"Where should I apply Perfume?" a young lady asked. "Where you want to be kissed."
But why should we hear about body bags and deaths, and how many, what day it's gonna happen, and how many this or what do you suppose? Or, I mean, it's not relevant. So, why should I waste my beautiful mind on something like that?
You cannot know, should I discribe to you; the feelings of a parent . . . . Four years have already past away since you left your native land, and this rural Cottage-Humble indeed, when compared to the Palaces you have visited, and the pomp you have been witness to. But I dare say you have not been so inattentive an observer, as to suppose that Sweet peace, and contentment, cannot inhabit the lowly roof, and bless the tranquil inhabitants, equally guarded and protected, in person and property, in this happy Country, as those who reside in the most elegant and costly dwellings.
Why should I marry? One marries to have children, but I already have children! My nieces and nephews are my children.
Why should I be angry with a man for loving himself better than me?
Why should I laugh?' asked the old man. 'Madness in youth is true wisdom. Go, young man, follow your dream, and if you do not find the happiness that you seek, at any rate you will have had the happiness of seeking it.
Why should I be sad? Everyone has to die. If you have a body, it's too late to cry. It's only funerals I can't stand.
We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
Should I really care what kind of beer frogs recommend?
In college I was one of six males who auditioned for five male roles in a comedy play. I was the one rejected. At that moment I made up my mind never to place myself at the mercy of some pompous, goateed, black-turtleneck-shirted "should I yay him or nay him?" pantywaist ever again.
XM radio doesn't have commercials, so after about thirty minutes of listening to it, I'm like, "What should I buy?"
A city built upon mud; A culture built upon profit; Free speech nipped in the bud, The minority always guilty. Why should I want to go back To you, Ireland, my Ireland?
You know, my father was a great encouragement for me because he spoke out for women's rights, he spoke out for girl's education. And at that time I said that why should I wait for someone else, why should I be looking to the government, to the army that they would help us? Why don't I raise my voice, why don't we speak up for our rights?
I traveled and made money and I wouldn't let anybody get between me and my music. If I belong to anything, I belong to my music. ...What you were born to do, you don't stop to think, should I? could I? would I? I only think, will I? And, I shall!
When you're writing is when the "god should I just drop this" feeling can hit. When you're editing is when the "god this is awful and I've wasted everyone's time and money and will be revealed as a fraud" feeling can hit.
It's frightfully important for a writer to be his age, not to be younger or older than he is. One might ask, "What should I write at the age of sixty-four," but never, "What should I write in 1940."
The most dangerous question a prospect or customer asks is "Why should I?" And he may ask it more than once... The product and its communication stream must continue to provide him with both rational and emotional answers.
When a thought of Plato becomes a thought to me,--when a truth that fired the soul of Pindar fires mine, time is no more. When I feel that we two meet in a perception, that our two souls are tinged with the same hue, and do as it were run into one, why should I measure degrees of latitude, why should I count Egyptian years?
Why should I give someone else such power over my life?
Oh, how wretched should I be at this moment, if I had not made my peace with God.
And should I not, had I but known, have flung the machine this way and that, once more to feel it live under my hand, have sported in the sky and laughed and sung, knowing that never after should I feel so free, so sure in hazard, so secure, riding the daylight in the pride of youth? No more horizons wider than Hope! No more the franchise of the sky, the freedom of the blue! No more! Farewell to wings! Down to the little earth!
We live in a very scary time. Or should I say we don't live at all.
I don't read as much as I'd like. I've been writing a lot. I've been doing a lot of music, but I don't read as much as I should. I just don't.
Why should I need an artist to explain a work of art to me? Why should it not speak out to me itself?
The bad people trying to make the world worse never take a day off, so why should I?
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