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“If we don’t manage to connect the dots anymore and the power of our imagination is creaking at the seams, in a world of withering expectations, we have to rewrite the script of our life. ("Into a new life")”
Erik Pevernagie“When grief impounds our thinking and eats our brains, it seeps through all the cracks of our daily living. Only the soothing wind of comforting words may counter the withering twilight and the frostiness of darkness. ("All the words he always wanted to tell her.")”
Erik Pevernagie“Friendship however is a plant which cannot be forced -- true friendship is no gourd spring up in a night and withering in a day.”
Charlotte Brontë, The Letters of Charlotte Brontë“And on the worn book of old-golden I brought not here to read, it seems, but holdAnd freshen in this air of withering sweetness;”
Robert Frost“I suppose when you say you slept with him, it was more than just a nap?"Lillian shot her a withering glance. "Daisy, don’t be a pea wit.”
Lisa Kleypas, It Happened One Autumn“Good night, my lord.” The words were pronounced in her most withering tone.By contrast, he remained quite alarmingly unwithered long after she left.”
Christina Brooke, London's Last True Scoundrel“Lo shoots a withering glare his way. "Your our goddamn publicist, not the king of the caste, so stop acting like you have authority to banish my brother into another room.”
Krista Ritchie, Fuel the Fire“Here's my rule: You always want to pay cash for your own books, because if they look at the name on the credit card and then they look at the name on the book jacket, then there's this look of such profound sympathy for you that you had to resort to this. It really is withering.”
Carl Hiaasen“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds it dies of weariness of withering of tarnishing.”
Anais Nin“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
Anaïs Nin