More fundamentally, it is a dream that does not die with the onset of manhood: the dream is to play endlessly, past the time when you are called home for dinner, past the time of doing chores, past the time when your body betrays you past time itself.
Oh, my friends, be warned by me, That breakfast, dinner, lunch and tea, Are all human frame requires.
Teenagers talk about the idea of having each other’s ‘full attention.’ They grew up in a culture of distraction. They remember their parents were on cell phones when they were pushed on swings as toddlers. Now, their parents text at the dinner table and don’t look up from their BlackBerry when they come for end-of-school day pickup.
A bachelor’s life is a fine breakfast, a flat lunch, and a miserable dinner.
If I’m working on a poem, it’s at the forefront of my mind; I’m working on it when I’m cooking dinner or stretched out on the sofa. But if I don’t really have it by the 10th draft, I know it just isn’t going to jell.
The heart is a small thing, but desireth great matters. It is not sufficient for a kite’s dinner, yet the whole world is not sufficient for it.
A revolution is not a dinner party, or writing an essay, or painting a picture, or doing embroidery.
The notion that female initiative is useless because men know what they want is particularly odd – most people don’t even know what they want for dinner.
One year, I was a patron of a new opera. It was, to put it kindly, unpleasant to the ear. The friends I went with hated it. Keeping quiet about my contribution, I was outed when one of them, reading the program at the restaurant during dinner, saw my name.
Sometimes I sit down to dinner with people and I realize there is a massive military machine surrounding us, trying to kill the people I’m having dinner with.