A Score To Settle Quotes

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As some find picking on people a treasured entertainment, ‘recreational bullying’ has become their devious tool, to satisfy an exhibitionist urge to outdo themselves, by dredging up acerbic stories for score-settling and airing dirty laundry. ("On a doggy day")
Erik Pevernagie
There's a tavern by the docks. He's there most evenings." "Then I'll talk to him tonight," Halt said. "You can try. But he's a hard case, Halt. I'm not sure you'll get anything out of him. He's not interested in money. I tried that." "Well, perhaps he'll do it out of the goodness of his heart. I'm sure he'll open up to me," Halt said easily. But Horace noticed a gleam in his eye. He was right: the prospect of having something to do had reawakened Halt's spirits. He had a score to settle, and Horace found himself thinking that it didn't bode well for this Black O'Malley character. Will eyes Halt doubtfully, however. "You think so." Halt smiled at him. "People love talking to me," he said. "I'm an excellent conversationalist and I have a sparkling personality. Ask Horace. I've been bending his ear all the way from Dun Kilty, haven't I?" Horace nodded confirmation. "Talking nonstop all the way, he's been," he said. "Be glad to see him turn all that chatter onto someone else.
John Flanagan (Halt's Peril (Ranger's Apprentice, #9))
The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. "Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think I will forget what you tried to do to her." Vernon paled. "You can't touch me." Manon dug her nails in deeper. "No, I can't," she purred into his ear. "But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle." She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon's green tonic before she stalked from the room.
Sarah J. Maas (Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4))
One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward.
Rudyard Kipling (The Jungle Book)
Tremble for yourself, my man, You know that you have seen this all before Tremble Little Lion Man, You'll never settle any of your scores Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck Now learn from your mother or else spend your days Biting your own neck
Mumford & Sons
I liked peanut butter. Peanut butter never got another woman pregnant. Peanut butter never made me cry. Nobody cared if you were photographed in a club with a jar of Jif.
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
We all had to pay, but not for the crimes we were accused of. There were other scores to settle.
Azar Nafisi (Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books)
Like water, many decent individuals will seek lower ground if left to their own inclinations. In most cases you are the one who inspires and demands they go upward rather than settle for the comfort of doing what comes easily.
Bill Walsh (The Score Takes Care of Itself)
There's always more." "More money, more mayhem, more scores to settle. Was there never another dream?
Leigh Bardugo (Six of Crows (Six of Crows, #1))
Saints!” his father gasped. “This city is worse than the guidebooks said!” “Da, it isn’t the city,” Jesper said, pulling the pistol from his coat. “They’re after me. Or after us. Hard to say.” “Who’s after you?” Jesper exchanged a glance with Wylan. Jan Van Eck? A rival gang looking to settle a score? Pekka Rollins or someone else Jesper had borrowed money from? “There’s a long list of potential suitors. We need to get out of here before they introduce themselves more personally.
Leigh Bardugo (Crooked Kingdom (Six of Crows, #2))
You're not like other Wasps." "Aren't I?" Aagen smiled, but it was a painful smile. "No doubt you've killed my kinsmen by the score." "A few," Salma allowed. "Well, next time you shed my kinden's blood, think on this: we are but men, no less nor more than other men, and we strive and feel joy and fail as men have always done. We live in the darkness that is the birthright of us all, that of hurt and ignorance, only sometimes... sometimes there comes the sun." He let the bowl fall from his fingers to the floor, watching it spin and settle, unbroken.
Adrian Tchaikovsky (Empire in Black and Gold (Shadows of the Apt, #1))
There are so many battles to fight...so many scores to settle.
Elise Title (Romeo)
Who are you going swimming with?” Kinsley asked again. “You’re not supposed to end a sentence with a preposition,” I replied. “Stop changing the subject! With whom do you plan to swim?!
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
I hope your plan involves a time machine so you can go back and kill baby Caroline - and baby Hitler too, I suppose, if there’s time.
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
I think of all that is happening elsewhere, as I lie here. Nearby, I can hear the sounds of a road crew. Somewhere else, monkeys chatter in trees. A male seahorse becomes pregnant. A diamond forms, a bee dances out directions, a windshield shatters. Somewhere a mother spreads peanut butter for her son's lunch, a lover sighs, a knitter binds off the edge of a sleeve. Clouds gather to make rain, corn ripens on the stalk, a cancer cell divides, a little league team scores. Somewhere blossoms open, a man pushes a knife in deeper, a painter darkens her blue. A cashier pours new dimes into an outstretched hand, rainbows form and fade, plates in the earth shift and settle. A woman opens a velvet box, male spiders pluck gently on the females' webs, falcons fall from the sky. Abstracts are real and time is a lie, it cannot be measured when one moment can expand to hold everything. You can want to live and end up choosing death; and you can want to die and end up living. What keeps us here, really? A thread that breaks in a breeze. And yet a thread that cannot be broken
Elizabeth Berg (Never Change)
Do women exist only to be used by men to settle their scores?
Volga (The Liberation of Sita)
She sits and listens with crossed legs under the batik house-wrap she wears, with her heavy three-way-piled hair and cigarette at her mouth and refuses me - for the time being, anyway - the most important things I ask of her. It's really kind of tremendous how it all takes place. You'd never guess how much labor goes into it. Only some time ago it occurred to me how great an amount. She came back from the studio and went to take a bath, and from the bath she called out to me, "Darling, please bring me a towel." I took one of those towel robes that I had bought at the Bon Marche' department store and came along with it. The little bathroom was in twilight. In the auffe-eua machine, the brass box with teeth of gas burning, the green metal dropped crumbs inside from the thousand-candle blaze. Her body with its warm woman's smell was covered with water starting in a calm line over her breasts. The glass of the medicine chest shone (like a deep blue place in the wall, as if a window to the evening sea and not the ashy fog of Paris. I sat down with the robe over my; shoulder and felt very much at peace. For a change the apartment seemed clean and was warm; the abominations were gone into the background, the stoves drew well and they shone. Jacqueline was cooking dinner and it smelled of gravy. I felt settled and easy, my chest free and my fingers comfortable and open. And now here's the thing. It takes a time like this for you to find out how sore your heart has been, and, moreover, all the while you thought you were going around idle terribly hard work was taking place. Hard, hard work, excavation and digging, mining, moiling through tunnels, heaving, pushing, moving rock, working, working, working, working, panting, hauling, hoisting. And none of this work is seen from the outside. It's internally done. It happens because you are powerless and unable to get anywhere, to obtain justice or have requital, and therefore in yourself you labor, you wage and combat, settle scores, remember insults, fight, reply, deny, blab, denounce, triumph, outwit, overcome, vindicate, cry, persist, absolve, die and rise again. All by yourself? Where is everybody? Inside your breast and skin, the entire cast.
Saul Bellow (All Marbles Accounted for)
Jarndyce and Jarndyce drones on. This scarecrow of a suit has, in course of time, become so complicated that no man alive knows what it means. The parties to it understand it least, but it has been observed that no two Chancery lawyers can talk about it for five minutes without coming to a total disagreement as to all the premises. Innumerable children have been born into the cause; innumerable young people have married into it; innumerable old people have died out of it. Scores of persons have deliriously found themselves made parties in Jarndyce and Jarndyce without knowing how or why; whole families have inherited legendary hatreds with the suit. The little plaintiff or defendant who was promised a new rocking-horse when Jarndyce and Jarndyce should be settled has grown up, possessed himself of a real horse, and trotted away into the other world. Fair wards of court have faded into mothers and grandmothers; a long procession of Chancellors has come in and gone out; the legion of bills in the suit have been transformed into mere bills of mortality; there are not three Jarndyces left upon the earth perhaps since old Tom Jarndyce in despair blew his brains out at a coffee-house in Chancery Lane; but Jarndyce and Jarndyce still drags its dreary length before the court, perennially hopeless.
Charles Dickens
a wonder you’ve evaded the government for so long—but you can’t hide now, not when your own family or friends are at risk. I have no sympathy for a criminal, I remind myself harshly. Just a score to settle.
Marie Lu (Legend (Legend, #1))
I. My first thought was, he lied in every word, That hoary cripple, with malicious eye Askance to watch the workings of his lie On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford Suppression of the glee, that pursed and scored Its edge, at one more victim gained thereby. II. What else should he be set for, with his staff? What, save to waylay with his lies, ensnare All travellers who might find him posted there, And ask the road? I guessed what skull-like laugh Would break, what crutch 'gin write my epitaph For pastime in the dusty thoroughfare. III. If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet acquiescingly I did turn as he pointed, neither pride Now hope rekindling at the end descried, So much as gladness that some end might be. IV. For, what with my whole world-wide wandering, What with my search drawn out through years, my hope Dwindled into a ghost not fit to cope With that obstreperous joy success would bring, I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made, finding failure in its scope. V. As when a sick man very near to death Seems dead indeed, and feels begin and end The tears and takes the farewell of each friend, And hears one bit the other go, draw breath Freelier outside, ('since all is o'er,' he saith And the blow fallen no grieving can amend;') VI. When some discuss if near the other graves be room enough for this, and when a day Suits best for carrying the corpse away, With care about the banners, scarves and staves And still the man hears all, and only craves He may not shame such tender love and stay. VII. Thus, I had so long suffered in this quest, Heard failure prophesied so oft, been writ So many times among 'The Band' to wit, The knights who to the Dark Tower's search addressed Their steps - that just to fail as they, seemed best, And all the doubt was now - should I be fit? VIII. So, quiet as despair I turned from him, That hateful cripple, out of his highway Into the path he pointed. All the day Had been a dreary one at best, and dim Was settling to its close, yet shot one grim Red leer to see the plain catch its estray. IX. For mark! No sooner was I fairly found Pledged to the plain, after a pace or two, Than, pausing to throw backwards a last view O'er the safe road, 'twas gone; grey plain all round; Nothing but plain to the horizon's bound. I might go on, naught else remained to do. X. So on I went. I think I never saw Such starved ignoble nature; nothing throve: For flowers - as well expect a cedar grove! But cockle, spurge, according to their law Might propagate their kind with none to awe, You'd think; a burr had been a treasure trove. XI. No! penury, inertness and grimace, In some strange sort, were the land's portion. 'See Or shut your eyes,' said Nature peevishly, It nothing skills: I cannot help my case: Tis the Last Judgement's fire must cure this place Calcine its clods and set my prisoners free.
Robert Browning
Life has an uncanny way of tying up a host of loose ends. Not in the neat, all-creases-matching, hospital corner-to-corner kind of way, but in a cloudy, murky, uncertain mish-mash collection of what ifs, could haves, and a bus load of should haves kind of way. But what happens when all the magnificent stars in the heavens and all the resolute planets in the galaxy agree to simultaneously align? What happens when the glorious birds of prey in the sky and the steadfast worker ants of the ground all decide to ally? And more intriguingly, what happens when the settling of old hurts and scores becomes so alluring, so certain, with the whispered promise of everlasting, as to lure with it a collection of hardly surviving, barely functioning, scattered, and damaged souls together once again? As one door finally seemed to close tightly shut, two others flung wide open, and the darkness of life’s most protected secrets and haunts invited the crippling unknown to bask once again in the glaring, naked light.
Sahar Abdulaziz (As One Door Closes)
His eyes went again to the crucifix above his head, reflected in the mirror. The strained arms, the arched spine. All that effort to open the gates of heaven for us and we (he thought) probably spend our first hours among the heavenly hosts settling old scores with relatives.
Alice McDermott (After This)
That blood only makes more blood. That settling one score only starts another. That war gives a bastard of a sour taste to any man that’s not half-mad, and it only gets worse with time.’ She didn’t disagree. ‘So you know why I’d rather be free of it. Make something grow. Something to be proud of, instead of just breaking. Be . . . a good man, I guess.
Joe Abercrombie (Best Served Cold (First Law World, #4))
Unfortunately, Erica's talent was acting, his writing, and gauging by her superior smirk, she was a reader, too, and he an open book.
Eden Winters (Settling the Score)
If Ioseph Cavan's followers want to settle the score with Gillian Gallagher's great-great-granddaughter, then they're going to have to deal with all of us. - Cam
Ally Carter (Don't Judge a Girl by Her Cover (Gallagher Girls, #3))
He had scores to settle with the world, and she, at that moment, was world enough for him.
John Banville
You can get over a broken heart or settle the score and move on. Guilt though, you let that bitch in, you’re wedded for life.
Michael Reilly (Misisipi)
Second, I was helping the modern Sioux settle their score with the ancient Arikara: helping them “count final coup,” as they call it. But
William M. Bass (Death's Acre: Inside the Legendary Forensic Lab the Body Farm Where the Dead Do Tell Tales)
Maybe it was the masks or maybe it was Rio. There was something in the air, the promise of pleasure that made it impossible to stop. “You’re
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
sometimes the best way to get out of a slump is to get a good hump!” “Yes!
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
I get that you’re drunk and injured, and I love you— but this is too much,” she said, throwing a towel at me. “I just saw your entire vagina.” I smiled, drunk with self-pity. “Pretty good, right?
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
When a leader used his power over the ruled for the purpose of settling scores and inflating his self-esteem, for remaking society according to his own grand designs, class warfare and genocide ensued.
Dean Koontz (Innocence)
What exactly is a Rubik’s Cube party?” Becca asked. “It’s simple: everyone wears different colors - red shirt, blue shorts, green socks, whatever - and once you get to the party, you have to swap clothes with people until you’re wearing all of the same color.” Kinsley tsked. “Sounds like an excuse to see people in their skivvies.” I tossed my luggage onto my bed. “Yes, well, isn’t that basically the meaning of life in the first place?
R.S. Grey (Settling the Score (The Summer Games, #1))
As anywhere else, political instability provided an opportunity for local scores to be settled, for personal grievances to be aired, for heroes to be acclaimed and discarded, giving full reign to the fickle fortunes of war.
Charles Emmerson (1913: In Search of the World Before the Great War)
avenge, revenge. Generally, avenge indicates the settling of a score or the redressing of an injustice. It is more dispassionate than revenge, which indicates retaliation taken largely for the sake of personal satisfaction.
Bill Bryson (Troublesome Words)
I settle back in my seat, gazing out the window as we cross the bridge toward New Jersey. I don’t know where the heck he’s taking me, but I’m happy to let him. I’d follow Dean Di Laurentis to the ends of the earth. To the bowels of a volcano, if he asked me to be the Meg Ryan to his Tom Hanks. To fucking Mordor, if he asked me to be the Sam to his Frodo. To— “We’re here,” he announces. I’m jolted out of the most ridiculous train of thought I’ve ever ridden.
Elle Kennedy (The Score (Off-Campus, #3))
It is true that there's too much official and indirect power. Often and often the thing a whole nation can't settle is just the thing a family could settle. Scores of young criminals have been fined and sent to jail when they ought to have been thrashed and sent to bed. Scores of men, I am sure, have had a lifetime at Hanwell when they only wanted a week at Brighton. There is something in Smith's notion of domestic self-government; and I propose that we put it into practice. Chesterton, Gilbert K.. Manalive
G.K. Chesterton
This is Glesca.... Any time you're confused, take a wee minute to remind yourself of that inescapable fact: this is Glesca. We don't do subtle, we don't do nuanced, we don't do conspiracy. We do pish-heid bampot bludgeoning his girlfriend to death in a fit of paranoid rage induced by forty-eight hours straight on the batter. We do coked-up neds jumping on a guy's heid outside a nightclub because he looked at them funny. We do drug-dealing gangster rockets shooting other drug-dealing gangster rockets as comeback for something almost identical a fortnight ago. We do bam-on-bam. We do tit-for-tat, score-settling, feuds, jealousy, petty revenge. We do straightforward. We do obvious. We do cannaemisswhodunit. When you hear hoofbeats on Sauchiehall Street, it's gaunny be a horse, no' a zebra...'.
Christopher Brookmyre (Where the Bodies Are Buried (Jasmine Sharp and Catherine McLeod, #1))
People who succeed in life do not go around settling scores. They do not even keep score. They “run up the score” by doing good to others, even when the others do not deserve it. They give them better than they are given. And as a result, they often bring the other person up to their level instead of being brought down to the level of the other. They are a redemptive force carrying a good infection wherever they go, infusing relationships with health; infusing businesses with health; and infusing communities with health. They change things for the better.
Henry Cloud (9 Things You Simply Must Do to Succeed in Love and Life: A Psychologist Learns from His Patients What Really Works and What Doesn't)
There was nothing accidental about what happened that morning. Nothing incidental. It was no stray mugging or personal settling of scores. This was an era imprinting itself on those who lived in it. History in live performance. If they hurt Velutha more than they intended to, it was only because any kinship, any connection between themselves and him, any implication that if nothing else, at least biologically he was a fellow creature--had been severed long ago. They were not arresting a man, they were exorcising fear. They had no instrument to calibrate how much punishment he could take. No means of gauging how much or how permanently they had damaged him. Unlike the custom of rampaging religious mobs or conquering armies running riot, that morning in the Heart of Darkness the posse of Touchable Policemen acted with economy, not frenzy. Efficiency, not anarchy. Responsibility, not hysteria. They didn't tear out his hair or burn him alive. They didn't hack off his genitals and stuff them in his mouth. They didn't rape him. Or behead him. After all they were not battling an epidemic. They were merely inoculating a community against an outbreak.
Arundhati Roy (The God of Small Things)
It [Badger's House] seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their Harvest House with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment. The ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glaces with each other; plates of the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction.
Kenneth Grahame (The Wind in the Willows)
There was once a town in the heart of America where all life seemed to live in harmony with its surroundings. The town lay in the midst of a checkerboard of prosperous farms, with fields of grain and hillsides of orchards where, in spring, white clouds of bloom drifted above the green fields. In autumn, oak and maple and birch set up a blaze of color that flamed and flickered across a backdrop of pines. Then foxes barked in the hills and deer silently crossed the fields, half hidden in the mists of the fall mornings. Along the roads, laurel, viburnum, and alder, great ferns and wildflowers delighted the traveler's eye through much of the year. Even in winter the roadsides were places of beauty, where countless birds came to feed on the berries and on the seed heads of the dried weeds rising above the snow. The countryside was, in fact, famous for the abundance and variety of its bird life, and when the flood of migrants was pouring through in spring and fall people traveled from great distances to observe them. Others came to fish the streams, which flowed clear and cold out of the hills and contained shady pools where trout lay. So it had been from the days many years ago when the first settlers raised their homes, sank their wells, and built their barns. Then a strange blight crept over the area and everything began to change. Some evil spell had settled on the community: mysterious maladies swept the flocks of chickens, the cattle, and sheep sickened and died. Everywhere was a shadow of death. The farmers spoke of much illness among their families. In the town the doctors had become more and more puzzled by new kinds of sickness appearing among their patients. There had been sudden and unexplained deaths, not only among adults but even among children whoe would be stricken suddently while at play and die within a few hours. There was a strange stillness. The birds, for example--where had they gone? Many people spoke of them, puzzled and disturbed. The feeding stations in the backyards were deserted. The few birds seen anywhere were moribund; they trembled violently and could not fly. It was a spring without voices. On the mornings that had once throbbed with the dawn chorus of robins, catbirds, doves, jays, wrens, and scores of other bird voices there was no sound; only silence lay over the fields and woods and marsh. On the farms the hens brooded, but no chicks hatched. The farmers complained that they were unable to raise any pigs--the litters were small and the young survived only a few days. The apple trees were coming into bloom but no bees droned among the blossoms, so there was no pollination and there would be no fruit. The roadsides, once so attractive, were now lined with browned and withered vegetation as though swept by fire. These, too, were silent, deserted by all living things. Even the streams were not lifeless. Anglers no longer visited them, for all the fish had died. In the gutters under the eaves and between the shingles of the roofs, a white granular powder still showed a few patches; some weeks before it had fallen like snow upon the roofs and the lawns, the fields and streams. No witchcraft, no enemy action had silenced the rebirth of life in this stricken world. The people had done it to themselves.
Rachel Carson
The transition between our current Type 0 civilization and a future Type I civilization is perhaps the greatest transition in history. It will determine whether we will continue to thrive and flourish, or perish due to our own folly. This transition is extremely dangerous because we still have all the barbaric savagery that typified our painful rise from the swamp. Peel back the veneer of civilization, and we still see the forces of fundamentalism, sectarianism, racism, intolerance, etc., at work. Human nature has not changed much in the past 100,000 years, except now we have nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons to settle old scores.
Michio Kaku (Physics of the Future: How Science Will Shape Human Destiny and Our Daily Lives by the Year 2100)
How responsible are you with what you are given? Are you the per- son who, when asked to do a job, can be counted on to get it done and get it done right? Don’t settle for just a field goal in life. Make the push for the last six inches and score a touchdown. Faithfulness, hard work, and dedication will gain the trust of others and take you further down the field.
Jake Byrne (First and Goal (Plain Living))
Every disciple is a believer, but not every believer is necessarily a disciple. Anything short of discipleship, however, is settling for less than what God really desires for us. Loving God more than anyone or anything else is the very foundation of being a disciple. If you want to live your Christian life to its fullest, then love Jesus more than anyone or anything else. Either you will have harmony with God and friction with people, or you will have harmony with people and friction with God. You become a disciple in the biblical sense only when you are totally and completely committed to Jesus Christ and His Word. As a true disciple, your life won’t only be characterized by practical results and a hunger for Scripture, but you also will have love for others — especially fellow believers. Without all of these characteristics, you can’t really claim to be His disciple. A person who has been with Jesus will boldly share his or her faith. A person who has been with Jesus will be a person of prayer. A person who has been with Jesus will be persecuted. If for you, the Christian life is all about feeling good and having everything go your way, then you won’t like being a disciple. Being a follower of Christ is the most joyful and exciting life there is. But it also can be the most challenging life there is. It’s a life lived out under the command of someone other than yourself. Most prayers are not answered because they are outside the will of God. Once we have discovered God’s will, we can then pray aggressively and confidently for it. We can pray, believing it will happen, because we know it is not something we have dreamed. A forgiven person will be a forgiving person. A true disciple will harbor no grudge toward another. The disciple knows it will hinder his or her prayer life and walk with God. It is far better to sit down for an hour and talk genuinely with one person than to rattle off trite clichés to scores of people. Attending more Bible studies, more prayer meetings, reading more Christian books, and listening to more teaching without an outlet for the truth will cause us to spiritually decay. We need to take what God has given us and use it constructively in the lives of others. You were placed on earth to know God. Everything else is secondary. The more we know God, the more we should want to make Him known to a lost world. Your life belongs to God. You don’t share your time and talents with Him; He shares them with you! He owns you and everything about you. You need to recognize and acknowledge that fact.
Greg Laurie (Start! to Follow: How to Be a Successful Follower of Jesus Christ)
Religious people forgive only because they trust that sweet revenge is deferred until judgment day. They conjure up satisfying fantasies about watching God settle the score on their behalf. They find comfort in the biblical assurance that they’ll one day watch the agony of their enemies as a reward for denying themselves the satisfaction of taking immediate revenge.
Geoffrey Neil (Prey for Us (Prey for Us, #1))
Whenever that happened, Joey clung to Troy's hand, willing him to know that Riker meant nothing. Well, maybe not nothing. He'd given Joey a valuable gift; he'd taught him what love wasn't. During their showdown in the men's room, it had dawned on Joey what love was. Love took long walks, spent time together talking about nothing. It gave smiles, and hugs, and trips to the beach when it really didn't want to go, because it wanted to share a special place with someone else. Love gave away possessions it valued, knowing the receiver valued them more. Love admitted being wrong, said it was sorry, and did whatever it took to make things right. It called in favors and put a town on the map to make life better for one person who lived there. Love was Troy.
Eden Winters (Settling the Score)
He backpedaled hard. "Whatever you've planned is fine with me, Erica. I appreciate your efforts; I always do." True enough. She may be a domineering harpy on occasion, but she was his domineering harpy, and didn't everyone need a bit of domineering harpy in their lives? They made things run much smoother. Nothing provided motivation quite like having her tiny, spike-heeled shoe up his ass.
Eden Winters (Settling the Score)
The shelves of this store are stacked with stock. You will find a steamship, a sailing ship, and even a spaceship. There are several sorts of shoe and scores of signs and symbols. There is a sketch of a squinch, a selection of shells (not all from the sea), a siamang settled on a seat, a sponge to be studied, and sundry stuff suspended from strings. In all I included 1,234 Ss for you to see.
Mike Wilks
Perhaps the best known of these films were the three that Clint Eastwood starred in for director Sergio Leone: A Fistful of Dollars, For a Few Dollars More, and The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, in which he played a gunslinger or bounty hunter wandering the countryside and settling scores for a price. Eastwood’s character took the law into his own hands, but he was essentially on the side of good and order. While Eastwood’s character, a dark hero type, employed unusual means to bring about justice, viewers found him irresistible because he was inscrutable, macho, and capable. While his motives were questionable, he brings his own kind of order out of chaos—actions that readers and film viewers always appreciate. In fact, he was a man of action, was extremely self-reliant, and just didn’t give a damn—all qualities that have universal appeal. His character’s darkness was a departure from the usual heroes starring in traditional Westerns, and this stirred the viewers’ imaginations.
Jessica Page Morrell (Bullies, Bastards And Bitches: How To Write The Bad Guys Of Fiction)
The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt's version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager's pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I've always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the 'V' sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, 'You may have lost today, but you would have been pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.' According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, 'We're playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it's an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless- he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw- any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn't beat a tortoise. It's true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he's likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless...' Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, 'What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?' Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, 'What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you're not saying we cannot play three men.
Bobby Charlton (Sir Bobby Charlton: The Autobiography: My Manchester United Years)
Dante is certainly not, as one sometimes hears said, vindictive, spiteful, sadistic. He is not merely engaged in score settling with old adversaries by assigning them to hell. The punishments in hell are horribly cruel, but the world in which he lived was horribly cruel. He had been sentenced to death both by burning and decapitation. Such sentences were almost routine. We think of the modern world as more civilised than his, but who could seriously argue that this is so, bearing in mind events on the world stage in the twentieth century?
Prue Shaw
One day he reads his friend's novel and discovers that Ishmael's account and his own memories of what happened are completely different. So he writes his own version of the story. Call me Queequeg the story begins, and he titles it A Whale. From the harpooner's point of view, Ishmael was a pedantic scholar who blew things out of proportion. Moby Dick wasn't to blame, he was a whale like any other. It was all a matter of an incompetent captain wanting to settle a personal score instead of filling barrels with oil. "What does it matter who tore his leg off?" writes Queequeg.
Arturo Pérez-Reverte (The Club Dumas)
Which one was it? He’ll pay for it with his life, I swear to you.” “Settle down, Gray. And for God’s sake, don’t go punching yourself in the eye just to even the score.” Gray shot him a look. “Not amusing, Joss.” “Oh yes, it is. Give me credit for a joke when I make one. It’s nothing, Gray. I’ve had worse. You’ve given me worse. And it’s no more than a man can expect, I suppose, when he’s an alleged pirate.” “Piracy charges.” Gray cracked his neck. “What a joke.” This was the voyage he’d finally gone respectable, and what had it gotten him? Jilted and jailed. No good deed went unpunished.
Tessa Dare (Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2))
Non-time imposes on time the tyranny of its spatiality: in every life there is a north and a south, and the orient and the occident. At the extreme limit or, at the least, at the crossroads, as one’s eyes fly over the seasons, there is the unequal struggle of life and death, of fervor and lucidity, albeit one of despair and collapse, the strength as well to face tomorrow. So goes every life. So goes this book, between sun and shadow, between mountain and mangrove, between dawn and dusk, stumbling and binary. Time also to settle the score with several fantasies and a few phantoms. from “i, laminaria…
Aimé Césaire (The Complete Poetry of Aime Cesaire)
Revenge often looks petty, but I have come to respect the depth of hurt it conceals. Unable to reclaim the feelings we’ve lavished, we grab the engagement ring instead. And if that’s not enough, we can always change the wills. All are desperate attempts to repossess power, to exact compensation, to destroy the one who destroyed us as a means of self-preservation. Each dollar, each gift, each treasured book we extract from the rubble is meant to match a broken piece inside. But in the end, it’s a zero-sum game. The urge to settle the score corresponds to the intensity of the shame that eats us up. And the deepest shame is that we were stupid enough to trust all along.
Esther Perel (The State Of Affairs: Rethinking Infidelity - a book for anyone who has ever loved)
There's a Spanish proverb that's always fascinated me. 'Take what you want and pay for it, says God.' I don't believe in God, but that principle seems, to me, to have a divinity of its own; a kind of blazing purity. What could be simpler, or more crucial? You can have anything you want, as long as you accept that there is a price and that you will have to pay it. It seems to me, that we as a society have come to overlook the second clause. We hear only 'Take what you want, says God'; nobody mentions a price, and when it comes time to settle the score, everyone's outraged. We've become a nation of defaulters: we buy on credit, and when the bill comes in, we're so deeply outraged that we refuse even to look at it.
Tana French (The Likeness (Dublin Murder Squad, #2))
Brahms' friends in Budapest finally managed to talk him into attending the performance of Don Giovanni - he had initially turned down their invitation, arguing that he preferred to read the score and had never seen or heard a decent performance of the work. He would even prefer a cold beer, he insisted. But in the end he allowed his friends to drag him along to their box, where he demonstratively settled down on a sofa at the back in the hope of enjoying a rest. But it was not long before he was making increasingly inarticulate noises indicative of his enthusiasm, and at the end of the first act he was heard to shout out: 'Most excellent, admirable, what a deuce of a fellow!' He then ran on to the stage and embraced Mahler with typically grumpy cordiality.
Jens Malte Fischer (Gustav Mahler)
Caesar’s civic reforms were promising, but how and when would he put the Republic back together again? Over years of war it had been turned upside down, the constitution trampled, appointments made on whim and against the law. Caesar took few steps toward restoring traditional rights and regulations. Meanwhile his powers expanded. He took charge of most elections and decided most court cases. He spent a great deal of time settling scores, rewarding supporters, auctioning off his opponents’ properties. The Senate appeared increasingly irrelevant. Some groused that they lived in a monarchy masquerading as a republic. There were three possibilities for the future, predicted an exasperated Cicero, “endless armed conflict, eventual revival after a peace, and complete annihilation.
Stacy Schiff (Cleopatra)
You got no one, then?' she asked. 'No one but enemies.' 'Why aren't you fighting them?' 'Fighting? It's got me everything I have.' And he held his big empty hands up to show her. 'Nothing but an evil reputation and an awful lot of men with a burning need to kill me. Fighting? Hah! The better you are at it, the worse off it leaves you. I've settled some scores, and that can feel grand, but the feeling don't last long. Vengeance won't keep you warm nights, and that's a fact. Overrated. Won't do on its own. You need something else.' Ferro shook her head. 'You expect too much out of life, pink.' He grinned. 'And here was me thinking you expect too little.' 'Expect nothing and you won't be disappointed.' 'Expect nothing and you'll get nothing.' Ferro scowled at him. That was the thing about talk. Somehow it always took her where she did not want to go. Lack of practice, maybe.
Joe Abercrombie (Before They Are Hanged (The First Law, #2))
Screams died in them and floated belly up, like dead fish. Cowering on the floor, rocking between dread and disbelief, they realized that the man being beaten was Velutha. Where had he come from? What had he done? Why had the policemen brought him here? They heard the thud of wood on flesh. Boot on bone. On teeth. The muffled grunt when a stomach is kicked in The muted crunch of skull on cement. The gurgle of blood on a man's breath when his lung is torn by the jagged end of a broken rib. Blue-lipped and dinner-plate-eyed, they watched, mesmerized by something that they sensed but didn't understand: the absence of caprice in what the policemen did. The abyss where anger should have been. The sober, steady brutality, the economy of it all. They were opening a bottle. Or shutting a tap. Cracking an egg to make an omelette. The twins were too young to know that these were only history’s henchmen. Sent to square the books and collect the dues from those who broke its laws. Impelled by feelings that were primal yet paradoxically wholly impersonal. Feelings of contempt born of inchoate, unacknowledged fear — civilization’s fear of nature, men’s fear of women, power’s fear of powerlessness. Man’s subliminal urge to destroy what he could neither subdue nor deify. Men’s Needs. What Esthappen and Rahel witnessed that morning, though they didn’t know it then, was a clinical demonstration in controlled conditions (this was not war after all, or genocide) of human nature’s pursuit of ascendancy. Structure. Order Complete monopoly. It was human history, masquerading as God’s Purpose, revealing herself to an under-age audience. There was nothing accidental about what happened that morning. Nothing incidental. It was no stray mugging or personal settling of scores. This was an era imprinting itself on those who lived in it. History in live performance.
Arundhati Roy (The God of Small Things)
In How Fiction Works, James Wood says, A great deal of nonsense is written every day about characters in fiction—from the side of those who believe too much in character and from the side of those who believe too little. Those who believe too much have an iron set of prejudices about what characters are: we should get to “know” them; . . . they should “grow” and “develop”; and they should be nice. So they should be pretty much like us. Wood is correct, in part, but the ongoing question of character likability leaves the impression that what we’re looking for in fiction is an ideal world where people behave in ideal ways. The question suggests that characters should be reflections not of us, but of our better selves. Wood also says, “There is nothing harder than the creation of fictional character.” I can attest to this difficulty, though with perhaps less hyperbole. I have, indeed, found several other tasks harder over the years. Regardless, characters are hard to create because we need to develop people who are interesting enough to hold a reader’s attention. We need to ensure that they are some measure of credible. We need to make them distinct from ourselves (and, in the best of all words, from those in our lives, unless of course there is a need to settle scores). Somehow they need to be well developed enough to carry a plot, or carry a narrative without a plot, or endure the tribulations we writers tend to throw at them with alacrity. It’s no wonder so many characters are unlikable, given what they have to put up with. It is a seductive position writers put the reader in when they create an interesting, unlikable character—they make the reader complicit, in ways that are both uncomfortable and intriguing.
Roxane Gay (Bad Feminist)
But whether I’m on deck or below it, I’ll never be far.” “Shall I take that as a promise? Or a threat?” She sauntered toward him, hands cocked on her hips in an attitude of provocation. His eyes swept her body, washing her with angry heat. She noted the subtle tensing of his shoulders, the frayed edge of his breath. Even exhausted and hurt, he still wanted her. For a moment, Sophia felt hope flicker to life inside her. Enough for them both. And then, with the work of an instant, he quashed it all. Gray stepped back. He gave a loose shrug and a lazy half-smile. If I don’t care about you, his look said, you can’t possibly hurt me. “Take it however you wish.” “Oh no, you don’t. Don’t you try that move with me.” With trembling fingers, she began unbuttoning her gown. “What the devil are you doing? You think you can just hike up your shift and make-“ “Don’t get excited.” She stripped the bodice down her arms, then set to work unlacing her stays. “I’m merely settling a score. I can’t stand to be in your debt a moment longer.” Soon she was down to her chemise and plucking coins from the purse tucked between her breasts. One, two, three, four, five… “There,” she said, casing the sovereigns on the table. “Six pounds, and”-she fished out a crown-“ten shillings. You owe me the two.” He held up open palms. “Well, I’m afraid I have no coin on me. You’ll have to trust me for it.” “I wouldn’t trust you for anything. Not even two shillings.” He glared at her a moment, then turned on his heel and exited the cabin, banging the door shut behind him. Sophia stared at it, wondering whether she dared stomp after him with her bodice hanging loose around her hips. Before she could act on the obvious affirmative, he stormed back in. “Here.” A pair of coins clattered to the table. “Two shillings. And”-he drew his other hand from behind his back-“your two leaves of paper. I don’t want to be in your debt, either.” The ivory sheets fluttered as he released them. One drifted to the floor. Sophia tugged a banknote from her bosom and threw it on the growing pile. To her annoyance, it made no noise and had correspondingly little dramatic value. In compensation, she raised her voice. “Buy yourself some new boots. Damn you.” “While we’re settling scores, you owe me twenty-odd nights of undisturbed sleep.” “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re even on that regard.” She paused, glaring a hole in his forehead, debating just how hateful she would make this. Very. “You took my innocence,” she said coldly-and completely unfairly, because they both knew she’d given it freely enough. “Yes, and I’d like my jaded sensibilities restored, but there’s no use wishing after rainbows, now is there?” He had a point there. “I suppose we’re squared away then.” “I suppose we are.” “There’s nothing else I owe you?” His eyes were ice. “Not a thing.” But there is, she wanted to shout. I still owe you the truth, if only you’d care enough to ask for it. If only you cared enough for me, to want to know. But he didn’t. He reached for the door. “Wait,” he said. “There is one last thing.” Sophia’s heart pounded as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a scrap of white fabric. “There,” he said, unceremoniously casting it atop the pile of coins and notes and paper. “I’m bloody tired of carrying that around.” And then he was gone, leaving Sophia to wrap her arms over her half-naked chest and stare numbly at what he’d discarded. A lace-trimmed handkerchief, embroidered with a neat S.H.
Tessa Dare (Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2))
.'Nothing has changed. I still need vengeance.' Silence. She glanced sideways, and she saw Ninefingers frowning down at the pale foam on the dark water, as if her answer had not been the one he had been hoping for. It would have been easy to change it. 'I'll go where you go,' she could have said, and who would have been worse off? No one. Certainly not her. But Ferro did not have it in her to put herself in his power like that. Now it came to the test there was an invisible wall between them. One that there was no crossing. There always had been. All she could say was, 'You?' He seemed to think about it a while, angry-looking, chewing at his lip. 'I should go back to the North.' He said it unhappily, without even looking at her. 'There's work there I should never have left. Dark work, that needs doing. That's where I'll go, I reckon. Back to the North, and settle me some scores.' She frowned. Scores? Who was it told her you had to have more than vengeance. Now scores was all he wanted? Lying bastard. 'Scores,' she hissed. 'Good.' And the word was sour as sand on her tongue. He looked her in the eye for a long moment. He opened his mouth, as if he was about to speak, and he stayed there, his lips formed into a word, one hand part-way lifted towards her. Then he seemed suddenly to slump, and he set his jaw, and he turned his shoulder to her and leaned back on the rail. 'Good.' And that easily it was all done between them. Ferro scowled as she turned away. She curled up her fists and felt her nails digging into her palms, furious hard. She cursed to herself, and bitterly. Why could she not have said different words? Some breath, and a shape of the mouth, and everything is changed. It would have been easy. Except that Ferro did not have it in her, and she knew she never would have. The Gurkish had killed that part of her, far away, and long ago, and left her dead inside. She had been a fool to hope, and in her bones she had known it all along. Hope is for the weak.
Joe Abercrombie (Before They Are Hanged (The First Law, #2))
Chapter One Vivek Ranadivé “IT WAS REALLY RANDOM. I MEAN, MY FATHER HAD NEVER PLAYED BASKETBALL BEFORE.” 1. When Vivek Ranadivé decided to coach his daughter Anjali’s basketball team, he settled on two principles. The first was that he would never raise his voice. This was National Junior Basketball—the Little League of basketball. The team was made up mostly of twelve-year-olds, and twelve-year-olds, he knew from experience, did not respond well to shouting. He would conduct business on the basketball court, he decided, the same way he conducted business at his software firm. He would speak calmly and softly, and he would persuade the girls of the wisdom of his approach with appeals to reason and common sense. The second principle was more important. Ranadivé was puzzled by the way Americans play basketball. He is from Mumbai. He grew up with cricket and soccer. He would never forget the first time he saw a basketball game. He thought it was mindless. Team A would score and then immediately retreat to its own end of the court. Team B would pass the ball in from the sidelines and dribble it into Team A’s end, where Team A was patiently waiting. Then the process would reverse itself. A regulation basketball court is ninety-four feet long. Most of the time, a team would defend only about twenty-four feet of that, conceding the other seventy feet. Occasionally teams played a full-court press—that is, they contested their opponent’s attempt to advance the ball up the court. But they did it for only a few minutes at a time. It was as if there were a kind of conspiracy in the basketball world about the way the game ought to be played, Ranadivé thought, and that conspiracy had the effect of widening the gap between good teams and weak teams. Good teams, after all, had players who were tall and could dribble and shoot well; they could crisply execute their carefully prepared plays in their opponent’s end. Why, then, did weak teams play in a way that made it easy for good teams to do the very things that they were so good at? Ranadivé looked at his girls. Morgan and Julia were serious basketball players. But Nicky, Angela, Dani, Holly, Annika, and his own daughter, Anjali, had never played the game before. They weren’t all that tall. They couldn’t shoot. They weren’t particularly adept at dribbling. They were not the sort who played pickup games at the playground every evening. Ranadivé lives in Menlo Park, in the heart of California’s Silicon Valley. His team was made up of, as Ranadivé put it, “little blond girls.” These were the daughters of nerds and computer programmers. They worked on science projects and read long and complicated books and dreamed about growing up to be marine biologists. Ranadivé knew that if they played the conventional way—if they let their opponents dribble the ball up the court without opposition—they would almost certainly lose to the girls for whom basketball was a passion. Ranadivé had come to America as a seventeen-year-old with fifty dollars in his pocket. He was not one to accept losing easily. His second principle, then, was that his team would play a real full-court press—every game, all the time. The team ended up at the national championships. “It was really random,” Anjali Ranadivé said. “I mean, my father had never played basketball before.” 2. Suppose you were to total up all the wars over the past two hundred years that occurred between very large and very small countries. Let’s say that one side has to be at least ten times larger in population and armed might
Malcolm Gladwell (David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits and the Art of Battling Giants)
Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as a means of settling scores. When animals fight, it is with the intent to kill and with the understanding that they may be killed. A clash is costly. And so animals have a full system of cautionary signals designed to avoid a showdown, and they are quick to back down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tiger attack a fellow predator without warning .... It will appraise the situation. If it decides there is no threat, it will turn away....
Yann Martel (Life of Pi)
Of course Jezmeen would sabotage this trip. From the start, this had been her mission. She wasn’t interested in the pilgrimage, in honoring Mum—why would she be? All she cared about was herself and settling scores.
Balli Kaur Jaswal (The Unlikely Adventures of the Shergill Sisters: A Novel)
In spite of the Attorney General’s warning to Hoover that the ADL’s “fact finding” was nothing but gossip which the Jews were using to settle scores with their opponents in the culture wars of that era, Hoover retained the Bureau’s contacts with the ADL. He refused to break ties with the ADL because Jewish criminals like Meyer Lansky were paying the ADL to blackmail Hoover by gathering information about his homosexuality.
E. Michael Jones (Jewish Privilege)
I wanted to settle an old score with time. I had discovered that walking provided a way to slow it down. The alchemy of travel thickens seconds: those spent on the road passed less quickly than the others. Frantic with restlessness, I required fresh horizons and conceived a passionate interest in airports, where everything is an invitation to departure. I dreamed of ending up in a terminal. My trips began as escapes and finished in track races against the hours.
Sylvain Tesson (The Consolations of the Forest: Alone in a Cabin on the Siberian Taiga)
horrifying results when order broke down and people turned on each other to settle old scores, or grab as much of the diminishing pie as possible.
David VanDyke (Battleship Indomitable (Galactic Liberation, #2))
We lived with a Hutu family. They were polite, but their son, a fanatical Interahamwe militiaman, was often nasty to us. One day I caught him going through our things. I closed the door and said, “Defend yourself, kid.” He likes to play the tough guy to impress the girls in the neighborhood, but he doesn’t know how to ¤ght. He got a thrashing he’ll never forget. Anyway, I supposed he must have been remembering all about it during these last few hours. Yes, the time has come for them to settle all those little scores. Every Interahamwe probably has his list of little Tutsi friends to get rid of. [9]
Boubacar Boris Diop (Murambi, The Book of Bones)
Live boldly, Clark. Push yourself. Don't settle. Wear those stripy legs with pride. Knowing you still have possibilities is a luxury, knowing I might have given them to you. This eased something for me. So, this is it. You are scored on my heart, Clark. You have been the first day you walked in with your sweet smile and your ridiculous clothes and your bad jokes and your complete inability to ever hide a single thing you felt. Don't think of me too often. I don't want you getting sad. Just live well. Just live. I'll be walking beside you every step of the way. Love, Will.
Jojo Moyes
One of the beauties of Jungle Law is that punishment settles all scores. There is no nagging afterward
Rudyard Kipling (The Jungle Book)
Other than the targeting of Christians, there was surprisingly little patriotic or nationalistic spirit visible in the violence that rumbled on for weeks after the outbreak: the initial mutiny in the army had opened a vast Pandora’s box of differences and grievances – economic, sectarian, religious and political – and now that the violence and settling of scores had begun, it would not be easy to bring them to a halt. In the meantime, many of the sepoys simply took the opportunity presented by the breakdown of law and order to enrich themselves, as did many Delhiwallahs.57
William Dalrymple (Last Mughal)
Based on what Grossman knew, his character Anna Sergeyevna recounts her experience in a Ukrainian village where she was working as a bookkeeper in the kolkhoz, or collective farm. First, she explained, had come the period of “dekulakization” when the richer peasants, known as kulaks, were dispossessed, arrested and deported. Quotas of the numbers to be arrested were drawn up and names selected by the village soviet, whose members could be bribed, and because there were “scores to be settled because of a woman, or because of some other past grievance…Often it was the poorest peasants who were listed as kulaks, while the richer peasants managed to buy themselves off.
Tim Judah (In Wartime: Stories from Ukraine)
This disastrous marriage between religion and nationalism will ultimately subvert the values that have held this nation together because it substitutes with murderers and symbols the place meant for substantive values of secular statehood, equality, and justice. India’s future lies in pluralism, parity, reasonable and principled cosmopolitanism and not with settling scores in history.
Suchitra Vijayan
I just woke up one day and decided it was exhausting being mad all the time. It’s easier to send love out into the world, because most of the time that’s what comes back to you.
Danielle Stewart (Settling Scores (Piper Anderson, #5))
Ethan slumped on the bench in the change room, ignoring the ribald behavior around him after yet another foregone win. A hard slap on the rear of his head roused him and he whirled, his lip curled back as he growled menacingly. “Don’t you dare show me your teeth,” Javier warned with a dark look. He ran his hand through hair, already tousled and sweaty from the match. “What the fuck happened out there? I passed you the perfect shot, and instead of grabbing it and scoring, you crashed into the g**damn arena glass. What are you, a rookie? Been watching too many Bugs Bunny cartoons?” Heat burned Ethan’s cheeks in remembrance of his mishap before dejection— along with a large dose of disbelief— quickly set back in. “I missed. It happens and besides, it’s not like we needed the point to win.” “Of course we didn’t,” Javier replied with a scoffing snort. “But it’s the point of it. What the hell distracted you so much? And, why do you look like your best friend died, which, I might add, is an impossibility given I’m standing right beside you.” Javier grinned. “I think I found my mate,” Ethan muttered. A true beauty with light skin, a perfect oval face framed by long, brown hair and the most perfect set of rosebud lips. Javier’s face expressed shock, then glee. “Congrats, dude.” Javier slapped him hard on the back, and while the blow might have killed a human or a smaller species, it didn’t even budge Ethan. “I know you’ve been pining to settle down with someone of the fairer sex. You must be ecstatic.” “Not really.” Although he should have been. Finding one’s mate was a one in a zillion chance given how shifters were scattered across the globe. Most never even came close to finding the one fate deemed their perfect match. His friend’s jovial grin subsided. “What’s wrong? Was she, like, butt ugly? Humongous? Old? Surely she can’t be that bad?” “No, she appears perfect. Or did.” Ethan groaned as banged his head off the locker door. “I am so screwed.” A frown creased Javier’s face. “I don’t get it. I thought you wanted to find the one, you sick bastard. Settle down and pop out cubs.” Ethan looked up in time to see Javier’s mock shudder. “Me, I prefer to share my love among as many women as possible.” Javier mimed slapping an ass then humping it with a leering grin. Ethan didn’t smile at Javier’s attempt at humor even if it happened to be the truth. Javier certainly enjoyed variety where the other sex was concerned. Heck, on many an occasion he’d shared with Ethan. Tag team sessions where they both scored. Best friends who did just about everything together. Blowing out a long sigh, Ethan answered him. “I do want to find my mate, actually, I’m pretty sure I already have, but I don’t think I made a great impression. She’s the one they took out on the stretcher after the ball I missed hit her in the face.” Javier winced. “Ouch. Sucks to be you, my friend. Don’t worry, though. I’m sure she’ll forgive you in, like, fifty years.” Ethan groaned and dropped his head back into his hands. Now that I’ve found her, how do I discover who she is so I can beg her forgiveness? And even worse, how the hell do I act the part of suitor? Raised in the Alaskan wilds by a father who wasn’t all there after the death of Ethan’s mother, his education in social niceties was sadly lacking. He tended to speak with his fists more often than not. Lucky for him, when it came to women, he didn’t usually have to do a thing. Females tended to approach him for sex so they could brag afterward that they’d ridden the Kodiak and survived. Not that Ethan would ever hurt a female, even if his idea of flirty conversation usually consisted of “Suck me harder” and “Bend over.” If I add “darling” on the end, will she count it as sweet talk?
Eve Langlais (Delicate Freakn' Flower (Freakn' Shifters, #1))
He released the guy, who charged me instantly. One punch for every dog to have ever been thrown overboard to the sharks. One punch for every shark who’d been butchered alive. One punch didn’t settle the score. But it sure as hell felt good. I hit him just under his right eye, so hard that I heard his cheekbone shatter.
J.R. Rain (Hail Mary (Jim Knighthorse series, #3))
Even envy, wants to even the score.
Anthony Liccione
History is full of examples of men with deep-seated grievances who embraced good causes, in part at least, to settle old scores.
Carl Bridenbaugh (Jamestown, 1544-1699)
They are being driven by a psychopathic Indian apparently bent on killing them all, overtaking on blind rises, racing some other bus to settle an old score, hurtling into corners without slowing down.
Damon Galgut (In a Strange Room)
Bash! Crash! Minecraftians clash!  Herobrine’s caused a war! Some use swords and some use axes, But all want to settle the score! I
Diary Wimpy (Minecraft: Diary of a Minecraft Herobrine)
I hope you’ll consider marrying me sooner rather than later.” Another kiss, slow and devastating. “Because I long for you, Kathleen, my dearest love. I want to sleep with you every night, and wake with you every morning.” His mouth caressed her with deepening pressure until her arms curled around his neck. “And I want children with you. Soon.” The truth was there, in his voice, his eyes, on his lips. She could taste it. She realized in wonder that somehow, in the past months, his heart had indeed changed. He was becoming the man fate had intended for him to be…his true self…a man who could make commitments and meet his responsibilities, and most of all, love without holding anything back. Sixty years? A man like that shouldn’t have to wait even sixty seconds. Fumbling a little with the watch chain, she lifted it and slipped it over her head. The glimmering gold timepiece settled over her heart. She looked up at him with swimming eyes. “I love you, Devon. Yes, I’ll marry you, yes--” He hauled her against him and kissed her without reserve. And he continued to kiss her hungrily as he undressed her, his mouth tender and hot as he ravished every exposed inch of skin. He removed everything but the little gold watch, which Kathleen insisted on keeping. “Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
For the most part, Mamie’s neighbours were Rwandans who had left their country to escape carnage, massacres, wars, pogroms, purges, destruction, fires, tsetse flies, pillaging, apartheid, rapes, murders, settling of scores and I don’t know what else.
Gaël Faye (Petit pays)
She began to ease him from her lap, but he laid a solid arm across her. He needed everything to stay exactly as it was, at least for a few minutes. To his satisfaction, she settled back beneath him. “What did you give me?” he asked. “A tea I made with orchids.” “Orchids,” he repeated, puzzled. He’d never heard of any use for the odd flowers, other than as exotic ornaments. “Two varieties of Dendrobium, and a Spiranthes. Many orchids have medicinal properties. My mother collected them, and filled a score of notebooks with information she’d gathered.” Oh, he liked her voice, a low and lulling melody. He felt her move again--another attempt to set him aside--and he slumped more heavily into her lap, his head pinning her arm in a determined effort to make her stay. “Mr. Winterborne, I should leave you to rest now--” “Talk to me.” She hesitated. “If you wish. What shall we talk about?” He wanted to ask her if he’d been permanently blinded. If anyone had said anything to him about it, he’d been too drugged to remember. But he couldn’t bring himself to give voice to the question. He was too afraid of the answer. And there was no way to stop thinking about it while he was alone in this quiet room. He needed distraction and comfort. He needed her.
Lisa Kleypas (Cold-Hearted Rake (The Ravenels, #1))
Bring Back Our Baskets! That was the cry heard from Quidditch players across the nation last night as it became clear that the Department of Magical Games and Sports had decided to burn the baskets used for centuries for goal-scoring in Quidditch. ‘We’re not burning them, don’t exaggerate,’ said an irritable-looking Departmental representative last night when asked to comment. ‘Baskets, as you may have noticed, come in different sizes. We have found it impossible to standardise basket size so as to make goalposts throughout Britain equal. Surely you can see it’s a matter of fairness. I mean, there’s a team up near Barnton, they’ve got these minuscule little baskets attached to the opposing team’s posts, you couldn’t get a grape in them. And up their own end they’ve got these great wicker caves swinging around. It’s not on. We’ve settled on a fixed hoop size and that’s it. Everything nice and fair.’ At this point, the Departmental representative was forced to retreat under a hail of baskets thrown by the angry demonstrators assembled in the hall. Although the ensuing riot was later blamed on goblin agitators, there can be no doubt that Quidditch fans across Britain are tonight mourning the end of the game as we know it. ‘’T won’t be t’ same wi’out baskets,’ said one apple-cheeked old wizard sadly. ‘I remember when I were a lad, we used to set fire to ’em for a laugh during t’ match. You can’t do that with goal hoops. ’Alf t’ fun’s gone.’ Daily Prophet, 12 February 1883
Kennilworthy Whisp (Quidditch Through the Ages)
We are very lucky to have her. Lucky to have had our dad, too. Together they were something. I think that’s why none of us have gotten close to marriage yet. They set the bar pretty damn high and none of us want to settle for anything less.
Lucy Score (No More Secrets (Blue Moon, #1))
All the while you thought you were going around idle terribly hard work was taking place. Hard, hard work, excavation and digging, mining, moling through tunnels, heaving, pushing, moving rock, working, working, working, working, working, panting, hauling, hoisting. And none of this work is seen from the outside. It’s internally done. It happens because you are powerless and unable to get anywhere, to obtain justice or have requital, and therefore in yourself you labor, you wage and combat, settle scores, remember insults, fight, reply, deny, blab, denounce, triumph, outwit, overcome, vindicate, cry, persist, absolve, die and rise again. All by yourself! Where is everybody? Inside your breast and skin, the entire cast.
Saul Bellow
There is no need to respond to every provocation around you. Sometimes you may be the victim of someone’s wily designs, or their stupidity, or someone may blatantly harass you, or someone may just be plain insensitive. Every such act will provoke you. Your mind will justify the need to ‘fix the person’ then and there. But don’t rush into doing that. The best way to disarm someone is to not fight them at all. In fact, focus on the situation, on the issue that separates you both and not on the person in question. Give the situation and the issue time – give them calm, reflective, thought. And then respond unemotionally, to the issue – but respond only if you really must. Sometimes, even choosing to remain silent is a powerful response! Protecting your inner peace must be your priority, not settling petty scores!
AVIS Viswanathan
No one in the Thieves’ Guild, that’s true!” interrupted the black-bearded thief sharply. “But”—and here his voice began to go low—“there are those outside the Thieves’ Guild who can. Have you heard that there is recently returned here to Lankhmar a certain rogue and picklock known as the Gray Mouser? And with him a huge barbarian who goes by the name of Fafhrd, but is sometimes called the Beast-Slayer? We have a score as you well know, to settle with both of them. They slew our sorcerer, Hristomilo. That pair commonly hunts alone—yet if you were to approach them with this tempting suggestion…
Fritz Leiber (Swords Against Death (Lankhmar, 2))
I just hope the ruling party and other opposing political parties, wont gamble with people lives to settle their political scores during this pandemic. I hope people won't suffer or die because of politics
De philosopher DJ Kyos
I wanted to cut Hugh into pieces. I owed him for Mauro, my broken sword, and seven days in the hole. But Curran owed him for seeing me disappear, for finding out where I went, for running after me across half the country not knowing if I was still alive, and then for fighting his way to Mishmar only to find me half-dead. Curran had a much bigger score to settle.
Ilona Andrews (Magic Breaks (Kate Daniels, #7))
Don’t ever say, “I’ll get you for that!” Wait for God; He’ll settle the score. Proverbs 20:22
Zari Banks (O Lord, Forgive Them: 30 Days of Praying for Your Enemies)
The older you get, the more you see in the world, the more fragile everything feels. It’s like you know better than to try to touch the clouds because you might fall. You miss out on soaring through the sky.
Danielle Stewart (Settling Scores (Piper Anderson, #5))
In Afghanistan, only the dead really surrender. The living might indulge in it for a while, and many did in that momentous November of 2001. For Afghans, giving up is a time-out, not a game-over. Surrender is merely a tactic to be employed when confronted with overwhelming odds. When the opportunity arises, combat resumes. Pauses or not, scores must be settled.
Anonymous
When they are in power, whether in statehouses, Congress, or the White House, Republicans are magnetically drawn to practice political overreach along with scorched-earth tactics, be it through vote suppression, the K Street Project to force lobbying firms to hire only Republicans, or outing a covert CIA agent in their own administration to settle political scores, as happened to Valerie Plame. When they are out of power they focus single-mindedly on seizing up the wheels of government to prove to the American people that government just doesn’t work—at least, when the GOP is out of power. These take-no-prisoners tactics flow naturally from an embittered, Manichaean mind-set. This mentality has grave implications for the health of our constitutional system.
Anonymous
The council meeting was soon over, and Manon paused as she walked past Vernon on her way out. She put a hand on his shoulder, her nails digging into his skin, and he yelped as she brought her iron teeth close to his ear. “Just because she is dead, Lord, do not think that I will forget what you tried to do to her.” Vernon paled. “You can’t touch me.” Manon dug her nails in deeper. “No, I can’t,” she purred into his ear. “But Aelin Galathynius is alive. And I hear that she has a score to settle.” She yanked out her nails and squeezed his shoulder, setting the blood running down Vernon’s green tunic before she stalked from the room.
Sarah J. Maas (Queen of Shadows (Throne of Glass, #4))
And so the politicians know who is doing the criticizing, and with whom to settle scores. Former Senator John Kerry made sure that Sam Fox never got his ambassadorship to Belgium. Fox was disciplined for having donated to Swift Boat Veterans for Truth. The government subjected Frank VanderSloot and Catherine Engelbrecht to multiple audits as punishment for their conservative work. The IRS segregated out Tea Party applications and put them on hold as a penalty for opposing Barack Obama.
Kimberley Strassel (The Intimidation Game: How the Left Is Silencing Free Speech)
Win spread his hands. “But why? What about the winner do we want to emulate? His ability to blind himself to anything but the pursuit of empty aggrandizement? His ego-inflating obsession with wearing a hunk of metal around his neck? His willingness to sacrifice anything, including people, in order to best another human being on a lump of AstroTurf for a cheesy statuette?” He looked up at Myron, his always serene face suddenly lost. “Why do we applaud this selfishness, this self-love?” “Competitive drive isn’t a bad thing, Win. You’re talking about extremes.” “But it is the extremists we admire most. By its nature, what you call ‘competitive drive’ leads to extremism and destroys all in its path.” “You’re being simplistic, Win.” “It is simple, my friend.” They both settled back. Myron stared up at the exposed beams. After some time, he said, “You have it wrong.” “How so?” Myron wondered how to explain it. “When I played basketball,” he began, “I mean, when I really got into it and reached these levels you’re talking about—I barely thought about the score. I barely thought about my opponent or about beating somebody. I was alone. I was in the zone. This is going to sound stupid, but playing at the top of my game was almost Zen-like.” Win
Harlan Coben (Back Spin (Myron Bolitar, #4))
Universe always settles the score.
House MD
When Sartre wrote “Paris Under the Occupation,” the dead were still being mourned while the fate of prisoners of war and the deported remained unknown. Shortages of food and raw materials, a crippled transportation system, rampant inflation, and a thriving black market were sources of great unrest. Months before the Liberation, the settling of scores had begun.
Jean-Paul Sartre (Paris Under the Occupation)
He held up a small pipe with a wide flattened bowl, and handed it to Gimli. ‘Does that settle the score between us?’ he said. ‘Settle it!’ cried Gimli. ‘Most noble hobbit, it leaves me deep in your debt.
J.R.R. Tolkien (The Two Towers (The Lord of the Rings, #2))
It was a miserable power struggle to break him. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to win an argument with a cat, but good luck with that. He would slip out when we weren’t looking, settle scores in some back alley near midnight, and return two days later like Don Draper crashing through the front door after a bender. What? What are you looking at?
Sarah Hepola (Blackout: Remembering the Things I Drank to Forget)
Gandhi had come to South Africa to help settle a commercial dispute. He had, without expecting or anticipating it, become an activist for a political cause instead. Many Indians in the colony now knew of him; as did many Europeans. How did he respond to this public acclaim and public disparagement? His autobiography is silent on this score. But that he diligently followed the press for every trace of his name seems clear. In a steel almirah in an archive in Ahmedabad lie many volumes of newspaper clippings from the Natal of the 1890s, doubtless collected by Gandhi himself.
Ramachandra Guha (Gandhi Before India)
he waves settled to soft ripples, and he still hadn’t surfaced. “Isaac?” she swept her arms through the dark water, calling him, but encountered nothing but slimy weeds. Another few seconds and she was in panic mode. She ducked her head beneath the surface and swam down as deep as she could, reaching out in front of her blindly. Suddenly, a strong hand clamped around her ankle. She instinctively kicked and fought her way up for air, gasping as she reached the surface, but he didn’t let go, only shifted his grip to her thighs as he pulled her close and guided her legs around his waist. “That was mean,” she gasped, very aware of every inch of him in physical contact with her. His gaze dipped down to the tops of her breasts showing through the thin fabric of her bra, and his arms tightened around her. “I can’t seem to form thoughts at the moment,” he groaned, pressing a kiss to her mouth before scraping down the side of her neck. “But I’m fairly certain you would take the title for meanness if we were keeping score,” he murmured against her skin. She broke out in goose bumps all the way down to her toes, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the water.
Chloe Jacobs (Greta and the Lost Army (Mylena Chronicles, #3))
In this experiment you’re going to prove that your thoughts and feelings also create energy waves. Here’s what you do: Get two wire coat hangers, easy to obtain in most any closet. Untwist the neck of each hanger until you’ve got just two straight wires. These are your “Einstein wands.” Or rather they will be when you shape them into an L, about 12 inches long for the main part and 5 inches for the handle. Cut a plastic straw in half (you can score one free of charge at any McDonald’s), slide the handle that you just bent inside the straws (it’ll make your wands swing easily), and bend the bottom of the hanger to hold the straw in place. Now, pretend you’re a double-fisted, gun-slinging Matt Dillon from Gunsmoke with the wands held chest high and about ten inches from your body. They’ll flap all over the place at first (like I said, you’re an ongoing river of energy), so give them a few moments to settle down. Once they’ve stopped flapping, you’re ready to begin the experiment. With your eyes straight ahead, vividly recall some very unpleasant event from your past. Depending on the intensity of your emotion, the wands will either stay straight ahead (weak intensity) or will point inward, tip to tip. The wands are following the electromagnetic bands around your body, which have contracted as a result of the negative frequency generated by your unpleasant thought and emotions. Now make your frequencies turn positive by thinking about something loving or joyous. The wands will now expand outward as your energy field expands to your positive energy flow. Okay, now keep your eyes straight ahead, but focus your attention on an object to your far right or far left and watch your wands follow your thoughts. The more you play with this, the more adept you’ll become at feeling the vibrational shift as you change from one frequency to another.
Pam Grout (E-Squared: Nine Do-It-Yourself Energy Experiments That Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality)
Keyonna was paying me to kill Camilla which I could have easily done, but I had my own score to settle with Troy.
Myiesha (A New Jersey Love Story: Troy & Camilla)
What I am trying to tell you,” Trinka said softly, looking back at him, “is that there are good ways to live, and bad ones. This is not a matter of opinion; it is objective truth. The Empire fights the Wilders because we need their land; that’s true. But there are other reasons. We fight them because they are unworthy. They are not fit to share this world – this divine gift – with folk who do not murder children. With people who do not rape women, or make slaves of the weak. The Wilders are undeserving of the gift of life, of divine choice. They are not fit to be called Children of Bræa. Their way of life is a blight upon the earth. They may look like men, but they live, and behave, like beasts. “If they were able to learn to live like civilized folk,” she sighed, “then we would make it our business to teach them; indeed, I would account it our duty to bring them into the light. We have tried. It has been more than a century since we first began settling the frontiers beyond the mountains, and in the three-score years since Duncala, we have tried many times to bring them the gift of civilization. But if they will not learn to act like civilized men, then civilized men are not obliged to tolerate them. The whole of Bræa’s creation, her divine intent, and her gift of choice to all of us – the gift of choice that grants us the possibility, and therefore the obligation, of bettering ourselves! – cries out against tolerating what by any reasoned definition is utter, bestial depravity. “We are Bræa’s heirs, the inheritors of her divine design. We are not obliged to endure depravity,” she said gravely. “We are obliged to redeem it, if we can; but if we cannot, then our obligation – to ourselves, our posterity, and the Holy Mother’s design – is to end it.” She cocked her head. “In this wise, it might help to think of the Wilders as little different from the hordes of Bardan, whose legacy of death and devastation ended the ancient world, and plunged all into darkness for twice a thousand years.” Her fist clenched involuntarily. “We will not suffer the darkness again, Esuric Mason. My brothers...my former comrades, I mean...they will not allow it.” She looked down at her hands. For a wonder, they were steady. “I will not allow it,” she whispered. - The Wizard's Eye (Hallow's Heart, Book II; Forthcoming)
D. Alexander Neill
The Leviathan reduces violence by asserting a monopoly on the legitimate use of force, thereby replacing what criminologists call “self-help justice”—in which individuals settle their own scores and disputes, often violently (such as the Mafia)—with criminal justice, leading overall to a decrease in violence.
Michael Shermer (The Moral Arc: How Science and Reason Lead Humanity toward Truth, Justice, and Freedom)
That life sometimes imitates art is a mere Oscar Wilde-ish curiosity; that it should set about to do so in such unseemly haste that between notes and novel (not to mention between the drafted and the printed page) what had been fiction becomes idle fact, invention history--disconcerting! Especially to a fictionist who, like yours truly, had long since turned his professional back on literary realism in favour of the fabulous irreal, and only in this latest enterprise had projected, not without misgiving, a detente with the realistic tradition. It is as if Reality, a mistress too long ignored, must now settle scores with her errant lover.
John Barth (Letters)
Killings by cops on the job continued to rise. . . . they became an institutionalized way for police to settle scores. "We stopped being peacekeeping police and turned into troops at war," Mário Sérgio said.
Juliana Barbassa (Dancing with the Devil in the City of God: Rio de Janeiro on the Brink)
a man approached me once with a manuscript. He felt it could be the Next Big Thing if it had the right agent. It featured a toddler he’d left after a failed relationship. The book’s opening had him arriving home in happier times, which meant verbatim dialogue between ‘Mommeeeee’ and ‘Daddeeeeee’ and ‘Widdle babieeeeeee’. It was as heartbreaking to read as the man’s relationship must have been to live, but in a bad way. And the man wasn’t crazy. He loved books, was well read – but his writing in this case played thunderous notes on an inner piano that the rest of us just don’t have. It’s not to say the story couldn’t be beautifully told, that it couldn’t give us those feelings – but it would have to build that piano first. It means the energy from our feelings can’t always be spat directly onto a page, except to write a letter we never send. That energy instead has to propel us through the journey of writing as well as we can. It means we have to be able to stand back and see our theme in all its dimensions. It means the book about the psycho lover also shows his good qualities and isn’t a straight assassination. Before starting to write we need to assure ourselves that we’re not out to settle a score (or if we are, to make sure we do it symbolically or indirectly and with craft), and that we’re not stuck in a feeling-land where little Archie’s first birthday party would feel just as amazing to everyone else as it did to us. Nobody is interested in little Archie unless something big happens at the party.
D.B.C. Pierre (Release the Bats: Writing Your Way Out Of It)
I had zero money for a new athletic wardrobe, so I settled for old yoga shorts and a t-shirt. I’d tried a tank top since it was seventy-five million degrees already. But I was paranoid about the roll around my middle. I wasn’t about to stroll onto my old turf with a visible belly roll. I’d given Culpepper enough to talk about over the years
Lucy Score (Rock Bottom Girl)
When you indulge in fantasies of revenge, such as telling others off or score settling—which, frankly, make up an alarming amount of my passive or associative thoughts—you not only shackle yourself to past wrongs, but also to the wrongs that you would do in exchange. Your acts of violation toward another, whether by mind, talk, emotion, or hand, reenact themselves in your psyche and perceptions. You are lowered to the level of people you resent or even hate when you counter—mentally or otherwise—their type of behavior. An adjunct to the Golden Rule could be: You become what you do not forgive.
Mitch Horowitz (The Miracle Club: How Thoughts Become Reality)
what in fact was never anything other than a banal score-settling that got out of hand was elevated to a philosophical crime.
Kamel Daoud (The Meursault Investigation)
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,” Preacher intones as he walks into the living room. “I just heard the end of what you said, but we all need to be careful about wanting to settle scores. All that does is lead to bloodshed and unending resentments that are passed from generation to generation. Prisons are full of people who have tried to settle scores. It just never works.
David Johnson (March On)
Writing is hard. It’s tough to get up in the morning and look at the white snowfield of a trackless page. How to push forward? Use anger; use rage if you have to. Settle scores. And if you have no scores to settle, then create a few for yourself, not only for the purposes of public relations, but also for the purposes of inspiration. Hot-blooded, hot-tempered, always ready to take offense: the writer as duelist.
Mark Edmundson (Why Write?: A Master Class on the Art of Writing and Why it Matters)
By the time her husband eventually went to the front and was killed, Kadiza rued her decision to travel to Syria. The caliphate was not a land of honor and justice where Muslims could hold their heads high, where the call to prayer filled the air and the pavement was littered with roses. Instead it was a vortex of violence and corruption where men hoarded cars and women settled scores against neighbors and foes, as though it were one long mafia war.
Azadeh Moaveni (Guest House for Young Widows: Among the Women of ISIS)
Different cultures have different responses to paranormal phenomena. In sub-Saharan Africa we are tracking an upswing in reports of vigilante attacks on suspected witches. There may be some correlation with homophobic political rhetoric: moral panics frequently spread to adjacent targets by contagion. Certainly there has been an upswing in reports of koro from western Africa recently . . . In predominantly Islamic countries there have been increasing reports of Djinn and ifrit, and witchcraft trials have been reported in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan’s tribal territories, and Afghanistan. However, they can’t be ascribed directly to superpower manifestations: witchcraft accusations are often leveled at ordinary men and women as a pretext for settling grudges. There’ve also been outbreaks of miracles in Poland, Ireland, Mexico, and elsewhere in Central and South America. Statues of the Virgin crying tears of blood, that sort of thing. Religious manifestations in India, much speaking in tongues in Baptist churches in the Deep South. “Overall, the incidence of religious anomalies worldwide—reported miracles, curses, incidents of successful imprecatory prayer—is up by roughly 150 to 200 percent over the past three months.
Charles Stross (The Annihilation Score (Laundry Files, #6))
There is one major flaw in the law of revenge, however: it never settles the score.
Philip Yancey (What's So Amazing About Grace?)
I knew the very position of dissenting and dismay was a privileged one and that my rejection of these choices made, to rational people and people with less class and race privilege, very little sense. Yet there is a particular cognitive dissonance that sets in when you have many of the advantages this life can bestow but have seen, up close and in slow motion, what they mean for those to whom they are denied. You start to think maybe you can abdicate your privilege like a crown, if only you try hard enough, and that maybe that will settle the score. I felt broken and running from the system in my mind in which the only choices were to dominate or be dominated, stay completely still or get annihilated by my feelings and the terror of history. It was a system of impossible twos and endless double binds, and I was afraid to move within it or choose anything. I felt that no one I knew had a clue about America, its true texture and shape and flavor, and that the ways I had been taught to live in it were no longer working.
Emma Copley Eisenberg (The Third Rainbow Girl: The Long Life of a Double Murder in Appalachia)
During the hearing I watched Bryden Grant, trying to believe that there was more to him than a politician with a personal vendetta finding in the national obsession the means to settle a score. In the name of reason, you search for some higher motive, you look for some deeper meaning—it was still my wont in those days to try to be reasonable about the unreasonable and to look for complexity in simple things. I would make demands upon my intelligence where none were really necessary. I would think, He cannot be as petty and vapid as he seems. That can’t be more than one-tenth of the story. There must be more to him than that.
Philip Roth (I Married a Communist (The American Trilogy, #2))
Whack.’ He made a pulling motion as if he had pliers in his hand. Usually, she just let him talk. Jamie found it was better not to say anything unless you needed to. But this time, she did need to. Because Roper was wrong. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Look at this.’ Roper screwed up his face and peered down, not leaning in. ‘Looks like ripped out fingernails to me.’ ‘If they were ripped out there’d be less damage here, to the cuticle.’ ‘The skin?’ ‘Yeah, Roper, the skin. See the way it’s split? Pushed back and flattened? Means the nails were lifted off from the tip, not pulled.’ He raised an eyebrow incredulously. ‘Your dad teach you that one?’ She gritted her teeth and let the annoyance welling in her dissipate. Every time she spotted something he didn’t he made a crack like that. She expected it considering who her father was — but it was getting old now. She’d been with the Met nearly ten years, and her father had been dead for fourteen. But she still couldn’t get away from it. Jörgen Johansson was one of the most decorated detectives in Swedish history, with more convictions than any other police officer, and she didn’t know if she’d ever outlive it.  The worst part of all was that he did teach her that. Along with most of the other things she knew about detective work.  Jamie didn’t have a conventional upbringing. It was case files and crime scene photos, not dolls and bicycles. She released Oliver’s fingers, her eyes settling on the ring — scratched and scored — and stood up. ‘We’ll wait for the forensics report.’ ‘Not going to tell us anything we don’t already know. Heroin in the bloodstream, river-water in the lungs.
Morgan Greene (Bare Skin (DS Jamie Johansson Book 1))
All I know is that I felt, inexplicably, unlucky, cursed in some way that would not be immediately apparent to anyone without a job or a lover or a family. I knew myself to be doomed to a life of dissatisfactions: my talents, whatever they were, would go permanently unrecognised, my relationships wrecked by circumstances entirely beyond my control. And because I knew this beyond any doubt, then there was simply no point in attempting to rectify the situation by looking for work that would stimulate me, or for a personal life that would make me happy. So I stopped writing (because if you are born under a bad sign, as I had been, there is simply no point in persisting with something that will inevitably bring with it only the humiliation of perpetual rejection), and involved myself in as many miserable and debilitating triangular relationships as I possibly could, and settled down to the remainder of my allotted three-score years and ten of unrelieved and terrible nothingness.
Nick Hornby (Fever Pitch)
He saw the gratitude in their eyes and felt a measure of gladness for them ... but their gratitude did little to heal his own horror. In fact, there was something in their gratitude which made him want to hate them. Would he never be able to express his own terror, lest the fragile welds that made them into one thing should let go? And even to think such a thing wasn't really fair, was it? Because in some measure at least he was using them - using his friends, risking their lives - to settle the score for his dead brother. And was even that the bottom? No, because George was dead, and if revenge could be exacted at all, Bill suspected it could only be exacted on behalf of the living. And what did that make him? A selfish little shit waving a tin sword and trying to make himself look like King Arthur? 'Oh Christ', he groaned to himself, 'if this is the stuff adults have to think about I never want to grow up.' His resolve was still strong, but it was a bitter resolve. Bitter.
Stephen King (IT)