All the way back in 1999, when I first stumbled upon the idea of a project tracking John Dillinger and Baby Face Nelson and all the major Depression-era bank robbers, I thought the subject was too big to be a single book. Instead, with a friend's help, I pitched the idea as a miniseries to HBO. To my amazement, they bought it.
All the way back to 2010, the takeover of Congress, there is an unnerved part of the public that understands the history of Hillary Clinton. We've seen her for decades. They understand Donald Trump. There's no disclosure needed there. The sour grapes that we are experiencing isn't going to make a better tasting wine for the Democrats in the future.
All the way back to Dartmouth, I was part of the insurgency.
All the way home, his wound pulsing with every hearbeat, he had cursed himself for a fool. How could he think she loved him? He had never been loved in his life, save perhaps by Erik and the other men who had served with him across the sea, and that was the love of comrades. He had never known the love of women, just their embrace. Twice he had found tears running down his face.
All the way out I listen to the car AM radio, bad lyrics of trailer park love, gin and tonic love, strobe light love, lost and found love, lost and found and lost love, lost and lost and lost love--some people were having no luck at all. The DJ sounds quick and smooth and after-shaved, the rest of the world a mess by comparison.
All the way through, we have been willing to take risks, provided at the end of it we can get a decent lasting settlement in Northern Ireland.
All the way to heaven is heaven, because Jesus said, I am the way.
All the ways of this world are as fickle and unstable as a sudden storm at sea.
All the wealthiest people in the U.S. seem compelled to brag about how humble they are.
All the weird inconveniences of adult life that you thought they made up to lend excitement and color to episodes of 'Sex and the City' are, in fact, real.
All the well-meaning advice in the world won't amount to a hill of beans if we're not even addressing the real problem.
All the while they were talking the half-remembered rhyme kept running through Winston's head. Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's, You owe me three farthings, say the bells of St. Martin's! It was curious, but when you said it to yourself you had the illusion of actually hearing bells, the bells of a lost London that still existed somewhere or other, disguised and forgotten. From one ghostly steeple after another he seemed to hear them pealing forth. Yet so far as he could remember he had never in real life heard church bells ringing.
All the while, believe me, I prayed our night would last twice as long.
All the while, that seemingly sympathetic sun was growing a little fiercer, smiling a little broader. Sometimes the land didn't have to get you. You got yourself.
All the white meat is gone. There's nothin' but necks on the platter.
All the wild beasts have been extinct for years, but it's perfectly possible to synthesize them autobiogenically. On the other hand, why be bound to what was once produced by natural evolution? The spokesman for surrealist zoology was most eloquent -- we should populate our preserves with bold, original conceptions, not slavish imitations, we should forge the New, not plagiarize the Old.
All the wild sweetness of the flower
Tangled against the wall.
It was that magic, silent hour....
The branches grew so tall
They twined themselves into a bower.
The sun shown ... and the fall
Of yellow blossom on the grass!
You feel that golden rain?
Both of you could not hold, alas,
(both of you tried, in vain)
A memory, stranger. So I pass....
It will not come again.
All the wild world is beautiful, and it matters but little where we go, to highlands or lowlands, woods or plains, on the sea or land or down among the crystals of waves or high in a balloon in the sky; through all the climates, hot or cold, storms and calms, everywhere and always we are in God's eternal beauty and love. So universally true is this, the spot where we chance to be always seems the best.
All the wild-witches, those most notable ladies For all their broom-sticks and their tears, Their angry tears, are gone.