Peter Capaldi Quotes

Somewhere, a long way away, people are doing sensible things like mowing lawns and digging gardens.

I don't like weeds! My father made me mow weeds and cut weeds when I was a kid. I've hated weeds ever since I was 12 years old. I'll never go in the weeds! I'll never gonna take you in the weeds.

I go out and walk around the yard. Sometimes I'll cut grass.

I grew up at my grandmother's house and she had a beautiful garden. I used to hate mowing the lawn and weeding, which is what you do when you're a kid.

My first job was cutting grass. In Miami, this grass grows everywhere. You just get the lawn mower out, walk down the neighborhood, cut grass.

Mowing your lawn is against nature.

Grass is the least rewarding of all status symbols... The grass does nothing but drink money, exhaust energies, crush spirits, destroy sleep, create tensions and interfere with the watching of baseball games, and sprout insolent signs ordering humans to keep off it.

Grass is growing on the Front Bench.

You might be a redneck if it's easier to spray weed killer on your lawn than mow it.

I'm petrified of spiders, I've just never liked them.

I fear not living fully.

I don't have any real phobias, but I don't like creepy crawlies just like everyone else.

I had not seen lawns till fifth grade - big green lawns.

Poppy doesn't really like interviews.

I would rather eat broken glass and drink iodine than do the dishes.

Hate showers, they're weird.

But come here, Fear. / I am alive! / And you are so afraid / of dying.

I wouldn't warm to [Chuck Berry] even if I was cremated next to him.

Nothing is more pleasant to the eye than green grass kept finely shorn.

Thursday? Oh no, it can't be! It's too gruesome.

If somebody says, "Oh, we're going to improvise!," I'm like, Oh, get me out of here.

And think what worrying does: has anyone ever added a single hour to the length of his life by worrying about it?

I hate watching myself. It's terrible. It's horrifying.

GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

No one has the least regard for the man; with them all, he has been an object of avoidance, suspicion, and aversion; but the spark of life within him is curiously separable from himself now, and they have a deep interest in it, probably because it IS life, and they are living and must die.