I write, or used to write, to explain to myself situations I couldn't otherwise solve or understand. Meditation comes very naturally to me.
Me is a common sense man. That mean when me explain things, me explain it in a very simple way; that mean if I explain it to a baby, the baby will understand too, you know.
In America only the successful writer is important, in France all writers are important, in England no writer is important, and in Australia you have to explain what a writer is.
Clearly spoken, Mr. Fogg; you explain English by Greek.
A professional whose job it is to explain to others what it personally does not understand.
Listen. Don't explain or justify.
Take the ideas of the masses (scattered and unsystematic ideas) and concentrate them (through study turn them into concentrated and systematic ideas), then go to the masses and propagate and explain these ideas until the masses embrace them as their own, hold fast to them and translate them into action, and test the correctness of these ideas in such action. Then once again concentrate ideas from the masses and once again go to the masses so that the ideas are persevered in and carried through. And so on, over and over again in an endless spiral, with the ideas becoming more correct, more vital and richer each time. Such is the Marxist theory of knowledge.
Music is the effort we make to explain to ourselves how our brains work.
We listen to Bach transfixed because this is listening to a human mind.
Directions are instructions given to explain how. Direction is a vision offered to explain why.
The best way to explain it is that I'm not yearning anymore, on or off the course. I appreciate what I have. I feel like I'm blessed.
I believe in luck: how else can you explain the success of those you dislike?
I'm glad I don't have to explain to a man from Mars why each day I set fire to dozens of little pieces of paper, and then put them in my mouth.
What then is time? If no one asks me, I know what it is.
If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.
Miracles, in the sense of phenomena we cannot explain, surround us on every hand: life itself is the miracle of miracles.