Best Bed Quotes

The other night I was lying in bed, looking up at the stars, and I wondered, ‘Where the hell is my roof?

What’s money? A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.

I wake up, eat, make a beat. Play Xbox, make another beat and go to bed. Occasionally do something. I rarely party.

I would never do a role where I’m naked in bed with a chick having sex.

When you’re in bed, you’re dead

Half the joys and half the sorrows of this world are discovered in bed.

I am opposed to writing about the private lives of living authors and psychoanalyzing them while they are alive. Criticism is getting all mixed up with a combination of the Junior FBI-men, discards from Freud and Jung and a sort of Columnist peep-hole and missing laundry list school. … Every young English professor sees gold in them dirty sheets now. Imagine what they can do with the soiled sheets of four legal beds by the same writer and you can see why their tongues are slavering.

There is no such thing as a bed of roses all your life.

You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.

The amount of relief and comfort experienced by the sick after the skin has been carefully washed and dried, is one of the commonest observations made at a sick bed.

I am not young but I feel young. The day I feel old, I will go to bed and stay there. J’aime la vie! I feel that to live is a wonderful thing.

There are people who go to bed hungry, and that is unconscionable.

It’s a cruel season that makes you get ready for bed while it’s light out.

A man of sixty has spent twenty years in bed and over three years in eating.

Made my bed and here I lie, try to hold my head up high. Lying to myself sometimes, bad decisions but I, I won’t cry.

My idea of absolute happiness is to be in bed on a rainy day, with my blankie, my cat, and my dog.

You must sleep sometime between lunch and dinner, and no halfway measures. Take off your clothes and get into bed. That’s what I always do.

It is no small benefit on finding oneself in bed in the dark to go over again in the imagination the main lines of the forms previously studied, or other noteworthy things conceived by ingenious speculation.

You’re just being cryptic again. It’s like soap opera sex. Lots of boring dialogue and when they finally do go to bed, everything’s dark and covered by blankets.

My kids can’t watch (‘Howard the Duck’). By the time I get in bed with the duck, they are, like, ‘Turn it off, mom. You in bed with a duck is just pretty much a deal breaker.’

And the day climbs down from its blue loft-bed on a slanting ladder of sunbeams, pauses a moment between the trees, airy-light, young.

I’m feeling very angry right now, because I have only one bed and no couch.

I think it’s probably best to work out in the morning to get it out of the way. My ultimate top tip is to drag yourself, even if you have to roll yourself out of your bed and in to a sit-up – it’s really not that bad once you start.

I have to say that it was a very strange experience when, later in life, I represented Byron Scott and was negotiating with West – whose picture I used to have over my bed! That took some getting used to.

I roll out of bed in the morning, whenever I want, and I work right away because, to me, that’s the life. That’s freedom. The whole point for me is that I love the freedom of being an entrepreneur that I do what I want to do when I want to do it.

Life excites me-just little, normal, everyday things. Getting out of bed. Getting dressed. Making food. I find it all exciting.

When I write this in bed, I can almost hear the echo of the wind over the sand, or the groans of wooden panels around me. I can almost smell the dustiness of the camel, taste the bitterness of saltbush. And when I dream, your warm hands cover my shoulders. Your whispers carry stories and sound like the rustle of spinifex. I still wear that ring, you know… at night, when no one is watching.

It’s a joy to work where I live, and come home and sleep in my own bed.

I was a hoarder, and I got rid of everything. Now nothing comes in my home unless it has a purpose. And decor is not a purpose. Home is New York apartment with a table, a bed and sofas. That’s it. Everything else is gone.

I wish I had as much in bed as I get in the newspapers.

I don’t go out that much anymore, unfortunately. I used to enjoy it, but I’m just so busy. Like last night, everybody else went out, and I just went straight home and went to bed.

I always thought that if you had any real proximity to famous people, that your obsession with famous people, would wane is some way. Like, I wouldn’t want to deep google Matthew McConaughey’s early relationships for hours before I go to bed. And it’s just gotten worse.

The stillness and stasis of bed are the perfect opposite of travel: inertia is what I’ve come to consider the default mode, existentially and electronically speaking. Bed, its utter inactivity, offers a glimpse of eternity, without the drawback of being dead.

I don’t like waking up. I feel like staying in bed usually, but I can’t because I’ve got two kids standing next to my bed, just eager to live another day.

Even from my sick bed, even if you are going to lower me into the grave and I feel something is going wrong, I will get up.