Edna Stewart Quotes

Where would we be without the success of our mothers?
Edna Stewart
It's not the error in the book, it's the thought that counts.
Edna Stewart
Writing and art are my lovers
Edna Stewart
Thoughts thoughts. Are they not mine?I think, I write, I type.Thoughts. Are they wise?Let truth be told in words, compiled together, create a page, a book. Thoughts. Are they master piece?Is it a prize winner?...An Alfred Nobel?Thoughts. Are they not mine? Gift of God?they are not mine.
Edna Stewart
If I were a bean,... I wouldn't sulk all day long.
Edna Stewart
Hard work always pays off in the eyes of a God that never sleeps. . . . Who's always near and never far
Edna Stewart
If I love one lover,...I have loved many more.
Edna Stewart
Afghan GirlIce blue eyes that look to the morning sky as I knit the pieces and remnants of my life. I have No books, no paper, no pencils, and no black boards. I look at the holes in my life as I see the hills of the Appalachians that echo. I think to myself, who will I marry? Is my life-like Pari? These strings please come together. Snowflakes give me hope, and my dreams dance all around me. I‘ll put another log on the fire. I watch the brown paper bag over the broken glass pane letting the cold wind in; I’ll take some of these remnants and stuff it.These strings are come together. Mama told me that life would be hard. I bartered for flour the other day, and the chickens ain’t laying no eggs. I struggle with life and these strings. My hands are worn and tired. Now, I have granny square hands. I am unclean, unblemished, and finished, Afghan girl.
Edna Stewart
Life is not sugar coated.
Edna Stewart
Carpe DiemBy Edna StewartShakespeare, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman did it, why can't I?The words of Horace, his laconic phrase. Does it amuse me or frighten me?Does it rub salt in an old wound? Horace, Shakespeare, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman my loves,we've all had a taste of the devils carpe of forbidden food. My belly is full of mourning over life mishaps of should have's, missed pleasure, and why was I ever born?The leaf falls from the trees from which it was born in and cascade down like a feather that tumbles and toil in the wind.One gush! It blows away. It’s trampled, raked, burned and finally turns to ashes which fades away like the leaves of grass.Did Horace get it right? Trust in nothing?The shortness of Life is seventy years, Robert Frost and Whitman bared more, but Shakespeare did not.Butterflies of Curiosities allures me more.Man is mortal, the fruit is ripe. Seize more my darling! Enjoy the day.
Edna Stewart