Presley Quotes

When things go wrong, don't go with them.

Animals don't hate, and we're supposed to be better than them.

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't going away.

Do something worth remembering.

Sad thing is, you can still love someone and be wrong for them.

This is Graceland. Home of the most famous musician in the world.” “Michael Jackson lived here?” “No, dummy,” Carter said. “Elvis Presley.

Values are like fingerprints. Nobody's are the same, but you leave 'em all over everything you do

Don’t criticize what you don’t understand, son. You never walked in that man’s shoes.

When things go bad, don't go with them.

Atheism is not a philosophy; it is not even a view of the world; it is simply an admission of the obvious. In fact, 'atheism' is a term that should not even exist. No one needs to identify himself as a 'non-astrologer' or a 'non-alchemist.' We do not have words for people who doubt that Elvis is still alive or that aliens have traversed the galaxy only to molest ranchers and cattle. Atheism is nothing more than the noises reasonable people make in the presence of unjustified religious beliefs.

If you let your head get too big, it'll break your neck.

Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine

The image is one thing and the human being is another. It's very hard to live up to an image, put it that way.

THANK YA THANK YA VERY MUCH

Some people tap their feet, some people snap their fingers, and some people sway back and forth. I just sorta do 'em all together, I guess.

To judge a man by his weakest link or deed is like judging the power of the ocean by one wave.

Your kisses lift me higher...like the sweet song of a choir. You light my morning sky, with burning love.

I'd rather go on hearing your lies, than to go on living without you.

Fingerprints are like values--you leave them all over everything you do

Woss the matter with you?” asked Big Ted, irritably. “Go on. Press ‘D.’ Elvis Presley died in 1976.” I DON’T CARE WHAT IT SAYS, said the tall biker in the helmet, I NEVER LAID A FINGER ON HIM.

I don't know anything about music. In my line you don't have to.

Especially with four insanely angry, sword-carrying pirates bearing down on you, followed closely by an alien with a genetic malfunction that posed like Elvis Presley and looked slightly like a cross between a koala and a cuddly dog.

If a woman is given only a limited amount of time to spend with the man she loves, she endures the separation by constantly recalling and reliving every moment down to the finest detail.

Until we meet again, may God bless you as he has blessed me.

I've come too far, and I don't know how to get back.

Animals don't hate, and we're supposed to be smarter than them.

People think you’re crazy if you talk about things they don’t understand.

Charles Simic, when asked what he thought of Slam Poetry events: "They are fun, but they have as much to do with poetry as Elvis Presley had to do with Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk".

Ambition is a dream with a V8 engine. Ain't nowhere else in the world where you can go from driving a truck to cadillac overnight

Maybe I didn't treat you Quite as good as I should have Maybe I didn't love you Quite as often as I could have Little things I should have said and done I just never took the time You were always on my mind You were always on my mind

Could it be that God was an extra-terrestrial? What do we mean when we say that heaven is in the clouds? From Jesus Christ to Elvis Presley, every culture tells us of high-flying bird men who zoom around the world creating magnificent works of art and choosing willing followers to share in the eternal glory from beyond the stars. Can all these related phenomena merely be dismissed as coincidence?

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain’t going away.

For a moment she could have sworn she was standing in one of those history-comes-alive museums--the kind that feature animatronic robots, the narration stylings of James Earl Jones, and the sort of exhibits that invade children's nightmares for years to come. But instead of a cyborgish John Wilkes Booth discharging his deadly bullet into the back of a plastic Lincoln's head, a very real version of the assassin was engaged in a furious arm-wrestling match with Elvis Presley. Lincoln was watching the tussle, amused. "Come on, John," he said. "You can do better than that." "He's all talk," Elvis whispered back. "Silence!" roared Booth. "I'm trying to concentrate!" Lincoln rolled his eyes.

Where could I go but to the Lord?

Don't criticize that man unless you have walked in his shoes.

Man, I really like Vegas.

It's not how much you have that makes people look up to you, it's who you are.

Be ye innocent as doves yet wise as serphants" new testament quoted by Elvis Presley and applied to karate

I don't do any vulgar movements.

CHILD: “Why does carrot cake have the best icing?” MOTHER: “Because it needs the best icing.” Quantum Nonlocality and the Death of Elvis Presley You may remember

Many of the most accomplished people of our era were considered by experts to have no future. Jackson Pollock, Marcel Proust, Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, Lucille Ball, and Charles Darwin were all thought to have little potential for their chosen fields.

You know my daughter, Presley?” He nods. “Sure. Cute kid, hot mom. Unfortunate name.

A typical National World Weekly would tell the world how Jesus' face was seen on a Big Mac bun bought by someone from Des Moines, with an artist's impression of the bun; how Elvis Presley was recently sighted working in a Burger Lord in Des Moines; how listening to Elvis records cured a Des Moines housewife's cancer; how the spate of werewolves infesting the Midwest are the offspring of noble pioneer women raped by Bigfoot; and that Elvis was taken by Space Aliens in 1976 because he was too good for this world. Remarkably, one of these stories is indeed true.

When things go wrong don't go with them.

The sun's down and the moon's pretty - it's time to ramble.

And I like Strauss and Mozart and all that, but the priceless gift that African Americans gave the world when they were still in slavery was a gift so great that it is now almost the only reason many foreigners still like us at least a little bit. That specific remedy for the worldwide epidemic of depression is a gift called the blues. All pop music today-jazz, swing, be-bop, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Stones, rock and roll, hip hop and on and on- is derived from the blues.

we can't build our dreams, on suspicious minds

Wise men say, only fools rush in. But I can't help, falling in love with you.

TAKING CARE OF BUSINESS...guess Elvis use to say it alot and had necklaces made with initials TCB

People think you're crazy if you talk about things they don't understand.

I was like Elvis "The Pelvis" Presley on Ed Sullivan, I tells ya, punished for the crime of being sexy. (him on the telly , me in a dingy alley... any analogy will break down under scrutiny.)

When making his music, he [Elvis Presley] had been the essence of cool, but in his movies he was often a self-parody embarrassing to watch. Colonel Parker, his manager, who had picked movie scrips for him, had served Elvis less well than the monk Rasputin had served Czar Nicholas and Alexandra.

This was a huge lesson for me—the only way out is through. You must allow pain in to free yourself from it.

Take my hand, take my whole life, too.

I remember the revelation it was to me when I realized I'd rather be smart in the way Elvis Presley was than in the way, say, Ludwig Wittgenstein was. The thing was, you could imagine you could be smart like Wittgenstein by just thinking hard enough, but Elvis just had it. It was almost spiritual. A kind of grace.

If life were fair, Elvis would still be alive and all the impersonators would be dead.

And if I was Lisa Marie Presley and I'd told you I was going to marry Michael Jackson because I liked the shape of his nose, or rather, noses, and he's just a sweet boy who loves children, I mean really loves children, and his dramatic change in appearance was undoubtedly a result of a genuine bona fide skin disease, would you have said anything?

Every time Elvis sings, he makes a bargain with the devil -- just like Captain Ahab in MOBY DICK!

I’m steamroller baby, I’m ‘bout to roll over you”.

Elvis Presley once said that I don’t know anything about the music. It is because he is the music itself! The nightingales don’t know anything about the music!

Constipation ran Presley's life. Even his famous motto TCB— 'Taking Care of Business'— sounds like a reference to bathroom matters.

Elvis Presley is still showing up in 7-11 stores across the country, even though he’s been dead for years, so I figure music just might be the most important thing there is.

That's why I've kept you out of reach. It's like putting something you love away from everything so its beauty won't be tarnished. I want to be with you more, and them less. I want my life to change.

What drove us crazy wasn't necessarily the sexual freedom his critic claimed he was unleashing, but freedom, period. Freedom to be yourself, to express yourself, to wear what you wanted to wear, to look the way you wanted to look, to have your own style, your own talk.

In the convent, y'all, I tend the gardens, watch things grow, pray for the immortal soul of rock 'n' roll. They call me Sister Presley here, The Reverend Mother digs the way I move my hips just like my brother. Gregorian chant drifts out across the herbs Pascha nostrum immolatus est... I wear a simple habit, darkish hues, a wimple with a novice-sewn lace band, a rosary, a chain of keys, a pair of good and sturdy blue suede shoes. I think of it as Graceland here, a land of grace. It puts my trademark slow lopsided smile back on my face. Lawdy. I'm alive and well. Long time since I walked down Lonely Street towards Heartbreak Hotel. - Elvis's Twin Sister

ELVIS & MARILYN: The deader they get - the more money they make.

I’ve never stopped loving her. I knew I never had, but now there’s no way I can deny it. I’ve moved on in some ways, but Presley . . . she’s everything.

And if there's any hope for America, it lies in a revolution, and if there's any hope for a revolution in America, it lies in getting Elvis Presley to become Che Guevara.

The fight wasn’t won. Yet. But I’d walk away the victor. I’d win Presley Marks. She was my anchor. She was my heart.

Ugh." Another shudder racked through Presley before he hurried out the door, muttering under his breath about being suspicious of anything that bleeds for a week and doesn’t die.

No one likes to be typecast or stereotyped, especially actors. But who would know Esther Williams without a swimming pool, Bela Lugosi without a cape, or Elvis Presley without his guitar. Would we even care?

Because they are so long-lived, atoms really get around. Every atom you possess has almost certainly passed through several stars and been part of millions of organisms on its way to becoming you. We are each so atomically numerous and so vigorously recycled at death that a significant number of our atoms—up to a billion for each of us, it has been suggested—probably once belonged to Shakespeare. A billion more each came from Buddha and Genghis Khan and Beethoven, and any other historical figure you care to name. (The personages have to be historical, apparently, as it takes the atoms some decades to become thoroughly redistributed; however much you may wish it, you are not yet one with Elvis Presley.) So we are all reincarnations—though short-lived ones. When we die our atoms will disassemble and move off to find new uses elsewhere—as part of a leaf or other human being or drop of dew. Atoms, however, go on practically forever.

The countdown is finally over and in a few short days I will have the love of my life standing in front of me. I’m terrified to look into his eyes. The last time I saw them they were bloodshot and broken. Broken because of me. Will he ever be able to mend all of his broken pieces? Will he need to be without me in order for his broken pieces to heal? I’m scared to find out, but I desperately need to know." ~Presley Quinn

When you came back, I knew. I knew that I could never look at another woman like I do you. Every time I close my eyes, I see you. I’ve always seen you, Presley.” … “Even if you tell me you don’t feel the same. Even if I walk away tonight knowing there’s not a chance in hell of us ever being something . . . I’ll wait for you.

This was the plan: we would take a holy and sacred picture of the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Elvis Presley, to the very summit of the earth; once there, we would place it with sincere reverence amongst the chimerical shimmering palaces of ice and snow and then (accompanied by some weird Zen magic) we would light joss sticks, dance about making screechy kung-fu noises, get off our faces, and that would be it: Planet Earth saved. Simple.

(Dominic after winning King & Queen contest at Prom along with Tess) “You like me, you really like me!” he said in a mock high-pitched voice, channeling his inner Sally Fields. “First of all, I have to thank my first grade teacher, what was her name? Mrs. Johnson? Nichols? Jameson? Prescott? Yeah, that was it. Man, I had such a crush on her. Even at five, I had awesome taste in women—just look at Tess. Isn’t she banging? Anyway, I need to thank Mrs. Pentecostal, because she told me I’d never win anything, and that hurt, man. But I guess I showed her. So take that, Mrs. Presley!

I’ve lived with guilt for all these years from walkin’ away from the girl I loved more than anything. I’ve struggled with forgiving myself. I’ve fought every damn day to prove that I’m better for you!” He moves forward, forcing me to retreat. “I’ve given you every part of me, Presley.” His chest heaves as tears form in his own eyes. “Me! Only me! I’ve kept all your secrets! I’ve stood by your side. Held you when you’ve cried over everything that Todd put you through!

Each of us may be a diamond-in-the-rough, needing only a muse and a change in circumstance to go from humble caterpillar to majestic butterfly." - Peter Whitmer, Ph.D. ~from The Inner Elvis: A Psychological Biography of Elvis Aaron Presley

A couple of days after the last time I saw him, I got a typically well-written postcard. He said that after he kissed me goodbye at LAX he was driving away and turned on the radio. Elvis was singing "It's Now or Never." In my personal religion, a faith cobbled together out of pop songs and books and movies, there is nothing closer to a sign from God than Elvis Presley telling you "tomorrow will be too late" at precisely the moment you drop off a girl you're not sure you want to drop off. Sitting on the stairs to my apartment, I read that card and wept. It said he heard the song and thought about running after me. But he didn't. And just as well--those mixed-faith marriages hardly ever work. An Elvis song coming out of the radio wasn't a sign from God to him, it was just another one of those corny pop tunes he could live without.

I still loved Elvis greatly, but (...) I knew that I must take control of my life. (...). There was a whole world out there and I had to find my own place in it.

Once Presley grabbed hold, he spoke like an oracle, your new teen mentor, sitting on your shoulder, urging you to embrace romance, kiss that girl, and take a thousand other risks, even as his doubt and hesitation whispered uncertainty and dread.

Up until the mid-eighties, there was always a shared assumption that the Right controlled the currency of outrage; part of what made conservatives “conservative” was their discomfort with profanity and indecency and Elvis Presley’s hips. But then — somewhat swiftly, and somehow academically — it felt as if the Left was suddenly dictating what was acceptable to be infuriated over (and always for ideological motives, which is why the modifier “politically” felt essential). This created a lot of low-level anxiety whenever people argued in public.

The ending is coming. I can feel it. I don’t know if I can take it this time. But then again, I say that every time and yet, every time I take it. And, I come back to her again for more. I will take whatever time I can get with her. I will do that for a lifetime. I will. I know that much about myself. She is my water. I can never get enough of her, and it appears that I will die trying to love her, to keep her, to hold her with me, even though our time together seems to evaporate so swiftly. It slips through our fingers so damn fast that we don’t even have time to savor it when we’re together.

Elvis Presley’s manager, Colonel Parker, made a deliberate attempt to restrict the number of appearances and records the King made. As a result, every time Elvis appeared, it was an event of enormous impact. (Elvis himself contributed to this strategy by overdosing early and severely dampening his future appearances. Likewise Marilyn Monroe and James Dean.)

You're my stars in an endless night sky, my sanity in a sea of madness, my chaos in the midst of normality.

People are always more dangerous than legends.

Then they took me home to Graceland.

Over the years he became my father, husband, and very nearly God. Now he was gone and I felt more alone and afraid than ever in my life.

You'll Never Walk Alone When you walk through a storm hold your head up high And don't be afraid of the dark. At the end of a storm is a golden sky And the sweet silver song of a lark. Walk on through the wind, Walk on through the rain, Tho' your dreams be tossed and blown. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart And you'll never walk alone, You'll never, ever walk alone. Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart And you'll never walk alone, You'll never, ever walk alone.

Making your own T-shirts? Don't you have people for that?" I asked. "Like professionals?" "Well,I usually travel with an army of professional T-shirt makers, but today I thought I'd go it alone." Jack didn't take his eyes off me as Cole spoke. I wasn't sure he was even listening,or aware Cole was there. "What are the screens for?" I asked. "Elvis Presley as a corpse.You wanna come look?" Cole gave me a grin as if he'd just asked if I wanted to see rainbows being made. "You had me at 'corpse.'" Jack chuckled. "Saying good-bye here. Remember?" I turned to Jack, rose up on my tiptoes, and kissed his lips lightly. "Two weeks,Jack. It'll fly by." I started to back up,but Jack grabbed my hand and pulled me close. "No you don't," he said. "The corpse can wait." He gave me a kiss that was not quite appropriate for public view,and I would've been embarrassed if I hadn't lost the ability to think straight. His arms reached around my back,and he pulled me in tight against him so that my feet were barely touching the ground. And things started disappearing around us,just like they did every time Jack kissed me. He pulled back. "What were you saying about two weeks?" "That it will feel like forever," I said, breathless. "That's better." Jack lowered his head so his forehead was touching mine. "Miss you." "Miss you too," I whispered.

In my family, there’s a long history of young girls becoming mothers—my great-grandmother, my grandmother, and my mother all had their first babies young, when they were just babies themselves.

PREFACE A New Look at the Legacy of Albert Einstein Genius. Absent-minded professor. The father of relativity. The mythical figure of Albert Einstein—hair flaming in the wind, sockless, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, puffing on his pipe, oblivious to his surroundings—is etched indelibly on our minds. “A pop icon on a par with Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe, he stares enigmatically from postcards, magazine covers, T-shirts, and larger-than-life posters. A Beverly Hills agent markets his image for television commercials. He would have hated it all,” writes biographer Denis Brian. Einstein is among the greatest scientists of all time, a towering figure who ranks alongside Isaac Newton for his contributions. Not surprisingly, Time magazine voted him the Person of the Century. Many historians have placed him among the hundred most influential people of the last thousand years.

Rocket Fever Grips Nation's Teenagers' cheers on enthusiastic newsreel, reflecting the nation's sudden reversal in attitude following the successful launch of Explorer-I into Earth orbit. Rather than being strange and threatening, outer space looks set to become the next big distraction after Elvis Presley and Davy Crockett hats. 'More and more teenagers are passing up rock and roll for a rocket role,' commentator Michael Fitzmaurice blithely remarks before very probably wishing he hadn't.

Yet she lays out this family plan the way you’d say, “After yoga, I’ll go to Lia’s for the mani-special and then wax on about hairstyles and hemlines until dinner.” If I were gifted at making long-term plans, which by now we all know I’m not, and if I was at all hopeful, which we all know that I can never be, although it crosses my mind that it’s entirely possible these are all just huge, f*&king, temporary setbacks and nothing more, even though it’s been going on for over three years now, since Holly died, and I met Lincoln Presley. Events that could be construed as somehow inevitably related. Yes, perhaps there’s an expiration date on the said pursuit of unhappiness. Perhaps, things will eventually go my way after I actually discover what that way is supposed to be.

We are each so atomically numerous and so vigorously recycled at death that a significant number of our atoms – up to a billion for each of us, it has been suggested3 – probably once belonged to Shakespeare. A billion more each came from Buddha and Genghis Khan and Beethoven, and any other historical figure you care to name. (The personages have to be historical, apparently, as it takes the atoms some decades to become thoroughly redistributed; however much you may wish it, you are not yet one with Elvis Presley.) So

no other man smells of sex, sin, and sweetness like Sutton Ellis — red-blooded, clean, aroused man, and I’m light-headed from the aroma. He tastes of salt, sweat, soap, and scandal; a luscious mix for which I hunger. His neck, muscles bulging with tension, jawline, slight stubble abrading my tongue, hands, those big, capable hands, flexing in and out on my hips… he’s perfection.

Here are some people who have written books, telling what they did and why they did those things: John Dean. Henry Kissinger. Adolf Hitler. Caryl Chessman. Jeb Magruder. Napoleon. Talleyrand. Disraeli. Robert Zimmerman, also known as Bob Dylan. Locke. Charlton Heston. Errol Flynn. The Ayatollah Khomeini. Gandhi. Charles Olson. Charles Colson. A Victorian Gentleman. Dr. X. Most people also believe that God has written a Book, or Books, telling what He did and why—at least to a degree—He did those things, and since most of these people also believe that humans were made in the image of God, then He also may be regarded as a person… or, more properly, as a Person. Here are some people who have not written books, telling what they did… and what they saw: The man who buried Hitler. The man who performed the autopsy on John Wilkes Booth. The man who embalmed Elvis Presley. The man who embalmed—badly, most undertakers say—Pope John XXIII. The twoscore undertakers who cleaned up Jonestown, carrying body bags, spearing paper cups with those spikes custodians carry in city parks, waving away the flies.

Sick Boy : It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What do you mean? Sick Boy : Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Some of his solo stuff's not bad. Sick Boy : No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : So who else? Sick Boy : Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make? Sick Boy : All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What about The Untouchables? Sick Boy : I don't rate that at all. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Despite the Academy Award? Sick Boy : That means fuck all. Its a sympathy vote. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it? Sick Boy : Yeah. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : That's your theory? Sick Boy : Yeah. Beautifully fucking illustrated.

They call each other ‘E.’ Elvis picks wildflowers near the river and brings them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him. In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports Levis and western blouses with rhinestones. Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers and T-shirts, a letterman’s jacket from Tupelo High. They take long walks and often hold hands. She prefers they remain just friends. Forever. Emily’s poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs, Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile. Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon he will play guitar and sing “I Taste A Liquor Never Brewed” to the tune of “Love Me Tender.” Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone in their cabins later, they’ll listen to the river and nap. They will not think of Amherst or Las Vegas. They know why God made them roommates. It’s because America was their hometown. It’s because God is a thing without feathers. It’s because God wears blue suede shoes.

sandy-haired, friendly, smiling, small-town attorney of Pennington, had been born in 1950 in a roach-infested Newark slum. His father had been a construction worker fully employed through World War II and Korea creating new factories, dockyards and government offices along the Jersey Shore. But with the ending of the Korean War, work had dried up. Cal was five when his mother walked out of the loveless union and left the boy to be raised by his father. The latter was a hard man, quick with his fists, the only law on many blue-collar jobs. But he was not a bad man and tried to live by the straight and narrow, and to raise his toddler son to love Old Glory, the Constitution and Joe DiMaggio. Within two years, Dexter Senior had acquired a trailer home so that he could move where the work was available. And that was how the boy was raised, moving from construction site to site, attending whichever school would take him, and then moving on. It was the age of Elvis Presley, Del Shannon, Roy Orbison and the Beatles, over from a country Cal had never heard of. It was also the age of Kennedy, the Cold War and Vietnam. His formal education was fractured to the point of near nonexistence, but he became wise in other ways: streetwise, fight-wise. Like his departed mother, he did not grow tall, topping out at five feet eight inches. Nor was he heavy and muscular like his father, but his lean frame packed fearsome stamina and his fists a killer punch. By seventeen, it looked as if his life would follow that of his father, shoveling dirt or driving a dump truck on building sites. Unless . . . In January 1968 he turned eighteen, and the Vietcong launched the Têt Offensive. He was watching TV in a bar in Camden. There was a documentary telling him about recruitment. It mentioned that if you shaped up, the Army would give you an education. The next day, he walked into the U.S. Army office in Camden and signed on. The master sergeant was bored. He spent his life listening to youths doing everything in their power to get out of going to Vietnam. “I want to volunteer,” said the youth in front of him. The master sergeant drew a form toward him, keeping eye contact like a ferret that does not want the rabbit to get away. Trying to be kindly, he suggested