Best 4015 quotes in «perfect quotes» category

EVERYONE IS A KING OR QUEEN, YOU DONT NEED A CROWN TO SHOW IT.

Everything was perfect, we were as happy as can be, then you remembered him and forgot about me.

Every writer dreams of a perfect language. Every writer dreams of a language that obeys, that comes to heel. For some this language is spare and pure, pared down to reveal essential truths without ornament or obfuscation. For others it is devilish and twisting, folding back over itself to create layers of meaning, shades of nuance. A language that will survive through the ages. A language that will crack open the heart of readers like a hazelnut.

Fashion doesn't make you perfect, but it makes you pretty.

Find me the perfect human being and I'll show you Jesus Christ.

Finding a soulmate is an easy adventure, but the difficult part admist the game is finding your kind of person.

For a better life, redefine your definitions of perfect.

For someone to be perfect, they must be real, however imperfect they are.

God does not require a perfect, sinless life to have fellowship with Him, but He does require that we be serious about holiness, that we grieve over sin in our lives instead of justifying it, and that we earnestly pursue holiness as a way of life.

Gods provided the ideals which people follow. Religion is not a special discipline unconnected with daily life. To live morally means to live according to the values prescribed in the scriptures. Gods have to be perfect for a moral society.

God's plans are perfect.

Grace is amazing #blessed

Hey, you know I might not be perfect! But I'm a wonderful work in progress!

Have you ever thought, how perfectly imperfect you are!

Grinning, I stroked his arms, over the tattoos and muscles. “Today has been fucking perfect, Judd. You can’t know how perfect.” “Oh, I know. I’ve been counting my blessings since the moment I woke up with you next to me.

He leaned down, far enough that the dark ends of his hair brushed feather-light against her face, caught in her lashes, She had just enough time to take in a breath, to blink, to part her lips before he took them with his own. Time froze. Her heart ceased to beat. Her eyes fluttered shut. The cool slip of the small metal loop pressed into her skin as he kissed her. Urgent. Gentle. So slow. Sweet, soft demolition. He tasted of cloves and coffee. And of something else. A farawat essence, familiar and yet somehow foreign, too. Something sere and arid. A little like some. A little like decay Ash.

He thought to himself, I’ll never be this perfect again, an idea that made him sad.

Hey, Shell-bell," I say, leaning over her and wiping her face with a napkin. "It's the first day of school. Wish me luck." Shelley holds jerky arms out and gives me a lopsided smile. I love that smile. "You want to give me a hug?" I ask her, knowing she does. The doctors always tell us the more interaction Shelley gets, the better off she'll be. Shelley nods. I fold myself in her arms, careful to keep her hands away from my hair. When I straighten, my mom gasps. It sounds to me like a referee's whistle, halting my life. "Brit, you can't go to school like that." "Like what?" She shakes her head and sighs in frustration. "Look at your shirt." Glancing down, I see a large wet spot on the front of my white Calvin Klein shirt. Oops. Shelley's drool. One look at my sister's drawn face tells me what she can't easily put into words. Shelley is sorry. Shelley didn't mean to mess up my outfit. "It's no biggie," I tell her, although in the back of my mind I know it screws up my "perfect" look. Frowning, my mom wets a paper towel at the sink and dabs at the spot. It makes me feel like a two-year-old. "Go upstairs and change." "Mom, it was just peaches," I say, treading carefully so this doesn't turn into a full-blown yelling match. The last thing I want to do is make my sister feel bad. "Peaches stain. You don't want people thinking you don't care about your appearance." "Fine." I wish this was one of my mom's good days, the days she doesn't bug me about stuff. I give my sister a kiss on the top of her head, making sure she doesn't think her drool bothers me in the least. "I'll see ya after school," I say, attempting to keep the morning cheerful. "To finish our checker tournament.

His lips parted under hers, damp and soft and warm, and she forgot all of that. Her entire life focused in on the sensations, the gentle pressure that grew more intense the longer the kiss went on. Chaste kisses, then dirtier ones, and man, those tasted good. They tasted better the wider her mouth opened, and especially after his tongue touched hers. She could have done a whole semester of kissing with Shane. Intense personal study. With lab classes. Time really wasn’t happening for her, but eventually Claire realized that there was a soft glow coming from the windows, and she was numb and sore from sitting on the floor. She winced as a muscle in her back protested, and Shane reached out, pulled her up, and settled himself on the couch. He stretched out, and extended a hand to her. She stared, tingling and confused. “There’s no room.’” “Plenty of room,’” he said. She felt breathless and kind of wild, stretching out on the tiny area of sofa cushion available next to him, and then smothered a yelp as Shane picked her up and draped her over his chest and, oh my God, over all the rest of him, too. “Better?’” he asked, and raised his eyebrows. It was a real question, and he was looking for a real answer. Claire felt a blush building a fire in her cheeks, but she didn’t look away from his gaze. “Perfect,’” she said.

Holy Child of God, You are a Beautiful Creation of a Loving God. Let not the dreams of the world persuade You that you are unworthy of Love. You are Divine Love itself, and nothing can ever change the Real You: the One Perfect, Infinite, Magnificent, Eternal Love that You shall forever Be!

I am kind of person who will love the real version of you no matter how bad and broken than accepting the perfect and polished but fake version of you.

I am perfect, I love and accept myself as I am.

I could remember it. But I couldn’t see it again, and it occurred to me that the voracious ambition of humans is never sated by dreams coming true, because there is always the thought that everything might be done better and again.

I am trying to ignore each of my thoughts and each of my stories and books... if I read them... they never sound well, but still we shouldn't go like... to do everything perfect and all perfect...

If God did not reveal himself with word-by-word precision, then He has placed the revelation of truth into the incompetent hands of fallen man. That would prove hopelessly imbecilic. He who revealed Himself with exactness in “natural” creation chose the precise words, sentences and paragraphs to compile one Book in which we have His perfect Word.

I do think imperfection is underrated

If a person cannot protect you, it is because you were meant to perfect them. If they cannot perfect you, you are meant to protect them.

If the director himself writes the script or screenplay of the drama, movie etc., the direction becomes perfect because he already imagined each shot nicely in his brain while writing the screenplay!

If she'd just kept her mouth shut, she would have been perfect, but no...

If it weren't for problems, life would be perfect and boring.

If only he could kill his expectations, his lady would find him perfect.

If religion has set up the proposition that we are sinners altogether, I set over against it the other: we are perfect altogether! For we are, every moment, all that we can be; and we never need be more.

If the world were perfect, then I would not exist.

If you are perfect apart from your mistakes, you are complete else if you are perfect apart from your precision, you are whole

I guess the sky in real life isn’t actually perfect. Maybe that’s what makes it so perfect.

I know he wasn’t perfect… But he did the best impression of it I’ve ever seen.

I live with the hope that one day, someone, will look into my eyes and see the deepness of my soul, and all the suffering and struggles will finally make sense to the person that can see behind all the imperfections and dust that's been pilled up in all these years. I've had my turns at trying to love people, but it never turned out as planned and I've failed in keeping someone next to me, simply because you can't force someone to be by your side if it's not meant to be, and I've grown to accept that and not fight against it. I've been selfish for far too long in trying to cling on to someone, and I believe nobody is perfect.. But as long as I still breathe, I'm willing to let people come into my life, play their part in my life's plan and then let go if it's necessary. Nothing can last forever and it's something we grow to accept. Let time do its' thing and don't get too attached, that's all I can do.

I know who I am. I am not perfect. I'm not the most "DOWN-TO-EARTH" man in the world. But I'm one of them.

I may not be perfect for you, but I am perfect for me. If you cannot handle that then you cannot handle me.

I loved everything to anything to everyone who surrounded him. He was perfect. A delusion with a sweet melancholy taste. He was crazy, but he was my crazy and inside, everything felt right.

I'm afraid it will never be perfect again. I am indelibly stained. Forever redefined, but blurred around the edges.

I may not be perfect for you or the world but guess what I'm not perfect for myself either. I'm dead to you and the world just as I'm dead to myself.-p.b

I'm not here to be small, to compare, to judge (myself or you), to fit in or to be perfect. I'm here to grow, to learn, to love, to be human.

I'm not perfect, I'm beautifully imperfect

Imperfect. Beautiful. The most extraordinary thought of all.

In order to make our gifts perfect, you need to work on yourself but it hurts

In 2008, I was the woman who thought she had the world by the tail: the "perfect life." In 2010, I was the woman without hope who thought she had no life left to live. Which woman am I today? Neither. Both were illusions.

In my society we know how to say things, but we don't know how to realize them. In my society everyone has a perfect personality in public, and a dirty one behind the curtain.

I'm sorry I don't conform to your standards of feminine perfection, but I'm quite happy the way I am—anyway, I wasn't born to be buxom.

In the campaign of 1876, Robert G. Ingersoll came to Madison to speak. I had heard of him for years; when I was a boy on the farm a relative of ours had testified in a case in which Ingersoll had appeared as an attorney and he had told the glowing stories of the plea that Ingersoll had made. Then, in the spring of 1876, Ingersoll delivered the Memorial Day address at Indianapolis. It was widely published shortly after it was delivered and it startled and enthralled the whole country. I remember that it was printed on a poster as large as a door and hung in the post-office at Madison. I can scarcely convey now, or even understand, the emotional effect the reading of it produced upon me. Oblivious of my surroundings, I read it with tears streaming down my face. It began, I remember: "The past rises before me like a dream. Again we are in the great struggle for national life.We hear the sounds of preparation--the music of boisterous drums--the silver voices of heroic bugles. We see the pale cheeks of women and the flushed faces of men; and in those assemblages we see all the dead whose dust we have covered with flowers..." I was fairly entranced. he pictured the recruiting of the troops, the husbands and fathers with their families on the last evening, the lover under the trees and the stars; then the beat of drums, the waving flags, the marching away; the wife at the turn of the lane holds her baby aloft in her arms--a wave of the hand and he has gone; then you see him again in the heat of the charge. It was wonderful how it seized upon my youthful imagination. When he came to Madison I crowded myself into the assembly chamber to hear him: I would not have missed it for every worldly thing I possessed. And he did not disappoint me. A large handsome man of perfect build, with a face as round as a child's and a compelling smile--all the arts of the old-time oratory were his in high degree. He was witty, he was droll, he was eloquent: he was as full of sentiment as an old violin. Often, while speaking, he would pause, break into a smile, and the audience, in anticipation of what was to come, would follow him in irresistible peals of laughter. I cannot remember much that he said, but the impression he made upon me was indelible. After that I got Ingersoll's books and never afterward lost an opportunity to hear him speak. He was the greatest orater, I think, that I have ever heard; and the greatest of his lectures, I have always thought, was the one on Shakespeare. Ingersoll had a tremendous influence upon me, as indeed he had upon many young men of that time. It was not that he changed my beliefs, but that he liberated my mind. Freedom was what he preached: he wanted the shackles off everywhere. He wanted men to think boldly about all things: he demanded intellectual and moral courage. He wanted men to follow wherever truth might lead them. He was a rare, bold, heroic figure.