Sharon Stone Quotes

Women can fake an orgasm, but men can fake an entire relationship.

Always carry a book on a date so that when you get bored you can slip into the Ladies for a read.

People don’t change their behavior unless it makes a difference for them to do so.

I might be manipulating you to create risk for myself.

The poet Rumi says: "How long will we fill our pockets like children with dirt and stones? Let the world go. Holding it, we never know ourselves, never are airborne.

I have learned to forgive the unforgivable. My hope is that as I share my journey, you too will learn to do the same.

Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake whole relationships.

I’ve seen him become sober so many times and do so well, and struggle to be a right guy. And fall apart again. But to what end?

I am working on forgiving the unforgivable.

If only we could know our parents when we are children.

Thus, the benefit of travel and open-mindedness: one can find one's own tribe.

It’s a natural thing, little girl, to let a memory fade. Like chiseling stone. If the carving is shallow, then the picture just wears itself away. And even if it is chiseled in good and deep, the edges still smooth out, soften. Time has a kindness like that. That’s as it should be…

we all miss out when we close our minds and borders to global understanding of one another. We all have so much to learn and to share with one another when not in an imaginary conflict, created by artifice and fear.

My father used to call me back from playtime in our giant yard, take me aside, and, putting his hand on my shoulder, say, “You are letting those boys beat you so that they will like you. Now, go out there and win, and they will respect you.

Write people's accomplishments in stone, and their faults in sand.

Her mother gave her a piece of warm biscuit and a hug before they left. "Stones don't cry, child. Remember that," was all she said.

Who will listen any more to their long, slow songs; who understands the language of stones? Not these people, for sure. They don't even know that the stones are alive.

Sou grata por tudo que Deus tirou de mim e por tudo que me deu.

As His Holiness the Dalai Lama said to me once, “A tiger does not apologize.

We can say that we are struggling. It helps them to know that we are only human and doing the best that we can. They aren’t stupid—they are just young. They aren’t as naïve as you might imagine.

What she helped me learn is that even compassion has boundaries. It is not for those who get up each day and choose a path of discord. This includes me. I have learned that I do not deserve compassion either if I do the same.

There is an exercise in a book I read by Pema Chödrön, an American woman who became a Buddhist nun, where you sit and concentrate on that which is overwhelming you and ask this energy, this thing, to overwhelm you totally; to consume you. At the point of total consumption, then you ask how many others are feeling this same exact thing at the same exact time and you ask to join their energy. I have found this to be the most healing and compassionate exercise.

Snuggle up with a hot fireman! Meet Tanner West. Sharon looked up into the most gorgeous face she had ever seen. Eyes like dark chocolate, deep and warm, stared out at her from a face that looked like it could have been chiseled in stone. Skin the color of burnished copper, high cheekbones, a sharp nose, full lips, and a cleft chin. How the hell had she failed to notice him before? Her heart skipped a beat and she ran her gaze down the rest of his body. He was tall, well over six feet, she would guess, with broad shoulders that tapered into a trim waist. His thighs, encased in worn denim, fit like a second skin against legs the size of tree trunks, and oh my, what lay between those thighs… Her attention snapped back to his face and she could feel the heat of a blush suffuse her skin.

Another challenge we face is describing something commonly thought of as ugly,imperfect or disgusting. Again, we’re likely to jump to conclusions. Rather than considering our subject firsthand and describing what we observe, we label it. Because we’ve already established, for instance, that slugs are disgusting, we go on to describe them as “slimy” creatures that leave “gooey trails.” Cliché upon cliché. But when we engage our all-accepting eye, when we look beyond surface prejudices and preconceptions into the actual nature of our subject, clichés disappear. In her poem “The Connoisseuse of Slugs,” Sharon Olds transforms her subject with descriptive phrases like “naked jelly of those gold bodies,/translucent strangers glistening among the/stones” and “glimmering umber horns/rising like telescopes.” Her description forces us to see an old subject in a new way. We no longer have to choose between ugliness and beauty; they have realigned themselves, each side illuminating the other. When we engage our all-accepting eye, we discover the flaw that makes surface beauty interesting as well as the arresting detail that redeems a seemingly ugly image. THE

FACT 4 – There is more to the creation of the Manson Family and their direction than has yet been exposed. There is more to the making of the movie Gimme Shelter than has been explained. This saga has interlocking links to all the beautiful people Robert Hall knew. The Manson Family and the Hell’s Angels were instruments to turn on enemy forces. They attacked and discredited politically active American youth who had dropped out of the establishment. The violence came down from neo-Nazis, adorned with Swastikas both in L.A. and in the Bay Area at Altamont. The blame was placed on persons not even associated with the violence. When it was all over, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were the icing on this cake, famed musicians associated with a racist, neo-Nazi murder. By rearranging the facts, cutting here and there, distorting evidence, neighbors and family feared their own youth. Charles Manson made the cover of Life with those wide eyes, like Rasputin. Charles Watson didn’t make the cover. Why not? He participated in all the killings. Manson wasn’t inside the house. Manson played a guitar and made records. Watson didn’t. He was too busy taking care of matters at the lawyer’s office prior to the killings, or with officials of Young Republicans. Who were Watson’s sponsors in Texas, where he remained until his trial, separate from the Manson Family’s to psychologically distance him from the linking of Watson to the murders he actually committed. “Pigs” was scrawled in Sharon Tate’s house in blood. Was this to make blacks the suspects? Credit cards of the La Bianca family were dropped intentionally in the ghetto after the massacre. The purpose was to stir racial fears and hatred. Who wrote the article, “Did Hate Kill Tate?”—blaming Black Panthers for the murders? Lee Harvey Oswald was passed off as a Marxist. Another deception. A pair of glasses was left on the floor of Sharon Tate’s home the day of the murder. They were never identified. Who moved the bodies after the killers left, before the police arrived? The Spahn ranch wasn’t a hippie commune. It bordered the Krupp ranch, and has been incorporated into a German Bavarian beer garden. Howard Hughes knew George Spahn. He visited this ranch daily while filming The Outlaw. Howard Hughes bought the 516 acres of Krupp property in Nevada after he moved into that territory. What about Altamont? What distortions and untruths are displayed in that movie? Why did Mick Jagger insist, “the concert must go on?” There was a demand that filmmakers be allowed to catch this concert. It couldn’t have happened the same in any other state. The Hell’s Angels had a long working relationship with law enforcement, particularly in the Oakland area. They were considered heroes by the San Francisco Chronicle and other newspapers when they physically assaulted the dirty anti-war hippies protesting the shipment of arms to Vietnam. The laboratory for choice LSD, the kind sent to England for the Stones, came from the Bay Area and would be consumed readily by this crowd. Attendees of the concert said there was “a compulsiveness to the event.” It had to take place. Melvin Belli, Jack Ruby’s lawyer, made the legal arrangements. Ruby had complained that Belli prohibited him from telling the full story of Lee Harvey Oswald’s murder (another media event). There were many layers of cover-up, and many names have reappeared in subsequent scripts. Sen. Philip Hart, a member of the committee investigating illegal intelligence operations inside the US, confessed that his own children told him these things were happening. He had refused to believe them. On November 18, 1975, Sen. Hart realized matters were not only out of hand, but crimes of the past had to be exposed to prevent future outrages. How shall we ensure that it will never happen again? It will happen repeatedly unless we can bring ourselves to understand and accept that it did go on.

If you want to have plastic surgery or cosmetic surgery, live it up; go ahead and have it. But if you don't want to have it, don't have it.

Chances are your vegetarian baby will have: 1. less likelihood of becoming obese; 2. a lower risk of lung cancer and alcoholism; 3. less risk of developing hypertension, coronary artery disease, non-insulin-dependent (type II) diabetes, and gallstones; 4. and possibly a lower risk of developing breast and colon cancer, diverticulosis, kidney stones, and osteoporosis.

At Bob Dylan’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 1988, Bruce Springsteen described hearing Dylan’s music for the very first time. Springsteen was fifteen, he said, riding in the car with his mother, idly listening to the radio, when “Like a Rolling Stone” came on. It was as though, Springsteen recalled, “somebody took his boot and kicked open the door to your mind.” His mother’s verdict: “That man can’t sing.” Mrs. Springsteen’s response reminds us that we don’t all react the same way to the same experience—and her son’s reminds us that life holds moments when our perspective dramatically shifts, when our assumptions are deeply challenged, when we see new possibilities or sense for the first time that whatever has been holding us back from freedom or creativity or new ventures might actually be overcome. There

Michelangelo was once asked how he would carve an elephant. He replied, “I would take a large piece of stone and take away everything that was not the elephant.

After Netanyahu was defeated in the 1999 election, his more liberal successor, Ehud Barak, made efforts to establish a broader peace in the Middle East, including outlining a two-state solution that went further than any previous Israeli proposal. Arafat demanded more concessions, however, and talks collapsed in recrimination. Meanwhile, one day in September 2000, Likud party leader Ariel Sharon led a group of Israeli legislators on a deliberately provocative and highly publicized visit to one of Islam’s holiest sites, Jerusalem’s Temple Mount. It was a stunt designed to assert Israel’s claim over the wider territory, one that challenged the leadership of Ehud Barak and enraged Arabs near and far. Four months later, Sharon became Israel’s next prime minister, governing throughout what became known as the Second Intifada: four years of violence between the two sides, marked by tear gas and rubber bullets directed at stone-throwing protesters; Palestinian suicide bombs detonated outside an Israeli nightclub and in buses carrying senior citizens and schoolchildren; deadly IDF retaliatory raids and the indiscriminate arrest of thousands of Palestinians; and Hamas rockets launched from Gaza into Israeli border towns, answered by U.S.-supplied Israeli Apache helicopters leveling entire neighborhoods. Approximately a thousand Israelis and three thousand Palestinians died during this period—including scores of children—and by the time the violence subsided, in 2005, the prospects for resolving the underlying conflict had fundamentally changed. The Bush administration’s focus on Iraq, Afghanistan, and the War on Terror left it little bandwidth to worry about Middle East peace, and while Bush remained officially supportive of a two-state solution, he was reluctant to press Sharon on the issue. Publicly, Saudi Arabia and other Gulf states continued to offer support to the Palestinian cause, but they were increasingly more concerned with limiting Iranian influence and rooting out extremist threats to their own regimes.

I am embarrassed; Sharon Stone as Catherine Tramell in Basic Instinct was more subtle than this.

Sharon told the officer than they had demolished forty-two buildings and inflicted ten or twelve casualties among the Arab home guard and the two soldiers in the jeep. But Sharon was wrong. A total of sixty-nine Jordanians died at Kibbiya, including women and children. Sharon denied any deliberate killing, stating that the Arab families must have hid in the attics and cellars of the stone buildings and were killed in the demolitions. With the world in an uproar over the action, the Israeli government distanced itself from the raid. According to Sharon, Kibbiya was a tragedy, but also a turning point. The army and public now knew they had the ability to strike back. They would be helpless victims no more. Ben-Gurion agreed. “This is going to give us the possibility of living here,” he told Sharon.10

Sometimes it is the part of us that is not like others that makes us special, that is our talent. I

Yes, there have been many points of view on this topic, but since I’m the one with the vagina in question, let me say: the other points of view are bullshit.

I don’t miss her; it’s like she is a person I knew very intimately, but not me. I remember my childhood, I remember the majority of my life, like every person in their sixties. But my feelings are objective about before. I imagine that most people who survive extreme life-and-death circumstances feel this way. I speak with soldiers easily about this. I spoke to Aron Ralston, the guy who had to cut his own arm off to get out from under a boulder in a remote part of Utah. Each time I meet someone who has been to the edge, it’s like we have a shorthand. There is an absence of baggage. There is a need to serve.

That opened me to understand that we can forgive anyone just about anything when we separate them from their issues, illnesses, and faults. When we step away from the dangerously ill, and criminally insane, and make laws to get them the help, healing, and quarantine that they may need.

Now that we, my sister and I, are talking to her, truthfully; now that we have broken this vow of silence and someone else’s shame; now that our perpetrator, dead since we were little, is dead of his control: now we are present with one another. The real brutality of that is that it is decades later. The stigma put upon us, by society, by its shameful lack of action, by secrets in families, in culture, in religions, in misogynistic realities everywhere, is out in the open. Yet we lost a lifetime of love, of our family.

Once you’ve had your life burn down, it takes time to be a Phoenix.

I opened the door to my own cage and freed myself. My illnesses ended. I demanded good medical care and got it. I respected myself and, with compassion for my whole self, got it. I learned that my anger was a beautiful thing. A powerful part of me, like my other valuable senses, like smell and taste and touch. That anger, when used properly, when controlled, when chosen appropriately, is a valuable action.

For those of us who have felt this broken piece that has left us unable to mate as others seem to do, there is such comfort in solitude. There is comfort in the alone time, I guess. Or it just seems less dangerous.

Clinton said he liked Arafat personally, didn’t care for nor trust Netanyahu, and the only Israeli the PLO trusted was the right-wing general Ariel Sharon, their foe, but a man of his word.

Women might be able to fake orgasms. But men can fake a whole relationship.” ― Sharon Stone.

As a culture, our failure to understand or embrace aging is also related to the fact that we are increasingly and profoundly cut off from nature, and thus from the natural cycles and rhythms of our human life. And yet the old women in our old stories, without exception, are forces of nature, and of the ancestral Otherworld which is so beautifully entangled with this world. There are no twice-removed, transcendental star-goddesses here; no twinkly fairy queens, reluctant to sully themselves with the dirt and mess of physical incarnation. Our old women are the dark heart of the forest, the stone womb of the mountain, immanent in the living land itself. They’re elemental beings: storm hags, fire keepers, grandmothers of the sea. They show us how to live when everything we thought mattered to us has been stripped away; they teach us how to stay rooted in the face of inevitable death. They teach us how to stand firm in the face of all the culture’s bullshit, and laugh.

Cleopatra the Alchemist, who is believed to have lived in Alexandria around the third or fourth centuries CE, is one of four female alchemists who were thought to have been able to produce the rare and much-sought-after philosopher’s stone. She is a foundational figure in alchemy, and made great use of original imagery which reflects conception and birth — representing the renewal and transformation of life. She also experimented with practical alchemy (the forerunner of modern chemistry) and is credited by some with having invented the alembic, an apparatus used for distillation. Her mentor was Maria the Jewess, who lived in Alexandria sometime between the first and third centuries CE; she is similarly credited with the invention of several kinds of chemical apparatuses and is considered to be the first true alchemist of the Western world. In 1964, the great surrealist artist Leonora Carrington painted Maria, depicting her as a woman-lion chimera with breasts exposed and hair wildly flailing around her, as she weaves magical gold-summoning spells. Actually, female alchemists in Greco-Roman Egypt weren’t uncommon, though they were mostly preoccupied with concocting fragrances and cosmetics. In fact, it was a collective of female alchemists in ancient Egypt who invented beer, setting up an unsurprisingly booming business by the Nile. This is all a far cry from the popular image of an alchemist: that of a lavishly dressed and usually bearded man in a medieval laboratory, bending over a fire and surrounded by all manner of arcane contraptions, trying to turn lead into gold.

There is musicless song, down there, atonal, coming up from salt beating on stone, beat without melody, mineral percussion, as matter, like a sadist, played on your darling bones

That love is a comfort to me. I know that the balm it now offers as I feel the wound of his loss will stay with me and transform this grief into something else.

This identity has a fuzzy-socks basket, a fire in the fireplace, dogs snoring on the couch. A library full of books to read and to look at.

No one can ever make your dream perfect but you.

I needed to grieve alone, not as a group and not as a spectacle.

Oh, sometimes I continue to step on my tongue or go where I shouldn't, but all in all, there is so much work to be done.

It is easier to see who is real and truthful and who is pretending for nefarious reasons. While it can feel lonely to realize this piece of life, it is important to spend this alone time, to find a deeper place within oneself.

I had to meet my mother as a person, separate from my childhood experiences and judgements of her, and know her from an adult perspective.

I have seen the greatest beauty. The wonders of the world, and the wonders of my eye.

Donny, don't be like this.” “I saw you checkin' out Justin backstage.” “Huh? What are you talkin' about?” “You savin' it for him?” “What? You trippin'! Justin means nothing to me. Why you always gotta go there?” “I'm just sayin'..." “Take me home, Donny. Please. Don't make me prove anything tonight. I need to be alone to think and rest. Please.” He stopped at another red light, reached over and grabbed her left arm. Hard. His fingernails clawed into her skin. Layla cried out. “You're hurting me,” she whispered. “Love hurts,” he said sharply. He released her arm when the light changed, but his face was stone. “I want to go home,” she pleaded, rubbing her arm. “Okay, you win,” he said finally. “But remember, you owe me.

Initially, Mendel’s work on the mating habits of mice seemed simple enough. But eventually, to Schaffgotsch, it simply went too far.3 For starters, the caged rodents in Mendel’s spacious, stone-floored quarters gave off a stench that Schaffgotsch found incompatible with the tidy life expected of a monk of the Augustinian order. Then there was the sex. Mendel, who like all of the monks at St. Thomas had taken a vow of consecrated chastity, seemed obsessively interested in how the furry little creatures were getting it on. That, Schaffgotsch figured, was beyond the pale. So the dour bishop ordered the inquisitive young monk to shut down his little mouse brothel. If Mendel were, as he professed, purely interested in how traits move from one generation of living creatures to the next, he’d have to be content with something less titillating. Something like peas.

As they tramped in, Temo turned from the big stone barbecue with a long grilling fork in his hand. He froze at the sight of Dayna. Once more, it was as though the two of them were alone in the sunny ramada with its roof of woven grass and the light filtering through on their faces. No one else mattered. A short woman with her hair piled on her head hurried from behind the barbecue with a platter of tacos in her hand. “Temo, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends?” she asked with a smile. “Temo, what is wrong? Are you sick?” “No, Madre,” Temo muttered, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off Dayna. Dayna’s mother, Brenda Regis, picked that exact moment to stride in from the spa. “Howdy, everybody,” she crooned. “Hope you’re all hungry as coyotes.” She glanced at her daughter, who was still gazing at Temo with lovesick eyes. “Dayna, what’s the matter with you, honey?” She looked Dayna up and down, then her eyes went to Temo, and then to Temo’s mother. The two women stiffened. Say something, Sophie prayed silently to Dayna. Order Temo around in that bossy voice of yours. Quick, before your mother and his mother figure this out. But Dayna stood stunned, incapable of speech. Sophie gave Liv a nudge. “Follow my lead,” she whispered and then in a louder voice shouted, “Hey, is this a good time to break the piñata?” She dived forward to snatch the long fork from Temo’s hand. “Whee!” she shouted. “Fun! Come on, everybody. Let’s see what’s inside!” She poked at the paper horse. Liv grabbed a barbecue brush and bashed at it too. Cheyenne and Hailey joined in with shouts of glee. The paper horse flew to pieces, scattering small objects and cactus candy all over the picnic table. Some fell into the punch bowl with a splash. More landed in the salad plate. Laughter and confusion broke the spell of tension in the air as they all dived for the piñata’s. Dayna snapped out of her trance. “Look what I’ve got!” She held up a plastic whistle, then blew a shrill note. “Time to eat, everybody.” Temo turned back to the barbecue. The spell was broken, the danger past. His mother, Marita, gave him another frightened glance, but went on laying food on the table. Dayna’s mother picked a piece of candy out of her hair and said, “Well! We usually break the piñata after the meal, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Lord, thank You for reassurance. Help us to love. Turn our hearts of stone to hearts of flesh. —Sharon Foster

memorable for meeting Sharon Stone—a truly attractive woman, in the real sense of light in the eyes attractive—and smart and funny. No wonder she doesn’t have a man.