex-Marine looks like when he cries.

A kind of Providence keeps us blind to the intensity of suffering so as to keep us sane, until that day when the suffering is our own or that of someone we love beyond imagining.

April 11, 2004 Does anyone know where I can find a copy of the rules of thought, feeling, and behavior in these circumstances? It seems like there should be a rule book somewhere that lays out everything exactly the way one should respond to a loss like this. I'd surely like to know if I'm doing it right. Am I whining enough or too much? Am I unseemly in my occasional moments of lightheartedness? At what date and I supposed to turn off the emotion and jump back on the treadmill of normalcy? Is there a specific number of days or decades that must pass before I can do something I enjoy without feeling I've betrayed my dearest love? And when, oh when, am I ever really going to believe this has happened? Next time you're in a bookstore, as if there's a rule book. 11:54 p.m. Jim

Ephesians 4:26—‘Let not the sun go down upon your wrath.

Forgiveness is not something you do for someone else; it's something you do for yourself. To forgive is not to condone, it is to refuse to continue feeling bad about an injury.

How can it be that there is such a colossal gap between what we think we know about grief and mourning and what we actually find out when it comes to us?

I will bear this grief, I will endure it. I will reach a point where it doesn't kick me down an abyss whenever I turn my back on it.

Of all the things I've ever done, perhaps none was more difficult than turning away from my beautiful girl and walking away, leaving her there, never to look back. But my friend Tom, my ever-faithful good friend Tom said, pointing down the hall away from Cec's room, 'Life's that way. Let's go home.' And so we did.

On the other hand, comfort of a sort is providable. It consists in large part of copping to the inability to be comforting. As contradictory as this seems, I (and, I’m told, many other people) have found it immeasurably more helpful for someone to say, ‘I have no idea how you must feel,’ or ‘I can’t imagine your pain.’ Just saying this and making clear that you hear and acknowledge the pain, though you have no answers, goes light-years beyond any attempt to repair a griever’s spirits. The knowledge of a loving soul’s presence and willingness to be present and to hear and absorb one’s grief is a powerful resource for the griever. I’ve had more comfort from people saying, ‘I don’t know what to say,’ than from a hundred people telling me good reasons I shouldn’t feel as bad as I do. I know that whatever is said to a griever by concerned friends, whether ultimately helpful or distressing, comes from the very best of intentions. But if you happen on a broken heart, stand nearby, whisper, ‘I’m here,’ and never, ever, tell it you know how it feels.

Pray, hum, and give a ferocious hug to the ones you love most. You never know when you might want that hug with all your soul, and not be able to give it or get it.

With all the thousands upon thousands of people suffering from this disease, how can I find her pain and mine so surprising, so unexpected? How can we not all know about this stuff on a daily basis, if so many go through it? Are we all really so isolated from the trauma and torment around us? People in my own family have gone through this. I’ve sat by the deathbeds of friends who lived every moment of this. Yet this is all so utterly unexpected and so much more than I believed it could be. It’s like having lived all one’s life in a cavern, only to have the harsh light of a thousand suns blasted in upon you. Except this light is dark, pitch-dark, and throbs rather than pierces. How can I not have known what so many people have gone through? The only answer I can conjure is that a kind Providence keeps us blind to the intensity of suffering so as to keep us sane, until that day when the suffering is our own or that of someone we love beyond imagining.