Don Hewitt Quotes

And if they do, I hope heaven is a road trip. I hope it’s you and me and Renny and Ted with nothing but time on our hands. I hope it’s, I don’t know, crossing an immeasurable distance with your closest friends.

Life is too short to wake up in the morning with regrets. So, love the people who treat you right, and forget about the ones who don't. And believe that everything happens for a reason; if you get a chance-take it, if it changes your life-let it. Nobody said that it would be easy, they just promised it would be worth it.

Responsibilities don't yield to melancholy.

I don't know how one can endure all the sorrows of life without repairing to gratitude. There is such inevitable grief that the practice of gratitude is all that can provide the necessary armor.

I really am going to meet Forster: I thought I shouldn't, but apparently the old boy E.M.F. is saying with remembered my name & I am bid to John Hewitt's at 8 tomorrow. Shall I ask him if he's a homo? It's the only thing I really want to know about him, you see. I don't even care why he packed up writing.

What will she do now, wonders Judy, if the Hewitts lose the camp? If the Van Laars cut them out entirely, as they’ll no doubt do, snapping the thin thread that has stretched for decades between the Hewitts and Peter the First? And she answers her question herself: They’ll be fine. The Hewitts—like Judy, like Louise Donnadieu, like Denny Hayes, even—don’t need to rely on anyone but themselves. It’s the Van Laars, and families like them, who have always depended on others.

carefully placed questions put you in the driver’s seat of the conversation. “Being an asker allows you control of situations that statement-makers rarely achieve,” Hewitt notes. “An alert questioner can judge when someone grows uneasy. But don’t stop. Just change directions. . . . Once you learn how to guide a conversation, you have also learned how to control it.”3 Questions can be casual conversation starters providing a simple, friendly way to get the ball rolling in a discussion, like it did for me with the witch in Wisconsin.

Fine, fine, you just stay at home, read yer book–” He stops himself suddenly. “Oh, damn, sorry, no, I didn’t mean that. I forgot.” And the weird thing is, he seems sincere. There’s a moment of quiet where his Noise pulses again with that strong feeling he’s hiding– That something he’s trying to bury that makes him feel– And then he says, “You know . . .” and I can see the offer coming and I don’t think I can bear it, I don’t think I could live another minute if he says it out loud. “If you ever wanted me to read it for–” “No, Davy,” I say quickly. “No, thanks, no.” “You sure?” “Yes.” “Well, the offer’s there.” His Noise goes bright again, blooming as he thinks about his new title, about women, about me and him as brothers. And he whistles happily all the way back to town.

Then I feel guilty for my little pity party, because I know I’m lucky, especially compared to some. Even if I don’t always feel it.

Therapy is so not us. There are things we don’t talk about, ever, and there is a reason for that. It’s easier, safer. Our happiness depends on a certain amount of silence.

The cheap-food boom has been seductively comfortable for us all. Let's face it: Farming is damn hard work, typically done for damnable pay. By relinquishing this burden, by handing the reins to the corporations, we relieved ourselves of a lot of backaches, sunburns, and financial strains. We struck a deal: The agribusinesses got a guaranteed chunk of our income and our full faith in their ability to keep us sustained. In return, we got to pursue lifestyles that don't revolve around soil and toil and that allow us a measure of leisure time unprecedented in human history.

the way it’s supposed to be, but it’s that way for me, and I’m not sure I can manage anything else. ‘Well, be careful,’ Milly says, laying a hand on my arm. ‘I’m saying that for your sake, Anna. I’d hate for you to get hurt.’ Yes, and you’d also hate for me to end up with Jack. I don’t say it, of course, and I feel guilty even for thinking

From time to time, I look at your study in red chalk, which is still hanging in my dining room; and I always say to myself: ‘that she-devil Maria could draw like a little daemon’. Why don’t you show me your work anymore? I am nearing 67.17

For practical purposes, I think the way to get the most out of celestial navigation can be stated in five rules. 1. Take five and average. 2. Non decimalis carborundum. (Don’t drown in the decimals.) 3. Keep your altitudes between 10° and 70°. 4. Use a calculator for sight reduction from your DR. 5. Don’t pass up a sight because it doesn’t fit the rules.

Friendships can slip in increments, so you don’t really notice, or if you do, you can justify it—we’re busy, life is hectic, the months slip past without us even realizing. It’s only in moments like these that I am forced to acknowledge how much has changed.

Our memory is a funny thing. We remember some things in hazy hues of goodwill, and others with painful precision, and I don’t know if either is really accurate

I don’t want his pity. I wanted, I realize, to be important to him. To someone. But I’m not.

You think you don't deserve me, but you broke me. You shattered me into a million pieces. And then you remade me into something even more than I could've imagined.

Surplus [Money Mindset]: Feeling grateful and ready to share Members of the surplus group believe they have more than enough. They don’t constantly long for more. They display a high level of contentment even if their lifestyle is average — or below. Their purchases match their needs, not their income. And because they feel grateful, they are ready to share. Most joyfully give away more than 10 percent of their gross income.

Craig Hewitt, the nontechnical founder of Castos, told me, “If I did it again, I’d very much want my first developer to be a cofounder or someone I know really, really well. I’ve wasted too much money while being misled by developers who are just looking to make a few bucks and don’t care about the outcome of the project.

All the advice coalesced in her brain into a sludge of semi-coherent offerings: don’t be judgmental, really listen, try to find out what’s really going on. Swallowing, she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?

With this joke, Wallace reminds us that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones hardest to see, that we can lock ourselves in mental models so complete that we don’t even know we’re imprisoned by them.

I don’t know too much about depression,” Olivia said slowly, “but I do know it’s real, not something you can just make yourself get over, or slap a smile on like a plaster. Be kind to yourself, Simon. Be forgiving.

you don’t feel like explaining something,” she snaps, flouncing off. God help clever children. “Get

don’t talk about my mom at all, because it hurts too much.

Instead, I’ve got the Hewitt boys down on paper. So that 100 years from now some reader I don’t know can see how dumb they were!

But don’t you wonder if technology has got the better of us? Who are we, to manipulate life that way?

And she answers her question herself: They’ll be fine. The Hewitts—like Judy, like Louise Donnadieu, like Denny Hayes, even—don’t need to rely on anyone but themselves. It’s the Van Laars, and families like them, who have always depended on others.