Adams Song Quotes

She lowers the volume of this Safe and Top-Trending song titled... "Love Ain’t No Thang But a Chicken Wang.” 

I just don’t think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they’re worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough.

I'll be your mess, you be mine That was the deal that we had signed

The audience keeps singing, keeps making my case, and I just keep strumming until I get close enough to see her eyes. And then I start singing the chorus. Right to her. And she smiles at me, and it’s like we’re the only two people out here, the only ones who know what’s happening. Which is that this song we’re all singing together is being rewritten. It’s no longer an angry plea shouted to the void. Right here, on this stage, in front of eighty thousand people, it’s becoming something else. This is our new vow.

It's already bad. I'm honestly not sure how much worse it's going to get." Notice that I didn't say couldn't get worse. It can always get worse. I know this. And thus I refuse to tempt fate. Superstitious - probably. But magic exists. So does karma, and karma can be a bitch.

Your best work involves timing. If someone wrote the best hip hop song of all time in the Middle Ages, he had bad timing.

He thinks great folly, child,' said Aslan. "This world is bursting with life for these few days because the song with which I called it into life still hangs in the air and rumbles in the ground. It will not be so for long. But I cannot tell that to this old sinner, and I cannot comfort him either; he has made himself unable to hear my voice. If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh, Adam's son, how cleverly you defend yourself against all that might do you good!

He could tell by the way animals walked that they were keeping time to some kind of music. Maybe it was the song in their own hearts that they walked to.

What can I do, Muslims? I do not know myself. I am neither Christian nor Jew, neither Magian nor Muslim, I am not from east or west, not from land or sea, not from the shafts of nature nor from the spheres of the firmament, not of the earth, not of water, not of air, not of fire. I am not from the highest heaven, not from this world, not from existence, not from being. I am not from India, not from China, not from Bulgar, not from Saqsin, not from the realm of the two Iraqs, not from the land of Khurasan. I am not from the world, not from beyond, not from heaven and not from hell. I am not from Adam, not from Eve, not from paradise and not from Ridwan. My place is placeless, my trace is traceless, no body, no soul, I am from the soul of souls. I have chased out duality, lived the two worlds as one. One I seek, one I know, one I see, one I call. He is the first, he is the last, he is the outer, he is the inner. Beyond He and He is I know no other. I am drunk from the cup of love, the two worlds have escaped me. I have no concern but carouse and rapture. If one day in my life I spend a moment without you from that hour and that time I would repent my life. If one day I am given a moment in solitude with you I will trample the two worlds underfoot and dance forever. O Sun of Tabriz, I am so tipsy here in this world, I have no tale to tell but tipsiness and rapture.

Yes it is,' said the Professor. 'Wait—' he motioned to Richard, who was about to go out again and investigate— 'let it be. It won't be long.' Richard stared in disbelief. 'You say there's a horse in your bathroom, and all you can do is stand there naming Beatles songs?' The Professor looked blankly at him.

The apple . . . came before Adam and Eve in the story of creation. It had to have been there at least three years because that's how long it takes for a new tree to bear fruit.

Adam is mumbling something now. In a low voice. Over and over he is saying: please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Please. Finally, he stops and looks at my face. "Please, Mia," he implores. "Don't make me write a song.

Blue got herself back together and then turned on the radio. Adam hadn't even realized the ancient tape deck worked, but after a hissing few seconds, a tape inside jangled a tune. Noah began to sing along at once. 'Squash one, squash two-' Adam pawed for the radio at the same time as Blue. The tape ejected with enough force that Noah stretched a hand to catch it. 'That song. What are you doing with that in your player?' Demanded Blue. 'Do you listen to that recreationally? How did that song escape from the Internet?' Noah cackled and showed them the cassette. It boasted a handmade label marked with Ronan's handwriting: PARRISH'S HONDAYOTA ALONE TIME. The other side was A SHITBOX SINGALONG. 'Play it! Play it!' Noah said gaily, waving the tape. 'Noah. Noah! Take that away from him,' Adam said.

When you're dead, everything in the world is like a song that makes you cry.

I could see Eirene well enough to aim. SO I did. I aimed my weapon and thought of Bruno locked in a postcoital embrace with her. I embraced my jealousy. Then I pulled the trigger. - Celia Grave page 372

A friend is someone who hears the song in my heart and sings it to me when my memory fails.

If the bombs go off the sun will still be shining, because I've heard it said that every mushroom cloud has a silver lining.

She was adamant that any organisation that labelled one group of people as evil would eventually do the same to others. That to treat any one person as less than human was to cheapen the very substance of humanity.

I don't mind him not talking so much, because you can hear his voice in your heart; the same way you can hear a song in your head even if there isn't a radio playing; the same way you can hear those blackbirds flying when they're not in the sky

There is nothing these hands can hold worth having. They cannot hold the moonlight, or the melody of a song, or even the beauty of a woman. They can touch her face, but not her beauty. Only the heart can hold such things.

Then the musical instruments appeared. Dad’s snare drum from the house, Henry’s guitar from his car, Adam’s spare guitar from my room. Everyone was jamming together, singing songs: Dad’s songs, Adam’s songs, old Clash songs, old Wipers songs. Teddy was dancing around, the blond of his hair reflecting the golden flames. I remember watching it all and getting that tickling in my chest and thinking to myself: This is what happiness feels like.

In my opinion, there is a huge lack of imaginative, unconventional music being created by artists today and what little there is, goes widely unappreciated by the masses. 'Port Blue' is my attempt at re-creating the music I want to hear and the emotions I want to feel." "If by chance you ever feel as though you’ve come to know these songs, please consider yourself a friend because in a manner of speaking, you know me. This music is my heart and soul. This is who I am." (Adam R. Young, 2006)

Soon the Boov was in the ghost suit and Pig was in the car, which would be a good lyric for a bluegrass song, now that I think of it.

I guess in this culture of ever-shortening attention spans, it's good if a song can lift us out of the madness, even if only for a few minutes.

In the beginning was Scream Who begat Blood Who begat Eye Who begat Fear Who begat Wing Who begat Bone Who begat Granite Who begat Violet Who begat Guitar Who begat Sweat Who begat Adam Who begat Mary Who begat God Who begat Nothing Who begat Never Never Never Never Who begat Crow Screaming for Blood Grubs, crusts Anything Trembling featherless elbows in the nest's filth

At the worst times, the best plan was often no plan. And Ky excelled at coming up with no plan.

Adam relented. As they kept walking and the Orphan Girl kept piping her song and the fish kept darting through the air around them, he threw out intention of his own. The volume of the resulting boom surprised even him; he heard it in one ear and felt it in both feet. The others all startled as another bass-heavy boom sounded at the beginning of the next measure of the tune. By the time the third thud came, it was obviously pounding in time with the music. Each of the trees they passed sounded with a processed thud, until the sound around them was the pulsing electronic beat that invariably played in Ronan’s car or headphones. “Oh God,” Gansey said, but he was laughing. “Do we have to endure that here, too? Ronan! ” “It wasn’t me,” Ronan said. He looked to Blue, who shrugged. He caught Adam’s eye. When Adam’s mouth quirked, Ronan’s expression stilled for a moment before turning to the loose smile he ordinarily reserved for Matthew’s silliness. Adam felt a surge of both accomplishment and nerves. He skated an edge here. Making Ronan Lynch smile felt as charged as making a bargain with Cabeswater. These weren’t forces to play with.

An intense feeling, That I cannot hide. A painful passion, I can’t keep inside. Should I repress? Should I let you guess? Should I confess?

There is a moment between life and death when the chain of time is broken.

The deep roar of the ocean. The break of waves on farther shores that thought can find. The silent thunders of the deep. And from among it, voices calling, and yet not voices, humming trillings, wordlings, and half-articulated songs of thought. Greetings, waves of greetings, sliding back down into the inarticulate, words breaking together. A crash of sorrow on the shores of Earth. Waves of joy on--where? A world indescribably found, indescribably arrived at, indescribably wet, a song of water. A fugue of voices now, clamoring explanations, of a disaster unavertable, a world to be destroyed, a surge of helplessness, a spasm of despair, a dying fall, again the break of words. And then the fling of hope, the finding of a shadow Earth in the implications of enfolded time, submerged dimensions, the pull of parallels, the deep pull, the spin of will, the hurl and split of it, the fight. A new Earth pulled into replacement, the dolphins gone. Then stunningly a single voice, quite clear. "This bowl was brought to you by the Campaign to Save the Humans. We bid you farewell." And then the sound of long, heavy, perfectly gray bodies rolling away into an unknown fathomless deep, quietly giggling.

In the past the whales had been able to sing to each other across whole oceans, even from one ocean to another because sound travels such huge distances underwater. But now, again because of the way in which sound travels, there is no part of the ocean that is not constantly jangling with the hubbub of ships’ motors, through which it is now virtually impossible for the whales to hear each other’s songs or messages. So fucking what, is pretty much the way that people tend to view this problem, and understandably so, thought Dirk. After all, who wants to hear a bunch of fat fish, oh all right, mammals, burping at each other? But for a moment Dirk had a sense of infinite loss and sadness that somewhere amongst the frenzy of information noise that daily rattled the lives of men he thought he might have heard a few notes that denoted the movements of gods.

No ancient Jew was ever promised, or expected, a heavenly life. That was a wild and outrageous teaching of Jesus. Holy text never offers a heavenly hope--before Jesus. Think about it: No matter how faithful Adam would have been, he could never graduate to heaven. Going to heaven was a 'Jesus teaching.' It simply does not exist in Torah. pg xxvii

Adrian was a vampire. Adam was the Dark Heir of the Fae. Larissa was dead. Alden was facing danger to help us. I was homeless, jobless, and attracted to the one thing that would surely kill me in the end. The reality set in that I had even lost my dog, and now my life was just one tragedy away from becoming a sad country song.

It called her by name. Birdie. Songkeeper. Beloved. You are mine.

So what's the plan?" "Not dying.

Perhaps they are singing songs to you,' he said, 'and I just think they’re asking me questions.' He paused again. Sometimes he would pause for days, just to see what it was like.

Lost love belongs in a three-minute song, pullling back feelings from a time when they came unbidden, recalling the infatuation, the walking on sunshine that cannot last and the pain of its loss, whether through parting or the passage of time, reminding us that we are emotional beings

Janx Spirit : Janx Spirit is a rather potent alcoholic beverage, and is used heavily in drinking games that are played in the hyperspace ports that serve the madranite mining belts in the star system of Orion Beta. The game is not unlike the Earth game called Indian Wrestling, and is played like this: Two contestants sit at either side of a table, with a glass in front of each of them. Between them would be placed a bottle of Janx Spirit — as immortalized in that ancient Orion mining song : “Oh don’t give me no more of that Old Janx Spirit No, don’t you give me no more of that Old Janx Spirit For my head will fly, my tongue will lie, my eyes will fry and I may die Won’t you pour me one more of that sinful Old Janx Spirit” Each of the two contestants would then concentrate their will on the bottle and attempt to tip it and pour spirit into the glass of his opponent – who would then have to drink it. The bottle would then be refilled. The game would be played again. And again. Once you started to lose you would probably keep losing, because one of the effects of Janx spirit is to depress telepsychic power. As soon as a predetermined quantity had been consumed, the final loser would have to perform a forfeit, which was usually obscenely biological.

I just don’t think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they’re worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough. And what’s a dollar? We’ll make a dollar again.

Just let it go, Amelia. And great…now I’m singing the song from Frozen because it’s literally impossible to say that phrase anymore without singing it.

You are all broken, Songkeeper... But not beyond repair.

Over the past few days, Amos McElhenny had stared death in the face so many times that he hardly blinked anymore. What harm could once more do?

Listen little Songkeeper, the voice whispered, and I will sing you a Song.

If we could hear our own songs, if we could see God’s creation the way God does, we would know it’s the most beautiful song there is.

What do you want from me, Crank?” He gritted his teeth, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “I want to know what you look like with that dress off. I want to take you home with me and tear it off and make love to you until you scream.

Then shadows and shapes, shrouded figures, appeared to join him, apparitions, ancient, mythical faces, wise and beautiful, like holy ghosts, shimmering around around him, beside him, beyond him, enveloped by a brume indescribable, shot through with shafts of pink and blue and gold, as though the heavens themselves had opened up and poured out the light into the world.

The knowledge that she would never be loved in return acted upon her ideas as a tide acts upon cliffs. Her religious beliefs went first, for all she could ask of a god, or of immortality, was the gift of a place where daughters love their mothers; the other attributes of Heaven you could have for a song. Next she lost her belief in the sincerity of those about her. She secretly refused to believe that anyone (herself excepted) loved anyone. All families lived in a wasteful atmosphere of custom and kissed one another with secret indifference. She saw that the people of this world moved about in an armor of egotism, drunk with self-gazing, athirst for compliments, hearing little of what was said to them, unmoved by the accidents that befell their closest friends, in dread of all appeals that might interrupt their long communion with their own desires. These were the sons and daughters of Adam from Cathay to Peru. And when on the balcony her thoughts reached this turn, her mouth would contract with shame for she knew that she too sinned and that though her love for her daughter was vast enough to include all the colors of love, it was not without a shade of tyranny: she loved her daughter not for her daughter's sake, but for her own. She longed to free herself from this ignoble bond; but the passion was too fierce to cope with.

This world is bursting with life for these few days because the song with which I called it into life still hangs in the air and rumbles in the ground. It will not be so for long. But I cannot tell that to this old sinner, and I cannot comfort him either; he has made himself unable to hear my voice. If I spoke to him, he would hear only growlings and roarings. Oh Adam’s sons, how cleverly you defend yourselves against all that might do you good! But I will give him the only gift he is still able to receive.

I talked a lot in my car. Thousands of words and songs and swears are absorbed in its fabric, just like the orange juice I spilled on my way to the dentist. It knows what happened, when Allie went to Puerto Rico, understands the difference between the way I look at Nick and the way I look at Adam, and remembers the first time I experimented with talking to myself.

I was right about not being able to control my own surprises, but I was wrong about how good these surprises could actually be for me. Every time a new old song comes on, I’m being resurrected. This is the true power of history. Old memories and feelings are being revived, and I’m not complaining. It’s like I still have the fatigue that got me to quit the song in the first place, but I don’t mind being woken up to it for a little bit. Wade

Not that anyone minds--no one's paying attention to the music. Most of them never really listen to music. Practically no one actually does. Even at concerts people pay good money for, instead of a three-dollar cover charge, they talk through the whole thing. I feel sorry for them, since none of them understand what it's like to have a song just get into your soul and become your whole world. They don't know what it's like when a song changes your life.

Blind risk is stupid, but calculated risks are worth taking.

The ability to kill someone doesn't make you a leader, and it doesn't make someone great. There's nothing great about dying or taking a life.

Richard stared in disbelief. “You say there’s a horse in your bathroom, and all you can do is stand there naming Beatles songs?

I pulled him tighter as I lay back down. I had no idea where we went from here. No fucking clue what happened tomorrow. But for tonight, Adam was in my arms. And everything was okay.

On the way back they sang a number of tuneful and reflective songs on the subjects of peace, justice, morality, culture, sport, family life and the obliteration of all other life forms.

But I’ve pushed my limit and here’s the truth: this is the most painfully confusing time in my life and he’s the first person who said all the right words to me and reminds me of the first days of summer where you leave home without [your] jacket, and my favorite songs playing over and over.

Music allows us to travel back in time through our ear canals. The top song of 1991, Bryan Adams' "(Everything I Do) I Do It for You", takes me back to Branson in its glory year, and that's like a FREE vacation.

It always has been and always will be the same. The old folk of our grandfathers' young days sang a song bearing exactly the same burden; and the young folk of to-day will drone out precisely similar nonsense for the aggravation of the next generation. "Oh, give me back the good old days of fifty years ago," has been the cry ever since Adam's fifty-first birthday. Take up the literature of 1835, and you will find the poets and novelists asking for the same impossible gift as did the German Minnesingers long before them and the old Norse Saga writers long before that. And for the same thing sighed the early prophets and the philosophers of ancient Greece. From all accounts, the world has been getting worse and worse ever since it was created. All I can say is that it must have been a remarkably delightful place when it was first opened to the public, for it is very pleasant even now if you only keep as much as possible in the sunshine and take the rain good-temperedly.

It hurts to admit it, but there were things in those letters that feel like Mom was taking a shot at me. Why did she write down that I was obsessed with singing songs from girl pop stars? Or how when she took Eric and me shopping for toys at CVS, I didn’t let him bully me into buying a blue Power Ranger because I wanted to play with a Jean Grey action figure? I feel like it was her coded way of saying, “This is when I knew about you.

Yes it is," said the Professor. "Wait—" he motioned to Richard, who was about to go out again and investigate— "let it be. It won’t be long." Richard stared in disbelief. "You say there’s a horse in your bathroom, and all you can do is stand there naming Beatles songs?" The Professor looked blankly at him. "Listen," he said, "I'm sorry if...I alarmed you earlier, it was just a slight turn. These things happen, my dear fellow, don't upset yourself about it. Dear me, I've known odder things in my time. Many of them. Far odder. She's only a horse, for heaven's sake. I'll go and let her out later. Please don't concern yourself. Let us revive our spirits with some port." "But...how did it get in there?" "Well, the bathroom window's open. I expect she came in through that." Richard looked at him, not for the first and certainly not for the last time, through eyes that were narrowed with suspicion. "You're doing it deliberately, aren't you," he said. "Doing what, my dear fellow?

I trust you have a plan?" Ky stifled a chuckle. 'Course he didn't have a plan. In instances like these, having too much of a plan was almost certain to get you killed. Better to trust instinct and not box yourself in with expectations.

A song." I said aloud. "What?" "The whole time Adam and I were together, he never wrote a song for me." Vera looked like she was trying to think of an appropriate response to such a stupid desire. "He was a drummer. You hate it when drummers sing.

I just don't think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they're worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough. And what's a dollar? We'll make a dollar again

But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it. “And the sweet silver song of the lark.’… Revised impact time fifteen seconds, fellas…. ‘Walk on through the wind …

...the lovable is not scarce- it is everywhere. Everything you touch is lovable. There is a hufe surplus, a thousand wonderful things to do, see, feel, taste and smell and a million wonderful people to respond to, talk to, do things for, and delight in, ideas to play with, skills to learn, pictures to paint, songs to sing, grass to mow, poems to write, food to cook and dishes to wash. Each of these is one more occasion to love, out of countless such.

The song ends, I catch my breath, and I breathe in everyone's roaring applause, I breathe in their love, and it energizes me to grab Rufus's hand while he's bowing. I drag him offstage, and once we're behind the curtain, I look him in the eyes and he smiles like he knows what's about to go down. And he's not wrong.

Ford was humming something. it was just one note repeated at intervals. He was hoping that somebody would ask him what he was humming, but nobody did. if anybody had asked him he would have said he was humming the first line of a Noel Coward song called "Mad About the Boy" over and over again. it would then have been pointed out to him that he was only singing one note, to which he would have replied that for reasons that he hoped would be apparent, he was omitting the "About the Boy" bit. he was annoyed that nobody asked.

But crazy people are those who make this world a better place because they envision a world that the rest of us don’t see until it’s handed to us.

Fear is no crime. But acting from fear is. Know that you're going to lose everything one day, whether you fear to lose it or not.

Humanity's savageness is what makes it civilized. Technology, trade, computers, space travel. All are products of competition and conflict.

Honestly, he was surprised to wake up each morning and find that his brains had not been bashed out in his sleep.

Please Mia, don't make me write a song..." - Adam Wilde, If I Stay

Well, bugger me," cried Jonas when he saw Richie with his bow, "is it Robin Hood or Adam Bell come to save us? Nay, it's Richie O'the Bow, hero of ballad and song!

change is never easy,you fight to hold on and your fight to let go

That first time he heard her laugh in a coffee shop, he knew it was a song he could listen to on repeat for the rest of his life

Your sons have no names.” Adam replied, “Their mother left them motherless.” “And you have left them fatherless. Can’t you feel the cold at night of a lone child? What warm is there, what bird song, what possible morning can be good? Don’t you remember, Adam, how it was, even a little?” “I didn’t do it,” Adam said. “Have you undone it? Your boys have no names.

Every time there was conquest, it brought trade, new ideas, and inventions. They made civilization evolve to new heights. Humans soar on the wings of our violent nature. There's no other way.

Self-government is our right," [Roger Casement] declared. "A thing born in us at birth; a thing no more to be doled out to us or withheld from us by another people than the right to life itself - than the right to feel the sun or smell the flowers, or to love our kind. . . . Where men must beg with bated breath for leave to subsist in their own land, to think their own thoughts, to sing their own songs, to garner the fruits of their own labours. . . then surely it is braver, a saner and a truer thing, to be a rebel . . . than tamely to accept it as the natural lot of men.

City of Vassillian a party of five sage princes with four horses. The princes, who are of course brave, noble and wise, travel widely in distant lands, fight giant ogres, pursue exotic philosophies, take tea with weird gods and rescue beautiful monsters from ravening princesses before finally announcing that they have achieved enlightenment and that their wanderings are therefore accomplished. The second, and much longer, part of each song would then tell of all their bickerings about which one of them is going to have to walk back. All this lay in the planet’s remote past.

I just don't think I should be the judge of who actually needs my help or not, like they should do a dance or sing me a song to prove they're worthy. Asking for help when you need it should be enough.

As for other mischief—my song has claimed this place for now. No evil may enter without invitation. They cannot come in.” He glanced beyond us, behind Adam and me, toward the basement. “Not for a while.

If people can be bothered to organise a demo, write songs, paint signs, and march through the streets holding those signs and singing those songs, outraged, you can be pretty sure they’ll have a valid point.

It'd be cool to date someone who liked the same stuff I did. We wouldn't clash during road trips to see life outside the city. We could share earphones and vibe to the same song while relaxing somewhere quiet.

You measure a good song the same way you measure architecture, fashion, or any other artistic endeavor. Time. You know when you see a picture of yourself from the eighties with a horrible hairdo and some stone-washed jeans and you think, “How embarrassing—what the fuck was I thinking? Why didn’t somebody stop me?” It’s the same thing Mick Jagger and David Bowie should be thinking every time they hear their cover of “Dancing in the Streets.” The point is, at the time it seemed like a good idea, just like kitchens with burnt-orange Formica and avocado appliances, den walls covered with fake brick paneling, and segregation—all horrible decisions that we now universally recognize as wrong. But somehow when it comes to music, we can’t just admit we made a mistake with “Emotional Rescue.” There’s always some dick who defends the past. “Hey, man, I lost my virginity to ‘Careless Whisper.’ ” I’m sure there was somebody who got laid for the first time on 9/11 but they don’t get a boner when they see the footage of the planes going into the tower.

In sin, we come unplugged. When we refuse the givenness of life and withdraw from the present moment, we’re left to wander the world undead. Zombie-like, we wander from one moment to the next with no other goal than to get somewhere else, be someone else, see something else—anywhere, anyone, anything other than what is given here and now. We’re busy. We’ve got goals and projects. We’ve got plans. We’ve got fantasies. We’ve got daydreams. We’ve got regrets and memories. We’ve got opinions. We’ve got distractions. We’ve got games and songs and movies and a thousand TV shows. We’ve got anything and everything other than a first-hand awareness of our own lived experience of the present moment.

Don't start on the tortured poet crap, okay? You have no idea what it's like to deal with you guys. You just walk away when it suits you. You have all these soulful songs, you have these grandiose feelings, angst and pain. You cry and I feel sorry for you. I want to cradle you and care for you, do anything to help put the broken pieces back together. But then, guess what? When it's over, when it all falls apart, I'm broken, too. You're perfectly happy being in pieces, but I'm not. I'm not happy being broken.

This is the core challenge of speaking up with an original idea. When you present a new suggestion, you’re not only hearing the tune in your head. You wrote the song. You’ve spent hours, days, weeks, months, or maybe even years thinking about the idea. You’ve contemplated the problem, formulated the solution, and rehearsed the vision. You know the lyrics and the melody of your idea by heart. By that point, it’s no longer possible to imagine what it sounds like to an audience that’s listening to it for the first time.

Change now, O Adam, your wicked words of excuse to the song of endless thanksgiving, and say: “O Lord, the woman whom thou hast given me, gave me of the tree of life; and I have eaten, and its fruit has been sweeter than honey to my mouth, and by it thou hast given me life.

Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl, When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep Was aerie-light, from pure digestion bred, And temperate vapors bland, which the only sound Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan, Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song Of birds on every bough; so much the more His wonder was to find unwakened Eve With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek, As through unquiet rest: He, on his side Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love Hung over her enamored, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes, Her hand soft touching, whispered thus. Awake, My fairest, my espoused, my latest found, Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight! Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove, What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed, How nature paints her colors, how the bee Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.

A few have heeded our words,' Adam comforted, placing his arm about her, but in his face Shaina read such suffering as she had never seen upon a human countenance. ' Man born into sinfulness no longer finds the things of God appealing. It requires a long, slow miraculous turning to bring him once more into tune with His Maker, and few will submit to the process because it is so much easier to simply enjoy the bounties of the earth and gratify every impulse. And upon us both rests the burden of this knowledge--the sordidness of man, his cruelty, his greed. All our legacy to those for whom God planned so much.

We might say that modern evangelicalism has a hearing problem. We may preach before we truly understand a situation or embrace its gravity. Our verbal effusiveness can devolve into breezy clichés, hollow soundbites, and repetitive song lyrics, things that don’t honor the uniqueness, complexity, and beauty of each person.

You sure? Even after all those things you said about her being a heart-breaker, a manipulator and that she cut your heart into millions of little pieces and blew them in the wind like a dandelion ...” “Hey!” Jason shrieked. “Artists,” he said sheepishly. “We’re overly sensitive. And apparently can’t keep our mouths shut.

Gansey said abruptly. "In we go. Ronan, don't forget to set the directional markers as we go. We're counting on you. Don't just stare at me. Nod like you understand. Good. You know what? Give them to Jane." "What?" Ronan sounded betrayed. Blue accepted the markers - round, plastic discs with arrows drawn on them. She hadn't realized how nervous she was until she had them in her hands; it felt good to have something concrete to do. "I want you to whistle or hum or sing, Ronan, and keep track of time," Gansey said. "You have got to be shitting me," Ronan replied. "Me." Gansey peered down the tunnel. "I know you know a lot of the songs all the way through, and can do them the same sped and length every time. Because you had to memorize all of those tunes for the Irish music competitions." Blue and Adam exchanged a delighted look. The only thing more pleasing than seeing Ronan singled out was seeing him singled out and forced to repeatedly sing an Irish jig. "Piss up a rope," Ronan said. Gansey, unoffended, waited. Ronan shook his head, but then, with a wicked smile, he began to sing, "Squash one, squash two, s-" "Not that one," both Adam and Gansey said. "I'm not listening to that for three hours," Adam said. Gansey pointed at Ronan until he began to breathily whistle a jaunty reel. And they went in deeper.

There are good ships and there are wood ships, the ships that sail the sea. But the best ships are friendships, and may they always be. A toast to your coffin. May it be made of hundred-year-old oak. And may we plant the tree together tomorrow. Here’s to Eve, the mother of us all, and here’s to Adam, who was Johnny-on-the-spot when the leaf began to fall. Give a man a match and he’ll be warm for a minute, but set him on fire and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life. Leprechauns, castles, good luck, and laughter. Lullabies, dreams, and love ever after. Poems and songs with pipes and drums. A thousand welcomes when anyone comes . . . That’s the Irish for you!

Homer then has the bard—a blind man whose name is Demodocus, which means “popular with the people”—say something that drives far into the center of what Homer means and why Homer matters: “The gods did this and spun the destruction of people / For the sake of the singing of men hereafter.” The song, this poem, this story, is the divine

We need good liturgies, and we need natural ones; we need a life neither patternless nor over patterned, if the city is to be built. And I think the root of it all is caring. Not that that will turn the trick all by itself, but that we can produce nothing good without it. True liturgies take things for what they really are, and offer them up in loving delight. Adam naming the animals is instituting the first of all the liturgies; speech, by which man the priest of creation picks up each of the world's pieces and by his wonder bears it into the dance. "By George," he says, "there's an elephant in my garden; isn't that something!" Adam has been at work a long time; civilization is the fruit of his priestly labors. Culture is the liturgy of nature as it is offered up by man. But culture can come only from caring enough about things to want them really to be themselves - to want the poem to scan perfectly, the song to be genuinely melodic, the basketball actually to drop through the middle of the hoop, the edge of the board to be utterly straight, the pastry to be really flaky. Few of us have very many great things to care about, but we all have plenty of small ones; and that's enough for the dance. It is precisely through the things we put on the table, and the liturgies we form around it, that the city is built, caring is more than half the work.

Harvest Do not let a woman with a sexy rump deceive you with wheedling and coaxing words; she is after your barn. -Hesiod Shall we gather the sunset pluck what is ripe harness the cicada's song? Even if this isn't the season of new love let us remember the buds and reap what we can. No crop is too small. No harvest too lean. The grain will yield. So scatter and slash call in the cows and let us milk them all dry. Plow as you will. Bulldoze away. Why not make every season our season each day our day to till and tease to clear and seed to plant and replant as we please. Come my sweet smell of hay do not be deceived by Hesiod. He says that I am after your barn. I want the whole fucking farm!

Adam hadn't even realized the ancient tape deck worked, but after a hissing few seconds, a tape inside jangled a tun. Noah began to sing along at once. "Squash one, squash two--" Adam pawed for the radio at the same time as Blue. The tape ejected with enough force that Noah stretched a hand to catch it. "That song. What are you doing with that in your player?" demanded Blue. "Do you listen to that recreationally? How did that song escape from the internet?" Noah cackled and showed them the cassette. It boasted a handmade label marked with Ronan's handwriting: Parrish's Hondayota Alone Time. The other side was A Shitbox Singalong. "Play it! Play it!" Noah said gaily, waving the tape. "Noah. Noah! Take that away from him," Adam said.

Do you ever wonder how we all got here? On Earth, I mean. Forget the song and dance about Adam and Eve, which I know is a load of crap. My father likes the myth of the Pawnee Indians, who say that the star deities populated the world: Evening Star and Morning Star hooked up and gave birth to the first female. The first boy came from the Sun and the Moon. Humans rode in on the back of a tornado. Mr. Hume, my science teacher, taught us about this primordial soup full of natural gases and muddy slop and carbon matter that somehow solidified into one-celled organisms called choanoflagellates... which sound a lot more like a sexually transmitted disease than the start of the evolutionary chain, in my opinion. But even once you get there, it's a huge leap from an amoeba to a monkey to a whole thinking person. The really amazing thing about all this is no matter what you believe, it took some doing to get from a point where there was nothing, to a point where all the right neurons fire and pop so that we can make decisions. More amazing is how even though that's become second nature, we all still manage to screw it up.

With a rumble of disapproval, the griffin removed his paw from Slack’s back. She scrambled upright and darted out of reach, eyeing her discarded hatchet but evidently not daring to match her speed against the griffin’s. First wise move Ky could recollect her making. Ever. Slack opened her mouth, but Gundhrold fixed her with a stern glare, silencing her before she could speak.

And when I hear their questions, do you hear questions? What do their voices mean to you? Perhaps you just think they're singing songs to you." He reflected on this, and saw the flaw in the supposition. "Perhaps they are singing songs to you," he said, "and I just think they’re asking me questions." He paused again. Sometimes he would pause for days, just to see what it was like.

No more peeping through keyholes! No more mas turbating in the dark! No more public confessions! Unscrew the doors from their jambs! I want a world where the vagina is represented by a crude, honest slit, a world that has feeling for bone and contour, for raw, primary colors, a world that has fear and respect for its animal origins. I’m sick of looking at cunts all tickled up, disguised, deformed, idealized. Cunts with nerve ends exposed. I don’t want to watch young virgins masturbating in the privacy of their boudoirs or biting their nails or tearing their hair or lying on a bed full of bread crumbs for a whole chapter. I want Madagascan funeral poles, with animal upon animal and at the top Adam and Eve, and Eve with a crude, honest slit between the legs. I want hermaphrodites who are real hermaphrodites, and not make-believes walking around with an atrophied penis or a dried-up cunt. I want a classic purity, where dung is dung and angels are angels. The Bible a la King James, for example. Not the Bible of Wycliffe, not the Vulgate, not the Greek, not the Hebrew, but the glorious, death-dealing Bible that was created when the English language was in flower, when a vocabulary of twenty thousand words sufficed to build a monument for all time. A Bible written in Svenska or Tegalic, a Bible for the Hottentots or the Chinese, a Bible that has to meander through the trickling sands of French is no Bible-it is a counterfeit and a fraud. The King James Version was created by a race of bone-crushers. It revives the primitive mysteries, revives rape, murder, incest, revives epilepsy, sadism, megalomania, revives demons, angels, dragons, leviathans, revives magic, exorcism, contagion, incantation, revives fratricide, regicide, patricide, suicide, revives hypnotism, anarchism, somnambulism, revives the song, the dance, the act, revives the mantic, the chthonian, the arcane, the mysterious, revives the power, the evil, and the glory that is God. All brought into the open on a colossal scale, and so salted and spiced that it will last until the next Ice Age. A classic purity, then-and to hell with the Post Office authorities! For what is it enables the classics to live at all, if indeed they be living on and not dying as we and all about us are dying? What preserves them against the ravages of time if it be not the salt that is in them? When I read Petronius or Apuleius or Rabelais, how close they seem! That salty tang! That odor of the menagerie! The smell of horse piss and lion’s dung, of tiger’s breath and elephant’s hide. Obscenity, lust, cruelty, boredom, wit. Real eunuchs. Real hermaphrodites. Real pricks. Real cunts. Real banquets! Rabelais rebuilds the walls of Paris with human cunts. Trimalchio tickles his own throat, pukes up his own guts, wallows in his own swill. In the amphitheater, where a big, sleepy pervert of a Caesar lolls dejectedly, the lions and the jackals, the hyenas, the tigers, the spotted leopards are crunching real human boneswhilst the coming men, the martyrs and imbeciles, are walking up the golden stairs shouting Hallelujah!

Homer then has the bard—a blind man whose name is Demodocus, which means “popular with the people”—say something that drives far into the center of what Homer means and why Homer matters: “The gods did this and spun the destruction of people / For the sake of the singing of men hereafter.” The song, this poem, this story, is the divine purpose of the war. The war happened so that the poem could happen.

The jugleor became a jongleur and degenerated into the street-juggler; the minstrel, or menestrier, became very early a word of abuse, equivalent to blackguard; and from the beginning the profession seems to have been socially decried, like that of a music-hall singer or dancer in later times; but in the eleventh century, or perhaps earlier still, the jongleur seems to have been a poet, and to have composed the songs he sang.

The Grand Canyon is a land of song. Mountains of music swell in the rivers, hills of music billow in the creeks, and meadows of music murmur in the rills that ripple over the rocks. Altogether it is a symphony of multitudinous melodies. All this is the music of waters. The adamant foundations of the earth have been wrought into a sublime harp, upon which the clouds of the heavens play with mighty tempests or with gentle showers.

As much as her brain told her that pushing him away was exactly what she should do, the rest of her body wasn’t getting the message. No, her traitorous body was craving the same kind of explosive sex that the song was still droning on about in the background. Adam’s warm breath fanned her face as he leaned over until their lips were just skimming the other’s. He growled. “I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you pointing that gun at me.” ” ~ Adam

Then Adam boldly said, ‘Lord, what if I am willing to bestow on that soul some of the years of my life?’ “And God answered Adam, saying, ‘If that is your wish, that I will grant.’ “Adam, we are told, died not at 1,000, but at 930 years. And eons later, there was a child born in the town of Bethlehem. He became a ruler over Israel and a sweet singer of songs. After leading his people and inspiring them, he died. And the Bible concludes: ‘Behold, David the King was buried after having lived for 70 years.

Song This is the love I bring, Absolute and nothing: A tree but with no roots, A cloud heavy with fruit, A wide stone stair That leads nowhere But to empty sky, Ambiguous majesty. This is the love I bear: It is light as air, Yet weighs like an earth; It is water flowing, Yet adamant as fire. It is coming from going. It is dying and growing. A love so rare and hard It cuts a diamond word Upon the windowpane, "Never, never again, Never upon my breast," Having no time to bring, Having no place to rest, Absolute and nothing.

Self-government is our right,” he declared. “A thing born in us at birth; a thing no more to be doled out to us or withheld from us by another people than the right to life itself—than the right to feel the sun or smell the flowers, or to love our kind. . . . Where men must beg with bated breath for leave to subsist in their own land, to think their own thoughts, to sing their own songs, to garner the fruits of their own labours . . . then surely it is braver, a saner and a truer thing, to be a rebel . . . than tamely to accept it as the natural lot of men.

Robin didn't like that idea very much-Jules spending time with Adam? "I get jealousy too, you know. You used to be in love with him." Jules turned his head to look at him. "That was before I knew what love really was". He smiled. "When I met you, Robin, God.... I had to redefine everything. You know, there was this country song my mother really liked. It used to annoy me, I was in my technopop phase, but lately I just... I find myself thinking about the lyrics all the time. That was a river, this is the ocean.... I thought I loved Adam, and I did, but... it wasn't even close to this incredible ocean that I feel for you".

If, when you say whiskey, you mean the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacles of righteous, gracious living into the bottomless pit of degredation and despair, shame and helplessness and hopelessness, then certainly I am against it with all my power. But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has this to say about the planet of Golgafrincham: it is a planet with an ancient and mysterious history, rich in legend, red, and occasionally green with the blood of those who sought in times gone by to conquer her; a land of parched and barren landscapes, of sweet and sultry air heady with the scent of the perfumed springs that trickle over its hot and dusty rocks and nourish the dark and musky lichens beneath; a land of fevered brows and intoxicated imaginings, particularly among those who taste the lichens; a land also of cool and shaded thoughts among those who have learned to forswear the lichens and find a tree to sit beneath; a land also of steel and blood and heroism; a land of the body and of the spirit. This was its history. And in all this ancient and mysterious history, the most mysterious figures of all were without doubt those of the Great Circling poets of Arium. These Circling Poets used to live in remote mountain passes where they would lie in wait for small bands of unwary travelers, circle around them, and throw rocks at them. And when the travelers cried out, saying why didn’t they go away and get on with writing some poems instead of pestering people with all this rock-throwing business, they would suddenly stop, and then break into one of the seven hundred and ninety-four great Song Cycles of Vassillian. These songs were all of extraordinary beauty, and even more extraordinary length, and all fell into exactly the same pattern.

Nearer, my God, to Thee. Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me: Still all my song shall be Nearer, my God! to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Though, like the wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone; Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Then let the way appear Steps unto heaven; All that Thou sendest me In mercy given: Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Then with my waking thoughts Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee. Or if on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly: Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee.

He couldn’t see why people made such a fuss about people eating their silly old fruit anyway, but life would be a lot less fun if they didn’t. And there never was an apple, in Adam’s opinion, that wasn’t worth the trouble you got into for eating it. IF YOU WANT TO IMAGINE the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. And if you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot . . . no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human . . . Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield. . . . . . . forever.

But if, when you say whiskey, you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the stuff that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer; if you mean the stimulating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman’s step on a frosty morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy, and his happiness and to forget, if only for a little while, life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrows, if you mean that drink, the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirm, to build highways, hospitals, and schools, then certainly I am in favor of it.

How do you cause people to believe in an imagined order such as Christianity, democracy or capitalism? First, you never admit that the order is imagined. You always insist that the order sustaining society is an objective reality created by the great gods or by the laws of nature. People are unequal, not because Hammurabi said so, but because Enlil and Marduk decreed it. People are equal, not because Thomas Jefferson said so, but because God created them that way. Free markets are the best economic system, not because Adam Smith said so, but because these are the immutable laws of nature. You also educate people thoroughly. From the moment they are born, you constantly remind them of the principles of the imagined order, which are incorporated into anything and everything. They are incorporated into fairy tales, dramas, paintings, songs, etiquette, political propaganda, architecture, recipes and fashions.

One young man asked how to behave should he encounter a homosexual. “Point out that this is a new experience for you,” Dr. Song said, “as there are no such individuals where you are from. Then treat him as you would any visiting Juche scholar from foreign lands like Burma or Ukraine or Cuba.” Dr. Song then got practical. He said it was okay to wear shoes indoors. Women were free to smoke in America and should not be confronted. Disciplining other people’s children in America was not okay. He drew for them on a piece of paper the shape of a football. With great discomfort, Dr. Song touched on American standards of personal hygiene, and then he delivered a mini-lecture on the subject of smiling. He concluded with dogs, noting how Americans were very sentimental, with a particular softness toward canines. You must never hurt a dog in America, he said. They are considered part of the family and are given names, just like people. Dogs also have their own beds and toys and doctors and houses, which should not be referred to as warrens.

Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine, Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine! Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain, For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain. All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air, God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair! The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one, Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun; The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be, Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree. The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small, None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball; The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives, And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves; The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won, And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son. The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune, The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon, Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows, No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose. The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride, Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide; Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true, And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue. Now to the application, to the reading of the roll, To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul: Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone, Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap'st what thou hast sown. Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long, And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song? There's Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair, And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair! Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree; Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb, And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time! Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower, And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower — And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum — And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!

Rejoice, O father Adam, and exult yet more, O mother Eve—you who, though the parents of all, were their destroyers even before you became their parents. Be consoled now in your daughter, and in such a daughter! you especially, O Eve, from whom the evil first originated, and whose reproach passed as a disgraceful legacy to womanhood. The time is at hand when that reproach shall be taken away. Wherefore, O Eve, hasten to Mary; hasten, O Mother, to your daughter. Let the daughter answer for the mother; let her take away her mother’s reproach; let her satisfy also for her father Adam, for if he fell by a woman, behold, he is now raised up by a woman. God gave a woman in exchange for a woman; a prudent woman for one that was foolish; a humble woman for one who was proud; one who, instead of the fruit of death, shall give you to eat of the tree of life, and who, in place of the poisoned food of bitterness, will bring forth the fruit of everlasting sweetness. Change now, O Adam, your wicked words of excuse to the song of endless thanksgiving, and say: “O Lord, the woman whom thou hast given me, gave me of the tree of life; and I have eaten, and its fruit has been sweeter than honey to my mouth, and by it thou hast given me life.” This is why the angel was sent to the Virgin. O wondrous and most honourable Virgin! O woman singularly venerable! admirable among all women! thou who hast satisfied for thy parents, and restored life to their posterity.

When tragedy established itself in England it did so in terms of plots and spectacle that had much more to do with medieval apocalypse than with the mythos and opsis of Aristotle. Later, tragedy itself succumbs to the pressure of 'demythologizing'; the End itself, in modern literary plotting loses its downbeat, tonic-and-dominant finality, and we think of it, as the theologians think of Apocalypse, as immanent rather than imminent. Thus, as we shall see, we think in terms of crisis rather than temporal ends; and make much of subtle disconfirmation and elaborate peripeteia. And we concern ourselves with the conflict between the deterministic pattern any plot suggests, and the freedom of persons within that plot to choose and so to alter the structure, the relation of beginning, middle, and end. Naïvely predictive apocalypses implied a strict concordance between beginning, middle, and end. Thus the opening of the seals had to correspond to recorded historical events. Such a concordance remains a deeply desired object, but it is hard to achieve when the beginning is lost in the dark backward and abysm of time, and the end is known to be unpredictable. This changes our views of the patterns of time, and in so far as our plots honour the increased complexity of these ways of making sense, it complicates them also. If we ask for comfort from our plots it will be a more difficult comfort than that which the archangel offered Adam: How soon hath thy prediction, Seer blest, Measur'd this transient World, the race of Time, Till time stands fix'd. But it will be a related comfort. In our world the material for an eschatology is more elusive, harder to handle. It may not be true, as the modern poet argues, that we must build it out of 'our loneliness and regret'; the past has left us stronger materials than these for our artifice of eternity. But the artifice of eternity exists only for the dying generations; and since they choose, alter the shape of time, and die, the eternal artifice must change. The golden bird will not always sing the same song, though a primeval pattern underlies its notes. In my next talk I shall be trying to explain some of the ways in which that song changes, and talking about the relationship between apocalypse and the changing fictions of men born and dead in the middest. It is a large subject, because the instrument of change is the human imagination. It changes not only the consoling plot, but the structure of time and the world. One of the most striking things about it was said by Stevens in one of his adages; and it is with this suggestive saying that I shall mark the transition from the first to the second part of my own pattern. 'The imagination,' said this student of changing fictions, 'the imagination is always at the end of an era.' Next time we shall try to see what this means in relation to our problem of making sense of the ways we make sense of the world.

Humans were such tricky and complicated things. As it began to spin life and being out of its dreamstuff, the remaining trees began to hum and sing together. Once upon a time, their songs had sounded different, but in this time, they sang the songs the Greywaren had given to them. It was a wailing, ascending tune, full of both misery and joy at once. And as Cabeswater distilled its magic, these trees began to fall, one by one. The psychic's daughter's sadness burst through the forest, and Cabeswater accepted that, too, and put it into the life it was building. Another tree fell, and another, and Cabeswater kept returning again and again to the humans who had made the request. It had to remember what they felt like. It had to remember to make itself small enough. As the forest diminished, the Greywaren's despair and wonder surged through Cabeswater. The trees sang soothingly back to him, a song of possibility and power and dreams, and then Cabeswater collected his wonder and put it into the life it was building. And finally, the magician's wistful regret twisted through what remained of the trees. Without this, what was he? Simply human, human, human. Cabewaster pressed leaves against his cheek one last time, and then they took that humanity for the life it was building. It was nearly human-shaped. It would fit well enough. Nothing was ever perfect. Make way for the Raven King. The last tree fell, and the forest was gone, and everything was absolutely silent. Blue touched Gansey's face. She whispered, "Wake up.

Mom,” Vaughn said. “I’m sure Sidney doesn’t want to be interrogated about her personal life.” Deep down, Sidney knew that Vaughn—who’d obviously deduced that she’d been burned in the past—was only trying to be polite. But that was the problem, she didn’t want him to be polite, as if she needed to be shielded from such questions. That wasn’t any better than the damn “Poor Sidney” head-tilt. “It’s okay, I don’t mind answering.” She turned to Kathleen. “I was seeing someone in New York, but that relationship ended shortly before I moved to Chicago.” “So now that you’re single again, what kind of man are you looking for? Vaughn?” Kathleen pointed. “Could you pass the creamer?” He did so, then turned to look once again at Sidney. His lips curved at the corners, the barest hint of a smile. He was daring her, she knew, waiting for her to back away from his mother’s questions. She never had been very good at resisting his dares. “Actually, I have a list of things I’m looking for.” Sidney took a sip of her coffee. Vaughn raised an eyebrow. “You have a list?” “Yep.” “Of course you do.” Isabelle looked over, surprised. “You never told me about this.” “What kind of list?” Kathleen asked interestedly. “It’s a test, really,” Sidney said. “A list of characteristics that indicate whether a man is ready for a serious relationship. It helps weed out the commitment-phobic guys, the womanizers, and any other bad apples, so a woman can focus on the candidates with more long-term potential.” Vaughn rolled his eyes. “And now I’ve heard it all.” “Where did you find this list?” Simon asked. “Is this something all women know about?” “Why? Worried you won’t pass muster?” Isabelle winked at him. “I did some research,” Sidney said. “Pulled it together after reading several articles online.” “Lists, tests, research, online dating, speed dating—I can’t keep up with all these things you kids are doing,” Adam said, from the head of the table. “Whatever happened to the days when you’d see a girl at a restaurant or a coffee shop and just walk over and say hello?” Vaughn turned to Sidney, his smile devilish. “Yes, whatever happened to those days, Sidney?” She threw him a look. Don’t be cute. “You know what they say—it’s a jungle out there. Nowadays a woman has to make quick decisions about whether a man is up to par.” She shook her head mock reluctantly. “Sadly, some guys just won’t make the cut.” “But all it takes is one,” Isabelle said, with a loving smile at her fiancé. Simon slid his hand across the table, covering hers affectionately. “The right one.” Until he nails his personal trainer. Sidney took another sip of her coffee, holding back the cynical comment. She didn’t want to spoil Isabelle and Simon’s idyllic all-you-need-is-love glow. Vaughn cocked his head, looking at the happy couple. “Aw, aren’t you two just so . . . cheesy.” Kathleen shushed him. “Don’t tease your brother.” “What? Any moment, I’m expecting birds and little woodland animals to come in here and start singing songs about true love, they’re so adorable.” Sidney laughed out loud. Quickly, she bit her lip to cover.

Although leaves remained on the beeches and the sunshine was warm, there was a sense of growing emptiness over the wide space of the down. The flowers were sparser. Here and there a yellow tormentil showed in the grass, a late harebell or a few shreds of purple bloom on a brown, crisping tuft of self-heal. But most of the plants still to be seen were in seed. Along the edge of the wood a sheet of wild clematis showed like a patch of smoke, all its sweet-smelling flowers turned to old man's beard. The songs of the insects were fewer and intermittent. Great stretches of the long grass, once the teeming jungle of summer, were almost deserted, with only a hurrying beetle or a torpid spider left out of all the myriads of August. The gnats still danced in the bright air, but the swifts that had swooped for them were gone and instead of their screaming cries in the sky, the twittering of a robin sounded from the top of a spindle tree. The fields below the hill were all cleared. One had already been plowed and the polished edges of the furrows caught the light with a dull glint, conspicuous from the ridge above. The sky, too, was void, with a thin clarity like that of water. In July the still blue, thick as cream, had seemed close above the green trees, but now the blue was high and rare, the sun slipped sooner to the west and, once there, foretold a touch of frost, sinking slow and big and drowsy, crimson as the rose hips that covered the briar. As the wind freshened from the south, the red and yellow beech leaves rasped together with a brittle sound, harsher than the fluid rustle of earlier days. It was a time of quiet departures, of the sifting away of all that was not staunch against winter.

I love this song, can you turn it up?” I reached and turned the dial up on the Vance Joy song “Red Eye.” Adam bobbed his head to the music. At the stoplight I looked over at him. He was wearing the black beanie my brother had given him, his black Wayfarers, and the hospital gown. I laughed. He turned to me and smiled. “What?” he said. “You’re cute.” “Oh yeah? Wanna fool around?” He grinned. I was glad that Adam couldn’t see my eyes welling up behind my sunglasses. The car behind us honked. I hit the gas and my car lurched forward from the intersection. “How much time do we have?” I asked. “What? Are you serious?” “Yes, Adam, I am serious.” He was having a good day. He reached for my phone. “We have like an hour and a half before Leah freaks out.” I knew I was taking a big chance, but how could I say no to him? There was so much joy in him that day just because he got to go to the drive-thru at In-N-Out. “Okay.” I glanced over at him and flattened my lips. “You better not have a seizure on me.” “I can’t think of a better place to have a seizure. Although I can see how that wouldn’t be much fun for you.” I laughed hysterically. “Oh man, I didn’t mean literally on me; I meant on my watch.” “Well, Charlotte, I don’t have much control over that, but I’ll try. You know what helps?” “What?” “Alcohol.” “Really?” As we passed the Four Seasons he said, “Pull in here.” “This is too expensive, Adam.” “What? Are you crazy?” The energy in the car was tangible. “This may be the last time I ever go to a hotel with a girl. I’m paying. I have a ton of money. Come on, Charlotte, please?” His mood was instantly lighter than it had been in several days. “Okay.” I did a U-turn and pulled into the driveway of the hotel.

The Gates of Eden,” as he called it that night, took us furthest out into the realm of the imagination, to a point beyond logic and reason. Like “It’s Alright, Ma,” the song mentions a book title in its first line, but the song is more reminiscent of the poems of William Blake (and, perhaps, of Blake’s disciple Ginsberg) than it is of Tolstoy’s War and Peace, vaunting the truth that lies in surreal imagery. After an almost impenetrable first verse, the song approaches themes that were becoming familiar to Dylan’s listeners. In Genesis, Eden is the paradise where Adam and Eve had direct communication with God. According to “Gates of Eden,” it is where truth resides, without bewitching illusions. And the song is basically a list, verse after verse, of the corrosive illusions that Dylan would sing about constantly from the mid-1960s on: illusions about obedience to authority; about false religions and idols (the “utopian hermit monks” riding on the golden calf); about possessions and desire; about sexual repression and conformity (embodied by “the gray flannel dwarf”); about high-toned intellectualism. None of these count for much or even exist inside the gates of Eden. The kicker comes in the final verse, where the singer talks of his lover telling him of her dreams without any attempt at interpretation—and that at times, the singer thinks that the only truth is that there is no truth outside the gates of Eden. It’s a familiar conundrum: If there is no truth, isn’t saying as much really an illusion, too, unless we are all in Eden? (“All Cretans are liars,” says the Cretan.) What makes that one truth so special? But the point, as the lover knows, is that outside of paradise, interpretation is futile. Don’t try to figure out what the song, or what any work of art, “really” means; the meaning is in the imagery itself; attempting to define it is to succumb to the illusion that truth can be reached through human logic. So Dylan’s song told us, as he took the measure in his lyrics of what had begun as the “New Vision,” two and a half miles up Broadway from Lincoln Center at Columbia, in the mid-1940s. Apart from Dylan, Allen Ginsberg and Gregory Corso may have been the only people in Philharmonic Hall who got it. I

Driscoll preached a sermon called “Sex: A Study of the Good Bits of Song of Solomon,” which he followed up with a sermon series and an e-book, Porn-again Christian (2008). For Driscoll, the “good bits” amounted to a veritable sex manual. Translating from the Hebrew, he discovered that the woman in the passage was asking for manual stimulation of her clitoris. He assured women that if they thought they were “being dirty,” chances are their husbands were pretty happy. He issued the pronouncement that “all men are breast men. . . . It’s biblical,” as was a wife performing oral sex on her husband. Hearing an “Amen” from the men in his audience, he urged the ladies present to serve their husbands, to “love them well,” with oral sex. He advised one woman to go home and perform oral sex on her husband in Jesus’ name to get him to come to church. Handing out religious tracts was one thing, but there was a better way to bring about Christian revival. 13 Driscoll reveled in his ability to shock people, but it was a series of anonymous blog posts on his church’s online discussion board that laid bare the extent of his misogyny. In 2006, inspired by Braveheart, Driscoll adopted the pseudonym “William Wallace II” to express his unfiltered views. “I love to fight. It’s good to fight. Fighting is what we used to do before we all became pussified,” before America became a “pussified nation.” In that vein, he offered a scathing critique of the earlier iteration of the evangelical men’s movement, of the “pussified James Dobson knock-off crying Promise Keeping homoerotic worship . . .” where men hugged and cried “like damn junior high girls watching Dawson’s Creek.” Real men should steer clear. 14 For Driscoll, the problem went all the way back to the biblical Adam, a man who plunged humanity headlong into “hell/ feminism” by listening to his wife, “who thought Satan was a good theologian.” Failing to exercise “his delegated authority as king of the planet,” Adam was cursed, and “every man since has been pussified.” The result was a nation of men raised “by bitter penis envying burned feministed single mothers who make sure that Johnny grows up to be a very nice woman who sits down to pee.” Women served certain purposes, and not others. In one of his more infamous missives, Driscoll talked of God creating women to serve as penis “homes” for lonely penises. When a woman posted on the church’s discussion board, his response was swift: “I . . . do not answer to women. So, your questions will be ignored.” 15

The biblical King David was also a sacred shepherd. His sensual and ecstatic songs of earthly love, so untypical of the Bible, derive from the ancient love rites of the shepherd king and the Goddess—her Canaanite names were Asherah, Astarte, Ashtoreth. The settled people of the Old Testament, like everyone else in the Near East, practiced Goddess worship. The Old Testament is the record of the conquest and massacre of these Neolithic people by the nomadic Hebrews, followers of a Sky God, who then set up their biblical God in the place of the ancient Goddess. The biblical Hebrews were a nomadic pastoral and patriarchal people, tribes of sheepherders and warriors who invaded land belonging to the matriarchal Canaanites. Both Hebrews and Canaanites were Semitic people. The Canaanites lived in agricultural communities and worshiped the orgiastic-ecstatic Moon Mother Astarte. As Old Testament stories relate, the Hebrews sacked, burned, and destroyed village after village belonging to the Canaanites, massacring or enslaving the people—a series of brutal invasions and slaughters described typically by theologians and preachers as “a spiritual victory.” In this way the Hebrews established themselves on the land, along with the worship of their Sky-and-Thunder God Yahweh (Jehovah), calling themselves his “chosen people.” Yahweh’s male prophets and priests, however, despite their political victory over the Canaanites, had to carry on a continuous struggle and fulmination against their own people, who kept “backsliding” into worship of the Great Mother, the Goddess of all their Near Eastern neighbors. For she had originally been the Goddess of the Hebrews themselves. This constant fight against matriarchal religion and custom is the primary theme of the Old Testament. It begins in Genesis, with the takeover of the Goddess’s Garden of Immortality by a male God, and the inversion of all her sacred symbols—tree, serpent, moon-fruit, woman—into icons of evil. Of the two sons of Eve and Adam, Cain was made the “evil brother” because he chose settled agriculture (matriarchal)—the “good brother” Abel was a nomadic pastoralist (patriarchal). The war against the Goddess is carried on by the prophets’ rantings against the “golden calf,” the “brazen serpents,” the “great harlot” and “Whore of Babylon” (the Babylonian Goddess Ishtar), against enchantresses, pythonic diviners, and those who practice witchcraft. It is in the prophets’ war against the Canaanite worship of “stone idols”—the Triple Moon Goddess worshiped as three horned pillars, or menhirs. One of her shrines was on Mount Sinai, which means “Mountain of the Moon.” Moses was commanded by “the Lord” to go forth and destroy these “idols”—who all had breasts. We are told monotheism began with the Jews, that it was the great “spiritual invention” of the religious leader Moses. This is not so. The worship of one God, like everything else in religion, began with the worship of the Goddess. Her universality has been duly noted by everyone who has ever studied the matter. “Monotheism, once thought to have been the invention of Moses or Akhnaton, was worldwide in the prehistoric and early historic world,” i.e., throughout the Paleolithic and Neolithic ages. As E. O. James wrote in The Cult of the Mother Goddess, “It seems that Evans was correct when he affirmed that it was a ‘monotheism in which the female form of divinity was supreme.” The original monotheism of the Goddess is perhaps most clearly shown by the fact that, in Elizabeth Gould Davis’s words, “Almighty Yahweh, the god of Moses and the later Hebrews, was originally a goddess.” His name, Iahu ’anat, derives from that of the Sumerian Goddess Inanna.

In Schubert’s song “Fruhlingstraum,” you hear the singer, the voice of the wandered in the white wilderness, looking at the frost patterns, the ice blooms, on the window and wondering who placed them there, who is their author? Is it God? Is it man? Are they merely accident? It’s unanswered and unanswerable, and presents the mind again the essential question that winter raises for the Romantic mind, the Romantic imagination: who made winter, and why was it made? Do we project form and meaning onto something that is just an absence, a non-happening of the natural order of warmth and sunshine, or does winter offer some mysterious residual sign of divinity?...

Je t’aime means I love you. I do, means you love me too. Let ‘I’ become a ‘we’. My love, please answer oui. He bent down on one knee and presented Maude with a dazzling amethyst ring.

Adam hadn't even realized the ancient tape deck worked, but after a hissing few seconds, a tape inside jangled a tune. Noah began to sing along at once. "Squash one, squash two--" Adam pawed for the radio at the same time as Blue. The tape ejected with enough force that Noah stretched a hand to catch it. "That song. What are you doing with that in your player?" demanded Blue. "Do you listen to that recreationally? How did that song escape from the internet?" Noah cackled and showed them the cassette. It boasted a handmade label marked with Ronan's handwriting: Parrish's Hondayota Alone Time. The other side was A Shitbox Singalong. "Play it! Play it!" Noah said gaily, waving the tape. "Noah. Noah! Take that away from him," Adam said.

Yes. When everyone was fawning over my bar team and me, you were fawning over the music which had given me the strength to live life on my own terms. The song that gave me a life I never knew possible…and then, it gave me you.” He held his hand open to me, and I took it. Folded into his embrace, he nestled me on his lap. “When you closed your eyes to listen, I willed you to see only me.

Pulling back to dip his tongue in my ear, he sighed a low groan against my skin and admitted, “the song, each word, has a deep meaning for me. Personal, sensual, if you want to know just how deep, then I would be willing to show you, Harmony.

When everyone was fawning over my bar team and me, you were fawning over the music which had given me strength to live life on my own terms. The song that gave me a life I never knew possible... and the,, it gave me you. (...) When you closed your eyes to listen, I willed you to see only me.

Ah, me ! we believe in evil, Where once we believed in good, The world, the flesh, and the devil Are easily understood ; The world, the flesh, and the devil, Their traces on earth are plain ; Must they always riot and revel While footprints of man remain ? Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of all things under the sun ; Is nothing real but confusion ? Is nothing certain but death ? Is nothing fair save illusion ? Is nothing good that has breath ? Some sprite, malignant and elfish, Seems present, whispering close, 'All motives of life are selfish, All instincts of life are gross ; And the song that the poet fashions, And the love-bird's musical strain, Are jumbles of animal passions, Refined by animal pain.' The restless throbbings and burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The pitiless moving lake, Where the wanderer falls dejected, By a thirst he never can slake. (Wormwood and Nightshade)

maw of Death, the light drew him on, faster and faster, more hurried than any other step he had taken. His fingers were quick upon the strings,

Maude turned to the piano and sang her first song. She had played it many times before but this time was different. She had grown. Maude wasn’t the same person she’d been six months ago, and her performance wasn’t that of a mere teenager—it was that of a young woman who had looked at life in the eye and refused to bend her spine. She finished her first song and prepared herself for the second. She had planned to sing “Sunrise” from her debut album, but now she knew she couldn’t play that song, not after all she’d just been through. Maude dedicated her second song, John Lennox’s “Coming Home,” to her parents.

Matt’s Creation Room was a wide, colorful space dedicated to music. The walls were splashed with bright orange paint, green sofas, and cushions, which contrasted with the serious, dark upright Yamaha piano in the center of the room. There were other instruments in the room: several guitars, a violin, several drums, a bass guitar. The walls were like a private Hall of Fame covered with posters and even relics of famous singers. One wall was covered with pictures of Matt and his three platinum albums Matt, Superstar, and Moving On. The room was bathed in light entering through the wide windows. It was Matt’s Creation Room and he had obviously decorated the room according to his own tastes. After finishing her scales while waiting for Matt, she posted herself next to the windows to practice her audition song for La Cenerentola that Saturday evening. It was a beautiful, sorrowful song that Cinderella sang in the first scene about a king who looked for true love not in splendor and beauty, but in innocence and goodness.

All I’m saying is that Paris is a lot more than what you say in your song. Paris isn’t just a beauty queen. She’s full of passion. She’s the city of the French Revolution. And every other revolution as a matter of fact. Paris is also today the epicenter of every important strike. Never take the subway on a strike day. Or you’ll be crammed in with hundreds of other people wishing you could be anywhere else in the world. Paris is a city full of life, like every big city. Paris can be a very dirty city too. There’s lots of pollution. All I’m trying to say is that you should describe Paris as she really is, its different layers. Not some soapy, postcard version of it. Put more emotion in it.

are biologically programmed for speech. We have the neurological, genetic and anatomical template that green-lights the possibility of language. We have a latent ability to acquire language, by copying the sounds of the people around us. Some birds have that too: they learn their love songs from each other. Each bird species has a few songs, enough that a well-trained ear can identify a species by its sound, though many have regional dialects (as indeed some whales do). In contrast, humans currently speak over 6,000 distinct languages, all of which are continually evolving, most of which are heading for extinction, and you probably know tens of thousands of words and can deploy them at will. We also learn syntax and grammar from those around us, our brains a software platform specific to language acquisition. Anyone with children will have heard them make

Jinnah had, among other things, criticized the singing in government schools of the patriotic hymn ‘Vande Mataram’. Composed by the great Bengali writer Bankim Chandra Chatterjee, the poem invoked Hindu temples, praised the Hindu goddess Durga, and spoke of seventy million Indians, each carrying a sword, ready to defend their motherland against invaders, who could be interpreted as being the British, or Muslims, or both. ‘Vande Mataram’ first became popular during the swadeshi movement of1905–07. The revolutionary Aurobindo Ghose named his political journal after it. Rabindranath Tagore was among the first to set it to music. His version was sung by his niece Saraladevi Chaudhurani at the Banaras Congress of 1905. The same year, the Tamil poet Subramania Bharati rendered it into his language. In Bengali and Tamil, Kannada and Telugu, Hindi and Gujarati, the song had long been sung at nationalist meetings and processions. After the Congress governments took power in 1937, the song was sometimes sung at official functions. The Muslim League objected vigorously. One of its legislators called it ‘anti-Muslim’, another, ‘an insult to Islam’. Jinnah himself claimed the song was ‘not only idolatrous but in its origins and substance [was] a hymn to spread hatred for the Musalmans’. Nationalists in Bengal were adamant that the song was not aimed at Muslims.The prominent Calcutta Congressman Subhas Chandra Bose wrote to Gandhi that ‘the province (or at least the Hindu portion of it) is greatly perturbed over the controversy raised in certain Muslim circles over the song “Bande Mataram”. As far as I can judge, all shades of Hindu opinion are unanimous in opposing any attempts to ban the song in Congress meetings and conferences.’ Bose himself thought that ‘we should think a hundred times before we take any steps in the direction of banning the song’. The social worker Satis Dasgupta told Gandhi that ‘Vande Mataram’ was ‘out and out a patriotic song—a song in which all the children of the mother[land] can participate, be they Hindu or Mussalman’. It did use Hindu images, but such imagery was common in Bengal, where even Muslim poets like Nazrul Islam often referred to Hindu gods and legends. ‘Vande Mataram’, argued Dasgupta, was ‘never a provincial cry and never surely a communal cry’. Faced with Jinnah’s complaints on the one side and this defence by Bengali patriots on the other, Gandhi suggested a compromise: that Congress governments should have only the first two verses sung. These evoked the motherland without specifying any religious identity. But this concession made many Bengalis ‘sore at heart’; they wanted the whole song sung. On the other side, Muslims were not satisfied either; for, the ascription of a mother-like status to India was dangerously close to idol worship.

Into the Sea Watch and listen; ​sense the knowing that deepens beyond the tide ​of this strange existence. Why are we kept so busy? ​Whom does it serve? Put aside the nets— ​leave them empty. Forget fishing, ​and dive into the Sea.

Indigenous Lives Holding Our World Together, by Brenda J. Child American Indian Stories, by Zitkala-Sa A History of My Brief Body, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Falling Sky: Words of a Yanomami Shaman, by Davi Kopenawa and Bruce Albert Apple: Skin to the Core, by Eric Gansworth Heart Berries, by Terese Marie Mailhot The Blue Sky, by Galsan Tschinag Crazy Brave, by Joy Harjo Standoff, by Jacqueline Keeler Braiding Sweetgrass, by Robin Wall Kimmerer You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me, by Sherman Alexie Spirit Car, by Diane Wilson Two Old Women, by Velma Wallis Pipestone: My Life in an Indian Boarding School, by Adam Fortunate Eagle Split Tooth, by Tanya Tagaq Walking the Rez Road, by Jim Northrup Mamaskatch, by Darrel J. McLeod Indigenous Poetry Conflict Resolution for Holy Beings, by Joy Harjo Ghost River (Wakpá Wanági), by Trevino L. Brings Plenty The Book of Medicines, by Linda Hogan The Smoke That Settled, by Jay Thomas Bad Heart Bull The Crooked Beak of Love, by Duane Niatum Whereas, by Layli Long Soldier Little Big Bully, by Heid E. Erdrich A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Resuscitation, by Eric Gansworth NDN Coping Mechanisms, by Billy-Ray Belcourt The Invisible Musician, by Ray A. Young Bear When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through, edited by Joy Harjo New Poets of Native Nations, edited by Heid E. Erdrich The Failure of Certain Charms, by Gordon Henry Jr. Indigenous History and Nonfiction Everything You Know About Indians Is Wrong, by Paul Chaat Smith Decolonizing Methodologies, by Linda Tuhiwai Smith Through Dakota Eyes: Narrative Accounts of the Minnesota Indian War of 1862, edited by Gary Clayton Anderson and Alan R. Woodworth Being Dakota, by Amos E. Oneroad and Alanson B. Skinner Boarding School Blues, edited by Clifford E. Trafzer, Jean A. Keller, and Lorene Sisquoc Masters of Empire, by Michael A. McDonnell Like a Hurricane: The Indian Movement from Alcatraz to Wounded Knee, by Paul Chaat Smith and Robert Allen Warrior Boarding School Seasons, by Brenda J. Child They Called It Prairie Light, by K. Tsianina Lomawaima To Be a Water Protector, by Winona LaDuke Minneapolis: An Urban Biography, by Tom Weber

I’ve found the same results at numerous organizations. At a senior leadership event at JPMorgan Chase, CEO Jamie Dimon predicted that the executive sitting next to him would have a 100 percent chance of guessing it. He turned out to be right—but most of the time, we’re overconfident in our predictions. Why? It’s humanly impossible to tap out the rhythm of a song without hearing the tune in your head. That makes it impossible to imagine what your disjointed knocks sound like to an audience that is not hearing the accompanying tune. As Chip and Dan Heath write in Made to Stick, “The listeners can’t hear that tune—all they can hear is a bunch of disconnected taps, like a kind of bizarre Morse Code.

But Moses also mentioned or quoted the following potential sources: The Book of the Generations of Adam (Gn 5:1) The Saying about Nimrod (Gn 10:9) The Saying about the Mount of the LORD (Gn 22:14) The Tradition of the Sinew (Gn 32:32) The Statute of Joseph (Gn 47:26) The Song of Moses (Ex 15:1–18) The Song of Miriam (Ex 15:20–21) The Memorial for Joshua (Ex 17:14) The Book of the Covenant (Ex 24:7) The Tablets of the Testimony (Ex 24:12; 25:16) The Registration of Elders (Nu 11:26) The Book of the Wars of the LORD (Nu 21:14–15) The Song of the Well (Nu 21:17–18) The Song of Heshbon (Nu 21:27–30) The Book of the Law (Dt 29:21; 30:10; 31:26)

The Sabbath calls our thoughts to nature, and brings us into communion with the Creator. In the song of the bird, the sighing of the trees, and the music of the sea, we still may hear His voice who talked with Adam in Eden in the cool of the day. And as we behold His power in nature we find comfort, for the word that created all things is that which speaks life to the soul. He “who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.” 2 Cor. 4:6.

We tried to make sure Adam didn’t die in vain. We have always said, if his song is to continue then we must do the singing.

I showed her the Mobb Deep song “Shook Ones Part II” in the first days or weeks when we got together. Now, all of a sudden, she was excited, showing me a video of some pool party where the crowd was puzzled when the DJ played a little childlike tune with very few notes and sounds. Until they recognized the sampled song being played with the original piano tune of Herbie Hancock underneath, called “Jessica”, she was acting like she was teaching me something or something I didn't know beforehand. She was acting like she was smarter than me, or as if I didn't know anything about music, hip hop, or rap. It was very odd. Who could have shown her that track, that video, and Herbie Hancock? I wondered. So, I played the next song myself - Bob Marley's “Forever Loving Jah”. Then, she played Jonathan Richmann's “Something about Mary”. So, I played the song “Jah is One” from Mosh Ben Ari and certain members of Shotei Hanevua to see her reaction to Israeli reggae music. So she played Notorious BIG and the Junior Mafia’s song: “Get money.” She was singing the chorus shaking her boot. Then I played Tupac Shakur's “Hit 'Em Up.” She played Notorious BIG’s song “Juicy.” So I played his song called “Somebody Gotta Die.” She then played the Moldy Peaches, „We are not those kids, sitting on the couch” So I played Mad Child's “Night Vision” to see if she knew it.

It seemed as if doggystyle was her favorite position because she couldn't see who was behind her. She kept playing Snoop Dogg's song, “What's My Name?”. It seemed as if she was referring to my signature being forged and still being on the club and she knew perfectly. As if she was referring to all the dogs eager to breed in the video running after something after someone had let them out. As Snoop Dogg is magically transforming into a Doberman dog in the music video, just like the kind of dogs the Nazis had. I just realize Martina’s dog, Chicha was all black and her cat Anouki was all black too, just like the night Sky, just like the dark, empty, cold Space. The total darkness the canvas, on which our planet is just a pinhead. This rock. This sizzling rock. Spinning. Turning. Leaning. Following the Sun. Lost in the infinite nothingness. Ain’t like a balloon which has nothing inside. All the nothing is outside, all the cold and dark and wide and empty and vile. All the dark forces all the nights, all the known universe and beyond, is located here, inside. Iron comes from Outer Space, it is not a local material on this planet. Each one of us has iron inside a “kickstart-molecule” located in our hearts. Without iron, there would be no life. Are we locals on this planet? To what degree? Since when? I noticed three members of the Camorra in our street and the street parallel to it, casually passing by. I even nodded to one or two of them, since we already knew each other from the club where I hadn't been since Adam and I had our disagreement. Later that night, while I was waiting for Martina in vain, I noticed two to three of the Camorra's soldiers living a few houses down our street. From the rooftop, and our bedroom that was higher than theirs, I could see into their living room. I couldn't help but wonder whether this was a mere coincidence, or if Adam and Martina had found our new home together, hanging out in Nico’s store, and so we moved on the Mountain of Jews, on purpose, perhaps, knowing that the Camorra’s men were living almost right in front of us. No accidents. When I told Martina about the Camorra’s guys living across the street, Martina couldn’t have cared less. It was almost as if she never considered her life being in danger in Barcelona, Europe, but only mine. I had felt before like Adam had used my skin to make money, while I was the one walking around the streets, spotting tourists usually having fun, not thinking about how I was working hard to make their “unreachable” happiness come true. This time, however, I felt both stuck in our home, feeling helpless to make Martina happy and the outside world offered her much better chances to have fun and find a rich guy or any other smoker club manager with her beauty.

In the end, my sisters went along with what I wanted—mostly because I framed this as one of Mom’s dying wishes. It was my job to give the CD to the funeral director—to Adam. I downloaded the song from the Wizard of Oz soundtrack on iTunes. As the service began, he played it over the speaker system. Unfortunately it wasn’t “Somewhere over the Rainbow.” It was the Munchkins, performing “Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead.

that painting, that song, that book―   if it's real, it was once terror, with cruelty and sadness as a backdrop.   it arrived because we suffered.

Do not merely worship with songs. Become a living example of worship through the things you do. Honor Him in all you do, and keep this heart for Him always. Submit to His will and not your own. Remember that His will is “good and acceptable and perfect.” Therefore pursue His will that you may live according to it and honor Him in all things.***

Shouldn’t he admit his feelings?” Maude called out to him. “What?” Matt asked. “The song,” she reminded him. “If he’s feeling so confused, I guess the best thing to do is admit them to the object of his affection,” Maude suggested innocently. “What if he’s afraid of rejection?” Matt asked gazing fondly at Maude who was presently making a brave attempt at skating backwards. He was surprised to feel the smallest hint of self-doubt. Maude was nothing like the other girls he’d dated, and she was completely immune to his charm. It probably didn’t help that he preferred teasing her than actually admitting his feelings for her. “I

And then you had to go and sing that song! Why did you pick that song?” His head jerked back slightly and his eyes lost some of their fierceness. “You’re mad about me singing the song? You love that song. You play it all the time.” I finally succeeded at freeing my wrist and crossed my arms under my chest. “And how the hell would you know that? I know I’ve never played that song in front of you!” “Seriously? You leave your windows open! We live right across from each other. I can hear it from my apartment.” Oh. “Well, that’s private. It’s for my parents. You don’t understand what it could possibly mean to me for you to sing that song to me.” Confusion crossed his face and he shook his head. “For your parents?” “Yes! And since we’re throwing the shields out, I lied to you, Kash.” “About what?” he said through gritted teeth, and called my name when I turned and dashed into my room. “Damn it, woman, stop running from me!” “I’m not running. I never told my parents about what happened to me like I promised you I would,” I mumbled as I grabbed underneath my mattress for my journal. Turning back to him, I held it up so he could see it and dropped it on the bed. “That is how I told my parents.” His eyes were narrowed again as they bounced between the journal and me. “Why?” “Why did I lie to you? Because you kept telling me I should tell them. And . . . well . . . technically, I did. I wrote it to them, so I guess I wasn’t exactly lying, because this”—I picked the journal back up—“is the only way I can talk to them.” “What are you—” “They’re gone, Kash. My parents died almost four years ago! I told you I couldn’t tell them. But I wasn’t ready for you to know why; no one in Texas other than Candice knows about it. And that’s how I like it.” Kash’s face fell and he took a few steps closer to me. “Rach . . .” “No, Kash. You didn’t want any more shields. Now there aren’t any. That song you sang tonight, my dad used to sing to my mom when they thought no one was watching. He would pull her close and dance with her in the kitchen while he did it, and it’s my favorite memory of them. So I’m sorry if I didn’t know how to react to you singing it to me, but that song means so much to me.” “Rachel, I’m sorry.” I threw my arms up and planted them on his chest so he wouldn’t come any closer. “Is this what you wanted? You know everything now. Are you happy . . . are you glad the shields are gone?” He pulled me into his arms and held me close. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry. I—I’m just sorry. For hurting you, for pushing you to tell me, for upsetting you with the song . . . all of it. I swear to you that isn’t what I wanted.” My anger was quickly fading and I blinked back tears. “I know, I just . . .” “That song is special to you. I get it, Rach.” He tipped my head back and brushed his lips across my forehead before capturing my eyes with his. “You need to know—” “Rach, I’m back!” Candice called. “Time to start this junk-food night!” Kash didn’t let me go, and I didn’t move. We continued to stare at each other, and when we heard Candice messing with the food in the kitchen, he leaned close and whispered in my ear. “You need to know that you’re special to me. I meant every single word I sang to you tonight and I will never regret that kiss.

Conflict isn’t merely physical, Old Wusong. Every interaction is a battle. An exchange of words for instance.

It should be obvious to someone of your intelligence, Grand Patriarch.” Lavinia’s fine brows arch. “History is written by the victors. And victors can say whoever they want is noble.

His silvery hair is pulled back and braided around his shoulders.

up to a barracks.

no paper with which to write. Instead,

First, then, the Lord began His final work by casting Adam into a deep sleep. And so did the second Adam lie three days in the sleep of death before the creation of His bride could be commenced. While the first Adam slept, God opened his side and took out the rib wherewith He made the woman. So while the second Adam slept in death upon the cross, a soldier pierced His side, so that there came forth blood and water; and by means of that blood, without the shedding of which there could never have been remission of sins, the Church is now in process of formation. Thou “didst purchase unto God by Thy blood men of every tribe, and tongue, and people, and nation,”[158] is the cry of the elders when the time has at length come to sing the new song.

You expect to shut that feeling away? No, I ask that you feel it more. There's no other way to stand over your enemy and cut out his heart. Accept your hatred and you won't be rash or stupid, you'll be cold. Don't quiet the storm. Become the storm.

Is that what you are going to do when someone tries to take your life from you? Or the lives of your family? Yield and hope that they take pity on you?

I’m his means of escape, and all his tests have been to ensure that I was capable of that. “Don’t be sullen,” he reprimands. “I’ve shared with you my secrets. Don’t forget—you’ve used me, too. You wanted to learn. I’ve taught. You wanted a friend. I’ve given. That’s what humans do.” “Use each other.” I understand his meaning. “Self-interest,” he agrees, “whether for power or love. I’m too greedy to teach solely for the joy of watching you grow.

Fear is no crime,” he says. “But acting from fear is. Know that you’re going to lose everything one day, whether you fear to lose it or not.

evolution can occur through sheer will. Our habits determine the expression of our genes.

I learn to divert cells in my body, manipulate meridians, but I can’t grow stronger without external force. Faria provides it. Evolution bred this intuition into every organic cell long ago—adapt or die.

Without apology or tenderness, he tells me that knowing my limits is more important than pushing them.

If you’re satisfied with fulfilling less than the maximum of your potential, life will be very easy for you,

Change is the essence of life.

Fruits of peace studies Eva passes Adam a pear he curses her you dumb cow it's supposed to be an apple he says Eva doubles over laughing and Adam threatens her with a banana he says if you don't stop laughing he will bonk her on the pear with his banana this was the first marital spat between those joined by God afterwards they took a footbath together in the river and plucked one another berries straight from the bush into the mouth right where they sat looking into the heavens contentedly at peace and bicker-weary Adam passes Eva a handful of applesauce the day after he made this just for her he says and she rubs the applesauce all over her body Adam's eyeballs grow large Adam's applesauce strolls over Eva's body wanders its way right inside Eva's body and she senses the first wandering song coming on while she sings, Adam strolls his way around on her body and so they both come and so they go

I want to spit into The Warden’s smug, fat face and watch my spittle run down his chin. Yet even if he’s been told by my father to keep me alive, even if he fears making me a symbol of rebellion, such an action might not stay his hand. Pride can only be diminished so much in a man before he breaks.

There is nothing to worry about, honey. Adam has nothing to do with anything.” Except that he has something to do with everything. “He’s just someone I used to know.” I have to stop myself from breaking out in song.

I was clearing some plates off a table when I heard the familiar strum of guitar chords. My heart clenched painfully as I slowly made my way to the kitchen. Tonight was another open-mic night, and while I enjoyed having live music playing throughout the bar and dining room, I didn’t usually pay that much attention to it. But there was no way to miss this song. The deep, husky voice began crooning through the speakers as I came back out of the kitchen empty-handed. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew that voice as I made my way to a spot where I could see the stage. I rubbed a hand over my aching chest and stopped suddenly when I saw Kash sitting on the stool in front of the mic with a guitar in his hands. What was he doing? Since when did he play guitar and sing? And why this song? His eyes searched the dining area and landed on me just as he began the first chorus of “I’ll Be.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes and my entire body warmed under his intense stare as he continued through words that meant more to me than he could have known. Not once did he take his eyes from me, and my mind and heart fought over my conflicting feelings. Part of me wanted to yell that he was the guy I’d been waiting for. That I was in love with him and was done being only his friend. The other part wanted to know why he was torturing me with this song. With everything else that had happened tonight and the fourth anniversary of my parents’ death less than two months away, I wanted to run away from there, to curl in a ball and mourn what I had lost and would never have. I couldn’t call my mom and tell her I’d met a guy whose presence alone made me dizzy. Who sang to me the same song Dad had always sung to her. I couldn’t tell my parents that no matter how hard I fought my feelings and pushed Kash away, I knew I’d met the man I wanted to marry. The haunting words drifted to an end, and soon the chords did too. When Kash was finished, he put the guitar on the stand and began walking in my direction. Throughout all of this, his eyes still hadn’t left mine. Before he could reach me, the bitter side of me won out and I turned on my heel and rushed back to my customers. I kept myself busy for the rest of the hour and whenever I had to go over to the bar, I made sure to go to Bryce’s side so I wouldn’t have to face Kash again. I knew I was being ridiculous, but if it had been any song other than that one, if it had been on a night that wasn’t wearing me completely down, I may have been brave enough to finally fight for what I wanted. But right now all I could think of was finishing out this shift at work and staying far from Logan Hendricks. Somehow, he knew how to get to me. And somehow, I knew that our being together was right. But especially after that morning, everything about him—and us together—scared me. And I wasn’t sure I could handle that right now. People say that being in love is amazing. They lie. It’s freaking terrifying.  

Pulling a small remote out of his pocket, he pushed a button and soon the kitchen was filled with the beginning of a familiar song. My smile widened when I remembered the first time he sang it to me. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to try to take that memory of your parents from you the night I sang their song.” He curled one hand around mine and put it against his chest, and the other he wrapped around my waist as he slowly started rocking us back and forth. My breath caught in my throat and I tried to choke out his name, but hardly any sound came out. Tears filled my eyes and I pressed my forehead against his chest next to our hands. “So I’m gonna make our own memory, baby.” I slowly nodded my head against his chest and a few tears fell onto his shirt when his husky voice began singing in my ear along with Brantley Gilbert. Flashes of my dad singing “I’ll Be” to my mom danced through my head for a few seconds before I let go and cherished this gift. Kash was taking my favorite memory of my parents and giving me our own version of it, and I somehow—impossibly—fell more in love with him as he sang “Fall into Me.” “I’ll be the love song, and I’ll love you right off your feet . . . Until you fall into me.” Even after the song was over and other songs had begun playing . . . Kash didn’t let me go, we didn’t speak, and we didn’t stop dancing. There was nothing to say; what he’d given me was beyond beautiful. It was a perfect way to end this day. And I knew if my dad were alive, Logan Hendricks would have his stamp of approval.  

We were putting everything away when a guitar started coming through the speakers. Figuring one of the guys had turned on the music, we thought nothing of it and I kept talking to Bryce until I heard a husky voice join in. I abruptly stopped talking and stood there with two glasses in my hands just staring at the wall that separated us from the area that held the stage. I bit my lip to contain my smile as I heard the first few lines of “Your Guardian Angel.” It didn’t matter what type of song it was; Kash could sing it. And in his deep voice? Lord, it was a treat. He’d just started the second verse of the song by The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus when I rounded the corner and leaned up against the wall to watch him. His lips curled up when he saw me enter the dim room, and other than the few times he’d look down when he was only playing the guitar, he kept his gray eyes trained on me. I took in the words like I was hearing them for the first time, because Kash had told me last week after dancing with me in my kitchen that he would only sing me songs that meant something for us. My heart beat wildly as I felt every word go straight to my soul, and I subconsciously grabbed at my warming chest. When his words trailed off and his hand stopped strumming the guitar, I was still leaning against the wall, hoping it would keep me standing as he set the guitar down and stepped off the stage. Much like the first night he sang to me in the bar, his stride was purposeful as he made his way toward me. Only this time, I didn’t turn and run. His smile grew when he got closer to me, but he didn’t pull me into his arms like he normally would. Just as I started to push myself off the wall, he spoke, his voice gruff. “I didn’t do this right the first time.” Dropping slowly to one knee, he grabbed my left hand and brought a diamond solitaire up to my ring finger. “Rachel Masters, I promise to love you and take care of you . . . no matter the cost, every day for the rest of my life. Will you marry me?” “Yes,” I whispered, and bounced on my toes when he slid the ring onto my finger. Grabbing his face, I pulled him up and kissed him with every bit of passion in my body.

Do not merely worship with songs. Become a living example of worship through the things you do.

That’s it,” Rachel whispered, a horrified look on her beautiful face. “This is where I die. In a furniture store the size of freakin’ Costco!” She shuffled off after the saleswoman and I quickly caught up to her side. When I got there, her psychotic-Barbie look was back. “Did you know the leather couches we’re about to look at have a warranty for ten years? No cracks!” “Oh, well in that case, I have to buy these. Right?” “Of course.” She got oddly silent as we followed along and out of nowhere started dancing all crazy and lip-syncing to the song playing throughout the store. I stopped, my eyes going wide as I watched her. As soon as the chorus ended she stopped, and just in time, since our saleswoman had turned to see why we weren’t with her. “Y’all coming?” “Yes, ma’am!” Rachel answered since I was still looking at her with my jaw dropped. Her serene expression began cracking and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Glancing over at me, she gave me a soft nudge and winked before walking over to the next living room set, leaving me staring after her before I burst out laughing. Damn, I’m pretty sure I just fell in love with Rachel Masters.   R

He leaned forward slowly and embraced me again. “Jesus entered our iniquity by submitting to our insanity. Our blessed Lord made his way inside Adam’s broken eyes; that is why he cried out, and as he did his Father held him in his arms, even as I do you now—yet from the inside. Union with his Father and with us in darkness. ‘It is finished,’” he whispered in triumph, holding me as if he wanted me to feel the truth. My mind swirled like one of Ezekiel’s wheels. I understood what the apostle was saying, but this was so foreign to all that I knew. Then the universe inside me slowed, and I could see a single neon sign flashing before my eyes. It was the title of Jonathan Edwards’s famous sermon “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.” My guts wrenched. But I heard the song of light and knew to watch carefully. As I looked the words Sinners and God changed places in the sign. I gasped as “God in the Hands of Angry Sinners” appeared, pulsating with the rhythm of the song. “Oh, God! What have we done?” At

Our habits determine the expression of our genes.

Talis’s father has a karaoke machine in his basement, and he knows all the lyrics to “Like a Virgin” and “Holiday” as well as the lyrics to all the songs from Godspell and Cabaret. Talis’s mother is a licensed therapist who composes multiple-choice personality tests for women’s magazines. “Discover Which Television Character You Resemble Most.” Etc. Amy’s parents met in a commune in Ithaca: her name was Galadriel Moon Shuyler before her parents came to their senses and had it changed legally. Everyone is sworn to secrecy about this, which is ironic, considering that this is Amy.

What do you get when you play a country song backward? You get your wife back, you get your home back, you get your dog back, you get your kids back, and on and on.

Gansey peered down the tunnel. "I know you know a lot of the songs all the way through, and can do them the same sped and length every time. Because you had to memorize all of those tunes for the Irish music competitions." Blue and Adam exchanged a delighted look. The only thing more pleasing than seeing Ronan singled out was seeing him singled out and forced to repeatedly sing an Irish jig.

I had every right because you’re stubborn, and unless you saw it for yourself you wouldn’t have believed me when I told you this direction you’re taking is wrong. You told me once not to expect you to love all my songs but to expect honesty. I will return the same courtesy, and I refuse to falsely flatter your ego. I love you, Maude, but you can’t expect me to agree with you, especially when you’re making a huge mistake!” Maude

Her voice rang out as clear as water from a fountain and wavered with deep emotion as the song washed away her doubt, drowned her insecurities, and melted her pain into a beautiful, calm river of hope.

Within the deep, the Song sang to her a tale of wonders.

You do understand what I mean!” he exclaimed, pleased to see Maude responding to his song. “I chose Nina Simone to show you something else. Just like you, Nina Simone had a classical background. When she was younger, she wanted to become a concert pianist. Her skill was beyond measure and she used it in a wide repertoire of jazz, blues, and R&B songs. And I think you can do the same. Music knows no limits and I truly understand why James insisted on signing you, Maude.” Maude remained silent, still thinking about his rendition of Nina Simone. “All you have to do is dig deeper. Try finding some suffering in you. Don’t sing the Cenerentola with a smile. Although you look like a girl who’s had it all. You know, the nice girl from the North of France, who grew up in a quiet, small town with her loving mom and dad and brothers and sisters, always top of her class, quick-tempered when things didn’t go her way. A bit spoiled, I guess. You have to put all that—” “Spoiled?” Maude blurted in utter disbelief, the word echoing through her mind. Of all the things he could’ve said about her, spoiled was the last word that could have appeared remotely appropriate to describe her. As for suffering, she’d had plenty of that, too, which is why she didn’t want to think about it. Not while she was so happy in New York and Carvin and the Ruchets were the last thing she wanted in her head. She painfully pushed the Ruchets away from her mind and turned to Matt, eyes flaring up again. “You know nothing about me, Matt,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “And you obviously know nothing about suffering, or you wouldn’t idealize it the way that you do. You see it as a romantic notion that seemingly gives depth to songwriting. And it does. Not because the singers actually thought of woe in a purely aesthetic way, but because that’s how they actually lived. You will never understand that,” she finished, trembling from head to toe. And with that, she grabbed her bag, coat, gloves, scarf, and stormed out of Matt’s Creation Room, slamming the door behind her.

Memorization Through Association Memorization through association is taking something familiar to you and correlating it to what you’re trying to remember. So for example sometimes certain lyrics in a song remind you of a person you know. The theory is that these combined memories can help you remember more. If you have 2 or 3 memories tied to a single one it should be easier to recall. Some people when they smell bacon in the morning they might be reminded of the mornings they woke up as little child with their parents cooking breakfast. So the smell of bacon may bring to mind a mental image of bacon and a past experience with bacon. Due to these similarities people try to create an association between an object and a memory thus to bring to mind what they’re trying to memorize more easily. This may work well for a list of objects, and this may work well for numbers, past experiences and the like. But this may not be an appropriate option for memorizing vast amounts of scripture while attempting to retain the meaning behind them. We need to retain the meaning of the scripture when we memorize them that when we recall it, it can be put to use accurately. Therefore it is necessary focus on the things which help us recall the scripture while being able to accurately apply it. Memorization by association may work well for others but it is not appropriate for memorizing pages and verses of scripture. It may help you memorize a few verses but it will not help you memorize a multitude of verses, which is our goal.

- Bir adam korkusuna rağmen cesur olamaz mı? - Bir adamın gerçekten cesur olabileceği tek andır korktuğu an.

isn’t the years that matter, Adam. Time doesn’t run that way. Life’s quick and then it’s slow and then there are grey spaces where it really doesn’t seem to run at all.

The Divine Kiss is metaphor that speaks of sacred intimacy with Jesus Christ. The most powerful gift God can to the human spirit is His “kiss.” Kisses from God impart the deepest things that could ever be given to the human spirit. This “kiss” is the answer of why we are on the earth. The Lord kissed Adam and he became a living soul and we come alive again by this kiss of God.

the Holy Spirit is saying to you today, “I love you even in your brokenness and weakness. You are my beloved child. I was the One who kissed Adam and made him into a living soul. My kiss upon your heart will give you the love you seek. I will not abandon you the next time you fail. I am yours for all time and for all eternity.

Her voice rang out as clear as water from a fountain and wavered with deep emotion as the song washed away her doubt, drowned her insecurities, and melted her pain into a beautiful, calm river of hope. Maude

His name is C. J. Skender, and he is a living legend. Skender teaches accounting, but to call him an accounting professor doesn’t do him justice. He’s a unique character, known for his trademark bow ties and his ability to recite the words to thousands of songs and movies on command. He may well be the only fifty-eight-year-old man with fair skin and white hair who displays a poster of the rapper 50 Cent in his office. And while he’s a genuine numbers whiz, his impact in the classroom is impossible to quantify. Skender is one of a few professors for whom Duke University and the University of North Carolina look past their rivalry to cooperate: he is in such high demand that he has permission to teach simultaneously at both schools. He has earned more than two dozen major teaching awards, including fourteen at UNC, six at Duke, and five at North Carolina State. Across his career, he has now taught close to six hundred classes and evaluated more than thirty-five thousand students. Because of the time that he invests in his students, he has developed what may be his single most impressive skill: a remarkable eye for talent. In 2004, Reggie Love enrolled in C. J. Skender’s accounting class at Duke. It was a summer course that Love needed to graduate, and while many professors would have written him off as a jock, Skender recognized Love’s potential beyond athletics. “For some reason, Duke football players have never flocked to my class,” Skender explains, “but I knew Reggie had what it took to succeed.” Skender went out of his way to engage Love in class, and his intuition was right that it would pay dividends. “I knew nothing about accounting before I took C. J.’s class,” Love says, “and the fundamental base of knowledge from that course helped guide me down the road to the White House.” In Obama’s mailroom, Love used the knowledge of inventory that he learned in Skender’s class to develop a more efficient process for organizing and digitizing a huge backlog of mail. “It was the number-one thing I implemented,” Love says, and it impressed Obama’s chief of staff, putting Love on the radar. In 2011, Love left the White House to study at Wharton. He sent a note to Skender: “I’m on the train to Philly to start the executive MBA program and one of the first classes is financial accounting—and I just wanted to say thanks for sticking with me when I was in your class.

You can forget Proust and those stupid cakes. Beatles’ songs are more potent.

Worship is really just a grateful love song for all the Lord is, does, and has done. But we love Him because He first loved us. As it is written, “We love Him because He first loved us.” 1 John 4:19

So I sang the first Italian song that came into my head, which turned out to be “Volare.” I’m sure I need not mention at this point that I am a rock star, and it sounded fantastic.

I remember my first dose of Klonopin the way I imagine the elect recall their high school summer romances, bathed in the golden light of a perfect carelessness, untouched and untouchable by time's predations or the foulness of any present pain. As Cat Stevens wrote, The first cut is the deepest, though I've always preferred Norma Fraser's cover to the original (the legendary Studio One, Kingston, Jamaica, 1967). Stevens sings it like a pop song, but Fraser knows the line is true, that she'll never love like that again. Her voice soars over the reverb like a bird in final flight. The first cut is the deepest. I've since learned all about GABA receptors and molecular binding, benzos and the dangers of tolerance, but back then I knew only that I had received an invisible and highly effective surgery to the mind, administered by a pale yellow tablet scored down the middle and no larger than an aspirin. There is so much drivel about psychoactive meds, so much corruptions, bad faith over- and underprescription, vagueness, profiteering, ignorance, and hope, that it's easy to forget they sometimes work, alleviating real suffering, at least for a time. This was such a time.

Sing in me, O Muse the tale of two travelers, the ones who burned across ruddy hill and serpent trail – the last golden days of youth before the fall. Spell and sword, song and steel- the green hills roll on, and the dark forest waits but before the sun dies, let the thousand tales be told again, forgotten cradle-rhymes spun again, glory-gold and terror-black, the tale of two before the shadows fall.

Where are you?” she whispered. “Have you abandoned us?”... "Listen, little Songkeeper," the voice whispered, and I will sing you a Song.

49.​TRUE OR FALSE: 2006’S CASINO ROYALE WAS THE FIRST BOND MOVIE THAT COULD BE WATCHED IN CHINA. True. It was the first film in the James Bond series that the Chinese censor board approved. 50.​TRUE OR FALSE: THE FIRST INTERRACIAL KISS IN TELEVISION HISTORY HAPPENED ON STAR TREK. True. Although the network originally didn’t want to air it, William Shatner reportedly sabotaged all of the other shoots, forcing the network to run the kiss. 51.​TRUE OR FALSE: THE FIRST TELEVISION COMMERCIAL EVER WAS A CAR COMMERCIAL. False. It was actually a commercial for watches, and it aired in 1941. 52.​TRUE OR FALSE: ACTOR JIM CAVIEZEL WAS STRUCK BY LIGHTNING WHILE PORTRAYING JESUS IN THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST. True. Caviezel suffered a large number of calamities during the filming, but this one seemed like a bit of an omen. 53.​TRUE OR FALSE: BRYAN ADAMS’ FAMOUS SONG “SUMMER OF ‘69” IS NAMED AFTER THE SEX POSITION, NOT THE YEAR. True. In fact, Adams was just 9 years old during the summer of 1969. 54.​TRUE OR FALSE: THE ROLLING STONES PERFORMED IN BACK TO THE FUTURE 3. False. But ZZ Top did! 55.​TRUE OR FALSE: THE WORD “FUCK” WAS ONCE SAID OVER 1,000 TIMES IN ONE MOVIE. False. But Swearnet: The Movie came close with the word appearing 935 times—a record amount! 56.​TRUE OR FALSE: BATTLEFIELD EARTH WAS WRITTEN BY THE FOUNDER OF SCIENTOLOGY. True. L. Ron Hubbard was a well-known science fiction writer in addition to being the founder of Scientology.