sentimental

She wanted to get some personal profit out of things, and she rejected as useless all that did not contribute to the immediate desires of her heart, being of a temperament more sentimental than artistic, looking for emotions, not landscapes.

You cynical shit," he told himself. Then he started to weep."Don't be so fucking sentimental," Crake used to tell him. But why not? Why shouldn't he be sentimental? It wasn't as if there was anyone around to question his

The GeraniumWhen I put her out, once, by the garbage pail,She looked so limp and bedraggled,So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle,Or a wizened aster in late September,I brought her back in againFor a new routine -Vitamins, water, and whateverSustenance seemed sensibleAt the time: she'd livedSo long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer,Her shriveled petals fallingOn the faded carpet, the staleSteak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves.(Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)The things she endured!-The dumb dames shrieking half the nightOr the two of us, alone, both seedy,Me breathing booze at her,She leaning out of her pot toward the window.Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-And that was scary-So when that snuffling cretin of a maidThrew her, pot and all, into the trash-can,I said nothing.But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week,I was that lonely.

Sentiments, as I have found, can be harvested from places where our memories are fondest.

In the chain of events, it is arbitrary to be sentimental about the passing of any one link.

No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.

You mustn__ throw them away. Let me have them.

Fine Things are reservoirs for the heart.

My favorite thing you do is stop me in the middle of whatever I'm doing to tell me you love me.

Only little boys and old men sneer at love.

All kinds of people read poetry: revolutionaries, scholars, sentimentalists etc. But above all else, lovers read poetry. Why? Because we fell in love. And then we fell in love with love.

I treat my thoughts like an old person treats their valuables: I cannot for the life of me proceed to throwing them out.

As we get older, it matters less where you are and more who you're with.

At the end of the day, I just want to sit with someone I love and chat about what matters and even what doesn__.

Nostalgia has a way of blocking the reality of the past.

You don't have to live in anyone's shadow. Allow your unique characteristics to shine forth and Illuminate your way.

Angels are good not simply because they see bad as bad, but also because they see bad as corny.

Because at nightwhen others are sleeping, I drown myself in poetry.