Best 39 quotes of Kevin Focke on MyQuotes

A coalescence of verbose convolution, veering on imperceptibility, impinges upon a plain proclamation an apparent profundity.

An artist without an audience is like a jar without jelly. There doesn’t always need to be much jelly in the jar, nevertheless a jar without jelly would feel jealous and empty.

Art has simple founding principles: Less is more, more or less; fill in the blanks with no filler.

Bad business does not revolve around missing crossroads. It revolves around roundabouts.

Be creative, be innovative, consume what everyone consumes and make it fresh!

Bloated software causes IT stress farts.

Climate change is like my head: it’s not visible in every instance, but I’m pretty darn sure it’s there.

Death is the first and final entry in the book of life.

Death is the first and final entry in the book of this life.

Everything about her exuded a certain calmness, an unfathomable tranquillity. Her body, her smile, and her mesmerizing eyes all came together to form a lively painting of timeless allure.

Fear not death; fear not having lived.

Focke's razor: Never attribute to plot holes that which is adequately explained by miracles.

I don’t experience writer’s block, I only have periods of severe writer’s diarrhoea; an incoherent mess of unfitting words placed in random sentences. Luckily, I can usually separate the shit from “the shit” later on.

I'm the most famous person, problem is people don't know it yet…

In my opinion, works of art should be viewed as gifts; something precious given from a point of empathy, where personal enrichment is vastly superior to the value of the gift, and the giver begs for nothing but for the gift to shine on its own.

I think the suicide rate is so high among writers because we force ourselves to stand still, take an outsider’s perspective, and realise how quickly a life passes by, and how futile we are. The exhilarating upside is that at a moment’s glance all your worries fade away, and you can work on making the most of it.

It’s a sad fact that some people are only remembered once they’re dead.

It was hard to accept, but when the heart-shed of a faded sparkle was tallied, a dim fullness came over me. Maybe some things are just meant to be cherished the way they are: Unfinished, left unturned, wondering what could be and could have been.

Love yourself’ the social horde spouts from on high, mere moments later they frown at a bypassing narcissist.

Money changes people. This process is more commonly known as trading.

Never underestimate the appeal of stupidity said with conviction.

Pampered content is a public resignation of artistic integrity.

People don't appreciate what they have… until it's gone.

Political correctness is modern day censorship. This still doesn’t justify you in being a douchebag.

Politics: The Circus of Chicanery

Progress is hard, achievements are easy, and giving up is easier still.

Relatable escapism can only be achieved using facets of the real world.

Sheep wish no taste but woolly sweet conformity.

Storytellers are master manipulators transforming non-reality (grounded in reality) into vicarious experience.

The biggest twist in fiction might be a story ending exactly how you thought it would.

-The burden of existence is bestowed upon birth. -The gift of existence is bestowed upon birth. Choose wisely, your life (and potential others' life) depend on it.

The tragedy of art is the misalignment of merit and the perception thereof. A hype is a classic example of positive (from the creator’s perspective) misalignment. Van Gogh is a classic example of negative misalignment, a poor laggard who may enjoy the fruits of his labour rotting under the ground. Van Gogh went unrecognized, ostracized, and is now celebrated as many who have come before him, and many who will come after him. Therefore, I declare here, the Wisdom of the Crowd does not apply to art.

Time makes the ordinary extraordinary and the extraordinary ordinary.

We treat what’s lost, what could have never been, what we could have never dreamed of, again. We treat it like heirlooms for it is so precious. For we know it can be lost, again.

Where did it go, the moderate opine? I can't find it here nor there! 'Perhaps then it's twixt the false dichotomy?

Why can't prose be poetic?

Why should I wake up if not for myself? The others are smiling façades anyway or they’re programmed to feel joy. Push comes to shove we live in a fake world, pretending life’s always golly which is life’s greatest folly.

Writing complex characters is the penultimate exercise in empathy.

Writing is all about tents: sometimes you're competent, sometimes you're eloquetent.