Affairs Of The Heart Best Quotes

Closing The Cycle One always has to know when a stage comes to an end. If we insist on staying longer than the necessary time, we lose the happiness and the meaning of the other stages we have to go through. Closing cycles, shutting doors, ending chapters - whatever name we give it, what matters is to leave in the past the moments of life that have finished. Did you lose your job? Has a loving relationship come to an end? Did you leave your parents' house? Gone to live abroad? Has a long-lasting friendship ended all of a sudden? You can spend a long time wondering why this has happened. You can tell yourself you won't take another step until you find out why certain things that were so important and so solid in your life have turned into dust, just like that. But such an attitude will be awfully stressing for everyone involved: your parents, your husband or wife, your friends, your children, your sister, everyone will be finishing chapters, turning over new leaves, getting on with life, and they will all feel bad seeing you at a standstill. None of us can be in the present and the past at the same time, not even when we try to understand the things that happen to us. What has passed will not return: we cannot for ever be children, late adolescents, sons that feel guilt or rancor towards our parents, lovers who day and night relive an affair with someone who has gone away and has not the least intention of coming back. Things pass, and the best we can do is to let them really go away. That is why it is so important (however painful it may be!) to destroy souvenirs, move, give lots of things away to orphanages, sell or donate the books you have at home. Everything in this visible world is a manifestation of the invisible world, of what is going on in our hearts - and getting rid of certain memories also means making some room for other memories to take their place. Let things go. Release them. Detach yourself from them. Nobody plays this life with marked cards, so sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Do not expect anything in return, do not expect your efforts to be appreciated, your genius to be discovered, your love to be understood. Stop turning on your emotional television to watch the same program over and over again, the one that shows how much you suffered from a certain loss: that is only poisoning you, nothing else. Nothing is more dangerous than not accepting love relationships that are broken off, work that is promised but there is no starting date, decisions that are always put off waiting for the "ideal moment." Before a new chapter is begun, the old one has to be finished: tell yourself that what has passed will never come back. Remember that there was a time when you could live without that thing or that person - nothing is irreplaceable, a habit is not a need. This may sound so obvious, it may even be difficult, but it is very important. Closing cycles. Not because of pride, incapacity or arrogance, but simply because that no longer fits your life. Shut the door, change the record, clean the house, shake off the dust. Stop being who you were, and change into who you are.

I believe the best way to begin reconnecting humanity's heart, mind, and soul to nature is for us to share our individual stories.

For Schwartz this formed the paradox at the heart of baseball, or football, or any other sport. You loved it because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about The Human Condition. The Human Condition being, basically, that we're alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not. Baseball was an art, but to excel at it you had to become a machine. It didn't matter how beautifully you performed SOMETIMES, what you did on your best day, how many spectacular plays you made. You weren't a painter or a writer--you didn't work in private and discard your mistakes, and it wasn't just your masterpieces that counted.

I have calculated the total number of hours we spend sleeping beside each other in a week and I wanted to tell you it could be considered a full-time job. We could be eligible for healthcare benefits, could probably even pay for a mortgage by now. I remind myself of this, in daylight, when I miss you and cannot reach across the bed for the comforting filling and refilling of your chest. Such a strange affair we are having on each other; these hours that I have not lost but do not remember. This cannot be the best of love: to drool on someone’s collarbone or inhale an elbow to the jaw or be woken by the most ungraceful sounds of the body. But what is it if not the softening of grips? A letting go of. Your heart finally slowly that stubborn, lonely march.

That is why I take the younger ones, you see. You already give parts of your hearts away so easily--little fragments attached to celebrities, to hobbies, to ill-fated love affairs. Your kind have the best chance at survival.

The people at the top in high school get into the best colleges, get the best jobs, go on to run the country, and win Nobel Prizes. The rest end up with dead-end jobs, heart failure, and then have to start an affair with their assistant to create some excitement in their otherwise dull lives.

there are places in the world where real life is still happening, far away from here, in a pre-Hitler Europe, where hundreds of lights are lit every evening, ladies and gentlemen gather to drink coffee with cream in oak-panelled rooms, or sit comfortably in splendid coffee-houses under gilt chandeliers, stroll arm in arm to the opera or the ballet, observe from close-up the lives of great artists, passionate love affairs, broken hearts, the painter’s girlfriend falling in love with his best friend the composer, and going out at midnight bareheaded in the rain to stand alone on the ancient bridge whose reflection trembles in the river. *

For a happy life,it's best we should ignore &overlook things,people,incidents,affairs & matters.It is not necessary that we show a reaction to everything. Step back & ask yourself if the matter is really worth responding to.

Ultimately, the roast turkey must be regarded as a monument to Boomer's love. Look at it now, plump and glossy, floating across Idaho as if it were a mammoth, mutated seed pod. Hear how it backfires as it passes the silver mines, perhaps in tribute to the origin of the knives and forks of splendid sterling that a roast turkey and a roast turkey alone possesses the charisma to draw forth into festivity from dark cupboards. See how it glides through the potato fields, familiarly at home among potatoes but with an air of expectation, as if waiting for the flood of gravy. The roast turkey carries with it, in its chubby hold, a sizable portion of our primitive and pagan luggage. Primitive and pagan? Us? We of the laser, we of the microchip, we of the Union Theological Seminary and Time magazine? Of course. At least twice a year, do not millions upon millions of us cybernetic Christians and fax machine Jews participate in a ritual, a highly stylized ceremony that takes place around a large dead bird? And is not this animal sacrificed, as in days of yore, to catch the attention of a divine spirit, to show gratitude for blessings bestowed, and to petition for blessings coveted? The turkey, slain, slowly cooked over our gas or electric fires, is the central figure at our holy feast. It is the totem animal that brings our tribe together. And because it is an awkward, intractable creature, the serving of it establishes and reinforces the tribal hierarchy. There are but two legs, two wings, a certain amount of white meat, a given quantity of dark. Who gets which piece; who, in fact, slices the bird and distributes its limbs and organs, underscores quite emphatically the rank of each member in the gathering. Consider that the legs of this bird are called 'drumsticks,' after the ritual objects employed to extract the music from the most aboriginal and sacred of instruments. Our ancestors, kept their drums in public, but the sticks, being more actively magical, usually were stored in places known only to the shaman, the medicine man, the high priest, of the Wise Old Woman. The wing of the fowl gives symbolic flight to the soul, but with the drumstick is evoked the best of the pulse of the heart of the universe. Few of us nowadays participate in the actual hunting and killing of the turkey, but almost all of us watch, frequently with deep emotion, the reenactment of those events. We watch it on TV sets immediately before the communal meal. For what are footballs if not metaphorical turkeys, flying up and down a meadow? And what is a touchdown if not a kill, achieved by one or the other of two opposing tribes? To our applause, great young hungers from Alabama or Notre Dame slay the bird. Then, the Wise Old Woman, in the guise of Grandma, calls us to the table, where we, pretending to be no longer primitive, systematically rip the bird asunder. Was Boomer Petaway aware of the totemic implications when, to impress his beloved, he fabricated an outsize Thanksgiving centerpiece? No, not consciously. If and when the last veil dropped, he might comprehend what he had wrought. For the present, however, he was as ignorant as Can o' Beans, Spoon, and Dirty Sock were, before Painted Stick and Conch Shell drew their attention to similar affairs. Nevertheless, it was Boomer who piloted the gobble-stilled butterball across Idaho, who negotiated it through the natural carving knives of the Sawtooth Mountains, who once or twice parked it in wilderness rest stops, causing adjacent flora to assume the appearance of parsley.

Margaret and I are two little peas in a pod. I will take care of her with all my heart until my dying breath. She is in the very best hands. She will be loved from here to eternity. I love her simply for existing. And I love her because she has been my liberation.

Men – witness all the histories! – were subject to sudden lusts and violences, affairs that seemed strangely divorced from heart or head, and often more strangely still from what were surely their true characters. For them chastity was not a prime virtue: she remembered her amazement when she had discovered that so correct a gentleman and kind a husband as Sir John Denny had not always been faithful to his lady. Had Lady Denny cared? A little, perhaps, but she had not allowed it to blight her marriage. ‘Men, my love, are different from us,’ she had said once, ‘even the best of them! I tell you this because I hold it to be very wrong to rear girls in the belief that the face men show to the females they respect is their only one. I daresay, if we were to see them watching some horrid, vulgar prize-fight, or in company with women of a certain class, we shouldn’t recognise our own husbands and brothers. I am very sure we should think them disgusting!

The people at the top in high school get into the best colleges, get the best jobs, go on to run the country, and win Nobel prizes. The rest end up with dead end jobs, heart failure, and then have to start an affair with their assistant to create some excitement in their otherwise dull lives. And it's all because they weren't willing to put in the work to make it in high school.

May I please tell you something, Highness? You’re very cold—” “I’m not—” “—very cold and very young, and if you live, I think you’ll turn to hoarfrost—” “Why do you pick at me? I have come to terms with my life, and that is my affair—I am not cold, I swear, but I have decided certain things, it is best for me to ignore emotion; I have not been happy dealing with it—” Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.

One of the fruits of the long predominance of labourism is precisely that the party of the working class has never carried out any sustained campaign of education and propaganda on behalf of a socialist programme; and that Labour leaders have frequently turned themselves into fierce propagandists against the socialist proposals of their critics inside the Labour Party and out, and have bent their best efforts to the task of defeating all attempts to have the Labour Party adopt such proposals. Moreover, a vast array of conservative forces, of the most diverse kind, are always at hand to dissuade the working class from even thinking about the socialist ideas which evil or foolish people are forever trying to foist upon them. This simply means that a ceaseless battle for the ‘hearts and minds’ of the people is waged by the forces of conservatism, against which have only been mobilised immeasurably smaller socialist forces. A socialist party would seek to strengthen these forces and to defend socialist perspectives and a socialist programme over an extended period of time, and would accept that more than one election might have to be held before a majority of people came to support it. In any case, a socialist party would not only be concerned with office, but with the creation of the conditions under which office would be more than the management of affairs on capitalist lines.

Carl Franzoni perhaps summed it up best when he declared rather bluntly that, “the Byrds’ records were manufactured.” The first album in particular was an entirely engineered affair created by taking a collection of songs by outside songwriters and having them performed by a group of nameless studio musicians (for the record, the actual musicians were Glen Campbell on guitar, Hal Blaine on drums, Larry Knechtel on bass, Leon Russell on electric piano, and Jerry Cole on rhythm guitar), after which the band’s trademark vocal harmonies, entirely a studio creation, were added to the mix. As would be expected, the Byrds’ live performances, according to Barney Hoskyns’ Waiting for the Sun, “weren’t terribly good.” But that didn’t matter much; the band got a lot of assistance from the media, with Time being among the first to champion the new band. And they also got a tremendous assist from Vito and the Freaks and from the Young Turks, as previously discussed.

Carter told you he loves you, didn’t he?” Wide-eyed, Emily turned from the mirror. “How did you know?” “You nearly floated into the house when you came home. And now your face switches from joy to terror in seconds.” Grandma Kate smiled, the wrinkles crinkling around her eyes. “And what did you say?” Heat infusing her cheeks, Emily licked her lips. “Ah, he didn’t let you answer. Smart boy.” “Grandma!” The older woman waddled to the door. “It’s good to make him wait a bit for your declaration. You should pray about it before you say anything. Affairs of the heart need to be placed in the hands of the Lover of our souls. Only God knows what is best.” She tilted her head to the side to take in both ear bobs. “He’s a good man, Emily. Don’t be afraid.

she enjoyed her continued glimpses into the inner workings of world affairs. She often would sit back in the middle of some long meeting and wonder how it was that these men and women had risen to the top of the global elite. They weren't marked by exceptional genius. The did not have extraordinarily deep knowledge or creative opinions. If there was one trait the best of them possessed, it was a talent for simplification. They had the ability to take a complex situation and capture the heart of the matter in simple terms. A second after they located the core fact of any problem, their observation seemed blindingly obvious, but somehow nobody had simplified the issue in quite those terms beforehand. They took reality and made it manageable for busy people. p338

In the Middle Ages, marriage was considered a sacrament ordained by God, and God also authorised the father to marry his children according to his wishes and interests. An extramarital affair was accordingly a brazen rebellion against both divine and parental authority. It was a mortal sin, no matter what the lovers felt and thought about it. Today people marry for love, and it is their inner feelings that give value to this bond. Hence, if the very same feelings that once drove you into the arms of one man now drive you into the arms of another, what’s wrong with that? If an extramarital affair provides an outlet for emotional and sexual desires that are not satisfied by your spouse of twenty years, and if your new lover is kind, passionate and sensitive to your needs – why not enjoy it? But wait a minute, you might say. We cannot ignore the feelings of the other concerned parties. The woman and her lover might feel wonderful in each other’s arms, but if their respective spouses find out, everybody will probably feel awful for quite some time. And if it leads to divorce, their children might carry the emotional scars for decades. Even if the affair is never discovered, hiding it involves a lot of tension, and may lead to growing feelings of alienation and resentment. The most interesting discussions in humanist ethics concern situations like extramarital affairs, when human feelings collide. What happens when the same action causes one person to feel good, and another to feel bad? How do we weigh the feelings against each other? Do the good feelings of the two lovers outweigh the bad feelings of their spouses and children? It doesn’t matter what you think about this particular question. It is far more important to understand the kind of arguments both sides deploy. Modern people have differing ideas about extramarital affairs, but no matter what their position is, they tend to justify it in the name of human feelings rather than in the name of holy scriptures and divine commandments. Humanism has taught us that something can be bad only if it causes somebody to feel bad. Murder is wrong not because some god once said, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Rather, murder is wrong because it causes terrible suffering to the victim, to his family members, and to his friends and acquaintances. Theft is wrong not because some ancient text says, ‘Thou shalt not steal.’ Rather, theft is wrong because when you lose your property, you feel bad about it. And if an action does not cause anyone to feel bad, there can be nothing wrong about it. If the same ancient text says that God commanded us not to make any images of either humans or animals (Exodus 20:4), but I enjoy sculpting such figures, and I don’t harm anyone in the process – then what could possibly be wrong with it? The same logic dominates current debates on homosexuality. If two adult men enjoy having sex with one another, and they don’t harm anyone while doing so, why should it be wrong, and why should we outlaw it? It is a private matter between these two men, and they are free to decide about it according to their inner feelings. In the Middle Ages, if two men confessed to a priest that they were in love with one another, and that they never felt so happy, their good feelings would not have changed the priest’s damning judgement – indeed, their happiness would only have worsened the situation. Today, in contrast, if two men love one another, they are told: ‘If it feels good – do it! Don’t let any priest mess with your mind. Just follow your heart. You know best what’s good for you.

In terms of literary history, the publication of Lyrical Ballads in 1798 is seen as a landmark. The volume contains many of the best-known Romantic poems. The second edition in 1800 contained a Preface in which Wordsworth discusses the theories of poetry which were to be so influential on many of his and Coleridge's contemporaries. The Preface represents a poetic manifesto which is very much in the spirit of the age. The movement towards greater freedom and democracy in political and social affairs is paralleled by poetry which sought to overturn the existing regime and establish a new, more 'democratic' poetic order. To do this, the writers used 'the real language of men' (Preface to Lyrical Ballads) and even, in the case of Byron and Shelley, got directly involved in political activities themselves. The Romantic age in literature is often contrasted with the Classical or Augustan age which preceded it. The comparison is valuable, for it is not simply two different attitudes to literature which are being compared but two different ways of seeing and experiencing life. The Classical or Augustan age of the early and mid-eighteenth century stressed the importance of reason and order. Strong feelings and flights of the imagination had to be controlled (although they were obviously found widely, especially in poetry). The swift improvements in medicine, economics, science and engineering, together with rapid developments in both agricultural and industrial technology, suggested human progress on a grand scale. At the centre of these advances towards a perfect society was mankind, and it must have seemed that everything was within man's grasp if his baser, bestial instincts could be controlled. The Classical temperament trusts reason, intellect, and the head. The Romantic temperament prefers feelings, intuition, and the heart.

Sacraments   I once met a man whom I’ll call Steve. He grew up in a nondenominational charismatic church. He was a highly motivated, highly talented individual. He was also a strong leader and an excellent communicator. Given his personality and gifting, it’s no surprise that he became the pastor of a successful independent church. His life seemed to be going great until the day he discovered that his wife was having an affair with one of his best friends. The situation got worse when his church fired him for not being able to control his family.   Unemployed, going through a divorce, and cut off from the community that had always surrounded him, a friend invited Steve to join him at an Anglican church. There he discovered the power of liturgy and the mystery of the communion table. Steve didn’t have the kind of spiritual life he had always relied on. Nothing about God made any sense to him. He couldn’t sing praise songs, he couldn’t read the Bible, he couldn’t even pray. But he could eat.   Steve’s mind needed answers. His heart needed to be comforted. His soul needed grace. Sermons weren’t giving him answers and praise music wasn’t comforting, but the body of Christ was feeding his inner self. Steve discovered that God was real to him when he ate and drank Holy Communion. Even though Steve was at the lowest point of his life, a time when he could do nothing to help himself, he was still able to receive the sacrament.

She had an old friend from the vaudeville days named Buck Mack who lived with her. Buck had been part of a vaudeville team called Miller & Mack and had been an extra in Citizen Kane. In modern terms, he was a personal assistant: he ran the house, kept everything running smoothly, and watched over her. At first, Buck regarded me as an interloper, but it wasn't long before he saw that Barbara and I genuinely loved each other, and he and I became good friends. Because of the age difference, neither of us wanted to have our relationship in the papers, and with the help of Helen Ferguson, her publicist and one of her best friends, we kept it quiet. There were only a few people who knew about us. Nancy Sinatra Sr. was one of them, because she and Barbara were close friends. I didn't tell anybody at Fox about our affair, although Harry Brand might have known, if only because Harry knew everything. Likewise, I always assumed that Darryl Zanuck knew, although he never said a word about it to me. That might have been because Darryl and Barbara had something of a history, a bad one: Barbara told me that Darryl had chased her around his office years earlier, and I got the distinct impression that she hadn't appreciated the exercise.

Christ showed that God’s blueprint for marriage is not just about external actions – keeping your hands off others – most importantly, it’s about what lives in your heart.  Adultery inevitably begins with the heart.  When we open ourselves up to others, when we glance a bit too long, when we flirt with those we’re not married to, we’re sending subtle signals that we’re actually on the hunt for a fling.  We reveal what’s living in our hearts with our words and actions, subtle or not.  The best practical advice to avoid this is to always talk about your spouse with others in a positive way.  When others see that you’re satisfied and happy with your spouse, you’re protected from adulterous relationships.  For guys, when a woman starts getting a little bit too close for comfort, if you start praising your wife and kids, that’s the sure way to put the kibosh on any further developments.  The women can keep guys at bay by always making clear that their number one best friend is their husband.  Then we show to others that an affair is the furthest thing from our hearts – we want to live within the framework God has given, that framework which Christ taught us so clearly in his ministry on earth.  He taught a restored view of marriage.

A “London Mechanic's Wife” made a point that historians should take to heart: Shall the idiot-like, the stupid and usurious capitalists, tell us to look to our domestic affairs, and say, “these we understand best,” we will retort on them, and tell them that thousands of us have scarce any domestic affairs to look after, when the want of employment on the one hand, or ill-requited toil on the other, have left our habitations almost destitute...

Forced by the Starr investigation, the president was to give testimony on the Paula Jones case any day now. Somehow Matt Drudge and his website received a leak. In response the president had signed a subpoenaed affidavit, legally sworn testimony denying any sexual relations with Paula Jones, the low-level Arkansas state employee who had accused him of sexual harassment, and more so, any relationship with Monica Lewinsky. He said they didn’t have any contact with each other, hadn’t even been alone in the same room together. He swore to it and said others could corroborate. Monica Lewinsky signed another affidavit. Ken Starr had been following the Clintons like a bloodhound. But at each turn of each scandal (Whitewater, Vince Foster’s suicide, Travelgate, Filegate, the affairs, the bribes, Troopergate, and more) it all came down to deny-deny-deny and the Clintons’ word against everyone else’s. Only this time, Clinton arrogantly denied his affair with Monica on a legal affidavit, sworn testimony. The shit was hitting the fan. Ken Starr now needed to prove Clinton was a liar—a perjurer. He needed evidence. Since they subpoenaed our logbook, I knew I was on Starr’s list. I couldn’t listen. I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t drive anymore. My partner asked me what was wrong. I can remember the feeling, my heart racing, my mind whirling, racked with pain, doubt, remorse, and regret. Oh my God, Starr, the Clintons, the Service, the FBI, the Justice Department, my friends, my family—no, not my friends and family—but everyone is going to implicate me, my integrity, my professionalism, my ethics, my foundation, my character. What about Genny and my unborn child? I didn’t sign up for this! We never signed up for this! Why did the Clintons have to do this to us? Haven’t I treated them well, done my best? They just couldn’t do the right thing! They couldn’t stop themselves!

The sensation I was feeling on the clifftop was some sort of reverberation in the air itself.… The whale had submerged and I was still feeling something. The strange rhythm seemed now to be coming from behind me, from the land, so I turned to look across the gorge … where my heart stopped.… Standing there in the shade of the tree was an elephant … staring out to sea!… A female with a left tusk broken off near the base.… I knew who she was, who she had to be. I recognized her from a color photograph put out by the Department of Water Affairs and Forestry under the title “The Last Remaining Knysna Elephant.” This was the Matriarch herself.… She was here because she no longer had anyone to talk to in the forest. She was standing here on the edge of the ocean because it was the next, nearest, and most powerful source of infrasound. The underrumble of the surf would have been well within her range, a soothing balm for an animal used to being surrounded by low and comforting frequencies, by the lifesounds of a herd, and now this was the next-best thing. My heart went out to her. The whole idea of this grandmother of many being alone for the first time in her life was tragic, conjuring up the vision of countless other old and lonely souls. But just as I was about to be consumed by helpless sorrow, something even more extraordinary took place.… The throbbing was back in the air. I could feel it, and I began to understand why. The blue whale was on the surface again, pointed inshore, resting, her blowhole clearly visible. The Matriarch was here for the whale! The largest animal in the ocean and the largest living land animal were no more than a hundred yards apart, and I was convinced that they were communicating! In infrasound, in concert, sharing big brains and long lives, understanding the pain of high investment in a few precious offspring, aware of the importance and the pleasure of complex sociality, these rare and lovely great ladies were commiserating over the back fence of this rocky Cape shore, woman to woman, matriarch to matriarch, almost the last of their kind. I turned, blinking away the tears, and left them to it. This was no place for a mere man

He had mastered the art of conducting a love affair through all its stages, from infatuation to consummation, wholly within its mind. How could he do that? The indispensable first step was to capture what he called “a living image” of the beloved and make it his own. Upon this image he would then dwell, giving breath to it, until he had reached a point where, still in the realm of the imagination, he could begin to make love to this succubus of his and eventually conduct her into the utmost transports; and this whole passionate history would remain unbeknown to the earthly original. [ On the erotic life ] It all hinged, he replied, on being able to capture, through the closest, most dedicated attention, that unique unconscious gesture, too slight or too fleeting to be noticed by the average eye, by which a woman gave herself away - gave away her erotic essence, that is to say, her soul. The way she turned her wrist to look at her wristwatch, for example, or the way she reached down to pull tight the strap of a sandal. Once that unique movement was caught, the erotic imagination could explore it at leisure until the woman’s every last secret was laid open, not excluding how she moved in the arms of a lover, how she came to her climax. From the giveaway gesture all followed “as if by fate”. [ On the erotic life ] That’s the beauty of thoughts, isn’t it, that distance doesn’t matter, and separation. [ On compassion ] The woman from Lausanne complains above all of loneliness. She has created a protective ritual for herself in which she retires to bed at night with music playing in the background and lies cosily reading a book, immersed in what she tells herself is bliss. Then, as she begins to reflect on her situation, bliss turns to disquiet. Is this truly the best that life affords, she asks herself - lying in bed alone with a book? Is it such a good thing to be a comfortable, prosperous citizen of a model democracy, secure in her home in the heart of Europe? Despite herself, she grows more and more agitated. She rises, dons dressing gown and slippers and takes up her pen. [ On fan mail ]

This current state of affairs may prevent otherwise thoughtful people from seeing the value of what has traditionally been regarded as the best of “common sense” about life and of what has been preserved in the wisdom traditions of most cultures—especially in two of the greatest world sources of wisdom about the human self, the Judeo-Christian and the Greek, the biblical and the classical.

The History of the world shows us that men are not to be counted by their numbers, but by the fire and vigor of their passions; by their deep sense of injury; by their memory of past glory; by their eagerness for fresh fame; by their clear and steady resolution of either ceasing to live, or of achieving a particular object, which, when it is once formed, strikes off a load of manacle and chains, and gives free space to all heavenly and heroic feelings. All great and extraordinary actions come from the heart. There are seasons in human affairs when qualities, fit enough to conduct the common business of life, are feeble and useless, when men must trust to emotion for that safety which reason at such times can never give. These are the feelings which led the ten thousand over the Carduchian mountains; these are the feelings by which a handful of Greeks broke in pieces the power of Persia; and in the fens of the Dutch and in the mountains of the Swiss these feelings defended happiness and revenged the oppressions of man! God calls all the passions out in their keenness and vigor for the present safety of mankind, anger and revenge and the heroic mind, and a readiness to suffer - all the secret strength, all the invisible array of the feelings - all that nature has reserved for the great scenes of the world. When the usual hopes and the common aids of man are all gone, nothing remains under God but those passions which have often proved the best ministers of His purpose and the surest protectors of the world.

Of all the things that sustain a leader over time, love is the most lasting. It’s hard to imagine leaders getting up day after day, putting in the long hours and hard work it takes to get extraordinary things done, without having their hearts in it. The best-kept secret of successful leaders is love: staying in love with leading, with the people who do the work, with what their organizations produce, and with those who honor the organization by using its products and services. Leadership is not an affair of the head. Leadership is an affair of the heart.

I think it improper to talk about evil all during a meal. It spoils the digestion." "Oh, but come," the Witch said, "is it only in youth that we can have the nerve to as, ourselves such serious questions?' "Well, I stick with my suggestion," said Avaric. "Evil isn't doing bad things, it's feeling bad about them afterward. There's no absolute value to behavior. First of all -" "Institutional inertia," claimed the Witch. "But whatever is the great attraction of absolute power anyway?" "That's why I say it's merely an affliction of the psyche, like vanity or greed," said a copper magnate. "And we all know vanity and greed can produce some pretty astounding results in human affairs, not all of them reprehensible." "It's an absence of good, that's all," said his paramour, an agony aunt for the Shiz informer. "The nature of the world is to be calm, and enhance and support life, and evil is an absence of the inclination of matter to be at peace." "Pigspittle," said Avaric. "Evil is an early or primitive stage of moral development. All children are fiends by nature. The criminals among us are only those who didn't progress..." "I think it's a presence, not an absence," said an artist. "Evil's an incarnated character, an incubus or a succubus. It's an other. It's not us." "Not even me?" said the Witch, playing the part more vigorously than she expected. "A self-confessed murderer?" "Oh go on with you," said the artist, "we all of us show ourselves in our best light. That's just normal vanity." "Evil isn't a thing, it's not a person, it's an attribute like beauty..." "It's a power, like wind..." "It's an infection..." "It's metaphysical, essentially: the corruptibility of creation -" "Blame it on the Unnamed God, then." "But did the Unnamed God create evil intentionally, or was it just a mistake in creation?" "it's not of air and eternity, evil isn't; it's of earth; it's physical, a disjointedness between our bodies and our souls. Evil is inanely corporeal, humans causing on another pain, no more no less -" "I like pain, if I'm wearing calfskin chaps and have my wrists tied behind me -" "No, you're all wrong, our childhood religion had it right: Evil is moral at its heart - the selection of vice over virtue; you can pretend no to know, you can rationalize, but you know it in your conscience -" "Evil is an act, not an appetite. How many haven't wanted to slash the throat of some boor across the dining room table? Present company excepted of course. Everyone has the appetite. If you give in to it, it, that act is evil. The appetite is normal.

No," she says. "No, I can't. How can I? I've started seeing someone." My heart stops. "A counselor," she adds, and it starts beating again, relieved. Of course. Of course she wouldn't have a bloody affair. "Once a week. I go during work time so Theo doesn't know." So that's where she's neem going, and probably why she wasn't in the shop, and where she was driving to the other day. "But he'll want me to go to the GP and I'm- I'm worried they'll put me on meds and the meds will numb me. I already feel so numb, Noelle. And I'm scared. Of being that mother who needs pills to get through what's supposed to be one of the best things that ever happened to her. I'm a shit mother.

I wore my best clothes. I prepared a hand-written letter for the judge. I worked to create a report card that many parents of exemplary children would have envied. But I allowed none of these good decisions to refine me; I was as insidiously rebellious as ever. I was determined nothing could change me. I was set in my ways. My heart was hardened, my beliefs were set, nothing could sway them. My positive actions were nothing but a way to preserve myself and mitigate my punishments. On the outside, people thought I was doing better, but every good decision that I made was superficial. I did what I needed to do so my love affair with drugs might continue lustfully.

Almighty God, as I cross the threshold of this day I commit myself, soul, body, affairs, friends, to Thy care. Watch over, keep, guide, direct, sanctify, bless me. Incline my heart to thy ways. Mould me wholly into the image of Jesus, as a potter forms clay. May my lips be a well-tuned harp to sound Thy praise. Let those around see me living by Thy Spirit, trampling the world underfoot, unconformed to lying vanities, transformed by a renewed mind, clad in the entire armour of God, shining as a never- dimmed light, showing holiness in all my doings. Let no evil this day soil my thoughts, words, hands. May I travel miry paths with a life pure from spot or stain. In needful transactions let my affection be in heaven, and my love soar upwards in flames of fire, my gaze fixed on unseen things, my eyes open to the emptiness, fragility, mockery of earth and its vanities. May I view all things in the mirror of eternity, waiting for the coming of my Lord, listening for the last trumpet call, hastening unto the new heaven and earth. Order this day all my communications according to Thy wisdom, and to the gain of mutual good. Forbid that I should not be profited or made profitable. May I speak each word as if my last word, and walk each step as my final one. If my life should end today, let this be my best day.

The great God stands much on priority to have the first and the best: the first ripe fruits, the first that opens the womb. Oh then offer the Isaac of your youth, the spring and flower of your age to God, and stay not until the evil day. Begin first with Him from whom you had your beginning. Go about the grand affair and work of your dear and never-dying soul before you do engulf yourself in the cares of this world. Resolve to present the first ripe fruits to that good and gracious God, who desires the first ripe fruits. In the bright morning of your life, match yourself to the King of Glory and become His bride before you are deflowered and defiled by sin and the world. If the celestial seeds of grace are sown in the morning, the pleasant and sweet flowers springing out of those seeds will invite the Lord Jesus to come and walk in His garden (Song 5:1). If you would be the temple of the Holy Spirit, let Him that made the house be the first and chief inhabitant. And suffer not your heart to be a habitation for dragons and devils, which will be your undoing to all eternity.

LAO TZU: THE BEST The best, like water, Benefit all and do not compete. They dwell in lowly spots that everyone else scorns. Putting others before themselves, They find themselves in the foremost place And come very near to the Tao. In their dwelling, they love the earth; In their heart, they love what is deep; In personal relationships, they love kindness; In their words, they love truth. In the world, they love peace. In personal affairs, they love what is right. In action, they love choosing the right time. It is because they do not compete with others That they are beyond the reproach of the world.

Anyway! Like a memory she does not travel, She just stays in the mind of everything, A feeling that is abysmal and at the same time makes you feel well, Almost like experiencing everything but feeling nothing, But her thoughts and her memories remain intact, A lover affair of a different kind maybe, Where infinity is the witness and love that lasts for eternity is the pact, There is no other way for it to exist maybe, Or it could be my predilection towards her memories, That makes everything else less preeminent, And gradually one loses interest in all worldly stories, Because her thought is still fresh and omnipresent, Like a flower that you come to admire in Summer, And you wait for the seasons to pass by, To witness this flower again in the new Summer, There, anticipating and waiting you lie, Not for the Summer, but for the flower, And how unnecessary everything else seems, Almost like a desperate lover, Whose heart often her name screams, But the yearnings of heart are silent, And no matter how much it cries or screams everyday, It has no audience, except the helpless firmament, Where it is heard, but it can't do anything to help it anyway!

Anyway! Like a memory she does not travel, She just stays in the mind of everything, A feeling that is abysmal and at the same time makes you feel well, Almost like experiencing everything but feeling nothing, But her thoughts and her memories remain intact, A love affair of a different kind maybe, Where infinity is the witness and love that lasts for eternity is the pact, There is no other way for it to exist maybe, Or it could be my predilection towards her memories, That makes everything else less preeminent, And gradually one loses interest in all worldly stories, Because her thought is still fresh and omnipresent, Like a flower that you come to admire in Summer, And you wait for the seasons to pass by, To witness this flower again in the new Summer, There, anticipating and waiting you lie, Not for the Summer, but for the flower, And how unnecessary everything else seems, Almost like a desperate lover, Whose heart often her name screams, But the yearnings of heart are silent, And no matter how much it cries or screams everyday, It has no audience, except the helpless firmament, Where it is heard, but it can't do anything to help it anyway!

Love, she and me! She stood there waiting, And being an admirer of hers I thought she was waiting for me, She brushed her hair sideways, And like others I thought she was doing it for me, She walked with grace and well measured steps, And I thought she was walking towards me, She smiled and her shimmering lips parted slowly, And I thought they parted and shimmered to kiss me, She knelt a bit and looked at the ground, And I felt she was looking at my shadow and then at me, She spoke of some wonderful experiences she had, And I thought they were all due to me, She raised her eyes to stare at the midday Sun, And I felt in its gleaming rays she was discovering me, She called someone haply, And I wished if it were me, just me, She traveled to some favourite destination, And I wished if it were me, She confessed her heart gives rise to endless desires, And I so deeply wished, all her desires led to me, just me, She looked at the starry night and and closed her eyes to dream, How I wished all her dreams were about me, In the morning she woke up with fresh smile, And I hoped the smile always flashes only when she thinks of me, Then she ventured into the affairs of the day, And I wished her every step brought her closer to me, She often said her prayers and thought about God, And how I wished that her God thought of me, She was carrying a bouquet of roses yesterday, And I wondered for whom could it be? And wished it were for me, Then she walked away holding just one rose in her hand, And I hoped she dropped it in front of me, It is afternoon and she is walking towards me, Maybe it is just my imagination because I feel her true joy lies in being with me, But who cares whether it is my imagination or something I so deeply wish for me, That I want to love her, and spend the days thinking that she only loves me, She has walked by so many times, But she has never walked towards me, It is a dilemma alike the day and the night, where one would never know whether the day seeks night or the night seeks the day, So whenever she walks past me, I convince my heart she was walking towards me, A decade has passed and her mere glimpse still gladdens me, But today she walked up to me and said, “do you like me or you love me?” I stood there speechless, not that my feelings have turned numb, but my words were failing me, But somehow I managed to say, “I love you more than me!

Love, she and me! She stood there waiting, And being an admirer of hers I thought she was waiting for me, She brushed her hair sideways, And like others I thought she was doing it for me, She walked with grace and well measured steps, And I thought she was walking towards me, She smiled and her shimmering lips parted slowly, And I thought they parted and shimmered to kiss me, She knelt a bit and looked at the ground, And I felt she was looking at my shadow and then at me, She spoke of some wonderful experiences she had, And I thought they were all due to me, She raised her eyes to stare at the midday Sun, And I felt in its gleaming rays she was discovering me, She called someone haply, And I wished if it were me, just me, She traveled to some favourite destination, And I wished if it were me, She confessed her heart gives rise to endless desires, And I so deeply wished, all her desires led to me, just me, She looked at the starry night and closed her eyes to dream, How I wished all her dreams were about me, In the morning she woke up with fresh smile, And I hoped the smile always flashes only when she thinks of me, Then she ventured into the affairs of the day, And I wished her every step brought her closer to me, She often said her prayers and thought about God, And how I wished that her God thought of me, She was carrying a bouquet of roses yesterday, And I wondered for whom could it be? And wished it were for me, Then she walked away holding just one rose in her hand, And I hoped she dropped it in front of me, It is afternoon and she is walking towards me, Maybe it is just my imagination because I feel her true joy lies in being with me, But who cares whether it is my imagination or something I so deeply wish for me, That I want to love her, and spend the days thinking that she only loves me, She has walked by so many times, But she has never walked towards me, It is a dilemma alike the day and the night, where one would never know whether the day seeks night or the night seeks the day, So whenever she walks past me, I convince my heart she was walking towards me, A decade has passed and her mere glimpse still gladdens me, But today she walked up to me and said, “do you like me or you love me?” I stood there speechless, not that my feelings have turned numb, but my words were failing me, But somehow I managed to say, “I love you more than me!

The sea and the albatross Far away in the deep sea, An albatross flew every day and sometimes looked at me, It sometimes flapped its wings rigorously, And then glided so calmly, Over the waves of wind and the ocean of air, It looked majestic and I wondered what was its affair, That compelled it to bear long flights everyday, Because it only returned when the evening lights had invaded the day, And to find out its secret there was no way, Yet I hoped I shall know it someway, It was a rough day and the sea had turned violent, My boat was being tossed everywhere in this torrent, The wind howled, the sea roared and everything appeared agitated, And to venture into such a rough sea even the valour of the mariners like me hesitated, So I stayed at the shore, While the albatross flew through this violent uproar, It swung its wings up and down with great effort, As if from this toil of mind and muscle, it gained some unknown comfort, After few moments it was far away, that I could no longer see it, But everyone could hear the beating of his wings, only if you had the mariner’s heart to feel it, And looking at the albatross, I too ventured into the sea, And I recalled the mariner’s only oath, “whatever shall be shall be!” The wind played with me and my boat like a finless fish caught in the tempest, And it overpowered us inpsite of our efforts best, For a moment I thought it was asinine on my part to have felt brave like an albatross, Who sometimes sits on the hull of my boat where I have erected a cross, I looked at it and used all my force left in me, And my heart and mind said together, “let us see how strong the sea can be!” And then the sea turned rougher, the waves rose higher, But I too worked with the muscle of will and mind, with conviction stronger, It was evening now and I stood in the middle of the rough sea where they said everything sinks, I saw the albatross caught in the discarded net, and it was struggling to free itself from these nylon links, Maybe I was courageous today not to catch fish but to rescue the master of the skies, And it shall be a shame for all mariners and our oath of courage, if today in this discarded net the albatross dies,

Loving her again and again It was romantic, Everything seemed idyllic, There she was everywhere, And I too was there somewhere, Life was breathing, With our hearts still beating, Like a stream always flowing, In my memories and around me she was glowing, Like a midsummer fair, Where joys with merriments have an eternal affair, Where moments end to begin again, In this world my love Irma, I shall love you again and again!

Beautiful ways Memories with deep feelings, Are like always retracting emotions, They drop like sticky cob web hanging from the ceilings, And retrieve many moments filled with deep sensations, Sometimes they lead to poignancy, And sometimes they bring flashes of her sweet memories, And then the heart struggles to find its buoyancy, Because the mind willingly all these moments carries, Poor heart’s every perversion, Fails to convince the mind to consider the heart’s requests, the heart that keeps it alive, Alas the mind is a slave to her memories and her beautiful sensation, And without bearing her feelings in no other thinking avenues it wishes to dive, So the heart beats with a sense of precariousness, While the mind seeks her sensations, her feelings and enters a state of meditation, Where it only ponders on her feelings and her loveliness, And the poor heart becomes the victim of its own creation, Of loving, of feeling, of emoting, of beating just for her, And as the mind becomes unresponsive, I neither think of my anguished heart, my inactive mind, but just about her, and only about her, And wait and hope that the reality becomes a little bit sensitive and a bit more submissive, But destiny that turns the wheels of time and everything, Has its own plans to execute and fulfil, To it love, lovers, feelings do not mean anything, Because it obeys someone else’s heart’s will, For destiny is true to her emotions and her love affair, And I too then proclaim I am devoted to my memories and their every sensation, And loving her is by all means sensible and fair, For if destiny can do what it pleases, my heart and mind too shall seek their destiny in their most loving destination, So let destiny play its game and cast the heart and mind in time’s bottomless well, But let it know, that we all- my heart, my mind and I, shall fill it too with her sensation, And then time may bid to every other life’s pursuit its final farewell, And then mine shall be the destiny and I shall live with her in the world that will be her beauty’s creation, So, let my heart love her enough, Let my mind think of her always, For time and destiny maybe tough, But love and facts always find their new and beautiful ways!

Love forever She ran her fingers through her hair, A smile appeared, and faded in her face somewhere, Then as she lifted her eyebrows and she removed her freely falling hair, In her eyes I found my desires and their brilliant glows, and in them I too existed somewhere, Their charm immediately sieged me from everywhere, And I began sinking into her sensation, her dreams and her eyes, and in it I sank somewhere, Where my desires flowed unto her, Now even my closed eyes only beheld her, Her beauty had cast me in the crucible of love and its endless affair, That exuded feelings invading my soul, and I fell in love with her, With the glow in her eyes, with the smile that gradually submerges into her, And makes me feel that I am endlessly being kissed by her, I was engulfed by a veritable need to be with her forever, To be her only thought about a true, and her only lover, Whom she romances in the daylight and in the night’s dark cover, A beautiful feeling from which she can part never, A crescendo of joy that with every passing moment turns lovelier, Creating a cohesion of two feelings which coexist in the cocoon of love forever, She with me and I with her, Where all desires before these two feelings surrender, Creating a universe of love where my heart beats no longer whisper, But beat loud and confess that they only beat for her, And in return she too confesses, “I too will love you forever!” And I cannot help falling in love everytime I see the smile gracefully covering her.

She I had always seen her with him, everywhere she went she went with him, And today she walked the streets alone, and so lonely without him, She did not smile any longer without him, Because she felt disturbed by smiles without him, She often admired the starry night with him, But now the sky, more than the dying stars, missed her, because she was lost somewhere in the act of missing him, She did not want to try living without him, Because when she was tired of trying she had finally tried and loved him, She longer waited for the summer as she used to with him, Because when she had got bored of summer and it's everything, she had loved him, She felt the summer rose was dull without him, Because it felt fresh and brilliant, when to the rose he compared her, and she always kissed him, She did not want to kiss the rose without him, Because the rose, the summer, reminded her of him, She did not feel anything without him, Because her feelings failed to produce sensations without him, She was alive but she was still searching a part of her own self that died in him, And she feels it is a curse to live without him, She no longer sings songs that she used to sing with him, Because her heart no more creates musical beats that it created when she was with him, She still seeks him, nothing else, just him, everywhere she is, she seeks him, Because to her there appears to be nothing left to seek without him, Birds often sing at her window but in them too she seeks him, And the poor birds who always seek her in her eyes, fly away in sadness, because in her eyes, they only see him, just him, She does not look at the sky anymore, because there too she wishes to see him, And the sky always reminds her of him, and the moments spent with him, He has died a long time ago, but she is still with him, still believing she was born for him, So she is living, hoping that someday death will disown him, She is hoping, but not the way she used to hope when she was with him, Because now she only hopes about one thing, because all her desires and wishes begin and end with him, She is there waiting in her chair, looking out of the window waiting for him, Begging time to lead her to him, But the time does not wish to reveal him, For if it does, heavens shall miss him, And in this strife between the heaven who wants to keep him and her heart that wants to reclaim him, Time is the only force that can interfere and the only virtue that for her can recreate him, Tonight when the moon rose in the sky, the stars shone too, she looked at the sky and thought of him, Time watched her from its kingdom called everywhere, and from the heavens it finally stole him, Now they live for each other, and she lives with him, Because finally heaven too believed it is better they be together, because she indeed was born for him, Moreover, time had started procrastinating the affairs of the universe that can neither stop for her nor for him, So they let her have him because immortality felt better, only when she thought of him and when she was with him!

She I had always seen her with him, everywhere she went she went with him, And today she walked the streets alone, and appeared so lonely without him, She did not wish to smile without him, Because she felt disturbed by smiles without him, She often admired the starry nights with him, But now the sky, more than the dying stars, missed her, because she was lost somewhere in the act of missing him, She did not want to try living without him, Because when she was tired of trying she had finally tried, and loved him, She no longer waited for the summer as she used to when she was with him, Because when she had got bored of summer and it's every beautiful thing, she had loved him, She felt the summer rose was dull without him, Because it felt fresh and brilliant when he compared her to the rose, and she always kissed him, She did not want to kiss the rose without him, Because the rose and the summer, reminded her of him, She did not feel anything without him, Because her feelings failed to produce sensations without him, She was alive, but she was still searching a part of her own self that died in him, And now she feels it is a curse to live without him, She no longer sings songs that she used to sing with him, Because her heart no more creates musical beats that it created when she was with him, She still seeks him, nothing else, just him, wherever she might be, she seeks him, Because to her there appears to be nothing left to seek without him, Birds often sing at her window, but in them too she seeks him, And the poor birds who always seek her in her eyes, fly away in sadness, because in her eyes, they only see him, just him, She does not look at the sky anymore, because there too she wishes to see him, And the sky always reminds her of him, and the moments spent with him, He has died a long time ago, but she is still with him, still believing she was born for him, So she is living, hoping that someday death will disown him, She is hoping, but not the way she used to hope when she was with him, Because now she only hopes about one thing, because all her desires and wishes begin and end with him, She is there waiting in her chair, looking out of the window and waiting for him, Begging time to lead her to him, But the time does not wish to reveal him, For if it does, heaven shall miss him, And in this strife between the heaven that wants to keep him, and her heart that wants to reclaim him, Time is the only force that can interfere, and grant her the wish of being with him, Tonight when the moon rose in the sky, the stars shone too, she looked at the sky and thought of him, Time watched her from its kingdom called everywhere, and from the heaven it finally stole him, Now they live for each other, and she lives with him, Because finally heaven too believed it is better they be together, because she indeed was born for him, Moreover, time had started procrastinating the affairs of the universe that can neither stop for her nor for him, So the heaven let her have him, because immortality felt better, only when she thought of him and when she was with him!

I beg you, therefore, to take with you, when you go forth to assume the obligations of American citizenship, as one of the best gifts of your alma mater, a strong and abiding faith in the value and potency of a good conscience and a pure heart. Never yield one iota to those who teach that these are weak and childish things, not needed in the struggle of manhood with the stern realities of life. Interest yourselves in public affairs as a duty of citizenship; but do not surrender your faith to those who discredit and debase politics by scoffing at sentiment and principle, and whose political activity consists in attempts to gain popular support by cunning devices and shrewd manipulation. You will find plenty of these who will smile at your profession of faith and tell you that truth and virtue and honesty and goodness were well enough in the old days when Washington lived, but are not suited to the present size and development of our country and the progress we have made in the art of political management. Be steadfast. The strong and sturdy oak still needs the support of its native earth, and, as it grows in size and spreading branches, its roots must strike deeper into the soil which warmed and fed its first tender sprout. You will be told that the people no longer have any desire for the things you profess. Be not deceived. The people are not dead but sleeping. They will awaken in good time and scourge the moneychangers from their sacred temple.32

scared. Like the doorman where she lived still not admitting to anyone else he was gay. Like the aunt who was conducting a secret pen friend affair with a lifer in prison. Mum used to say Alex had been born with the face of someone who’d signed a confidentiality agreement. Secrets were often seen as dark and deceptive, but sometimes they were simply sad truths that people tried to hide. Perhaps that had been the problem with her third book – readers had worked out that, secretly, her heart wasn’t in it. Her husband’s cheating was one factor that had pushed her to become an author, to forge an independent, successful existence. During the first year or two that followed, the series of her young lovers, a binge of light-hearted romance, had translated into two huge best-sellers, leaving readers clamouring for more of her heart-breaking heroes and arousing paragraphs. Trouble was, that binge eventually left Alex so sated that by the time she came to write the third novel, simply the word ‘romance’ turned her stomach. ‘Mum had been Dad’s life for so long, the two of them were each other’s school sweetheart, so the coffee shop became his life instead,’ Tom continued. ‘My mates loved this place. We’d pile in after school for Coke floats and they’d pester their parents to visit at the weekend. Slowly, by word of mouth, its fried breakfasts gained a reputation. Benedict Cumberbatch came in once when he studied drama at the university. We even served the

The sensation I was feeling on the clifftop was some sort of reverberation in the air itself.… The whale had submerged and I was still feeling something. The strange rhythm seemed now to be coming from behind me, from the land, so I turned to look across the gorge … where my heart stopped.… Standing there in the shade of the tree was an elephant … staring out to sea!… A female with a left tusk broken off near the base.… I knew who she was, who she had to be. I recognized her from a color photograph put out by the Department of Water Affairs and Forestry under the title “The Last Remaining Knysna Elephant.” This was the Matriarch herself.… She was here because she no longer had anyone to talk to in the forest. She was standing here on the edge of the ocean because it was the next, nearest, and most powerful source of infrasound. The underrumble of the surf would have been well within her range, a soothing balm for an animal used to being surrounded by low and comforting frequencies, by the lifesounds of a herd, and now this was the next-best thing. My heart went out to her. The whole idea of this grandmother of many being alone for the first time in her life was tragic, conjuring up the vision of countless other old and lonely souls. But just as I was about to be consumed by helpless sorrow, something even more extraordinary took place.… The throbbing was back in the air. I could feel it, and I began to understand why. The blue whale was on the surface again, pointed inshore, resting, her blowhole clearly visible. The Matriarch was here for the whale! The largest animal in the ocean and the largest living land animal were no more than a hundred yards apart, and I was convinced that they were communicating! In infrasound, in concert, sharing big brains and long lives, understanding the pain of high investment in a few precious offspring, aware of the importance and the pleasure of complex sociality, these rare and lovely great ladies were commiserating over the back fence of this rocky Cape shore, woman to woman, matriarch to matriarch, almost the last of their kind. I turned, blinking away the tears, and left them to it. This was no place for a mere man.… Early afternoon. They were coming to this place, to this tall grass, all along. They will feed here for a while and then, because there’s no water right here, go down to where those egrets are. There’s water there. After they’ve had a good drink, they might make a big loop and come back here again later to feed some more. It will be a one-family-at-a-time choice as the adults decide when to drink and bathe. When elephants are finally ready to make a significant move, everyone points in the same direction. But they do wait until the matriarch decides. “I’ve seen families cued up waiting for half an hour,” comments Vicki, “waiting for the matriarch to signal, ‘Okay.’” And now they go. Makelele, eleven years old, walks with a deep limp. Five years ago he showed up with a broken right rear leg. It must have been agony, and it’s healed at a horrible angle, almost as if his knee faces backward, shaping that leg like the hock on a horse. Yet he is here, surviving with a little help from his friends. “He’s slow,” Vicki acknowledges. “It’s remarkable that he’s managing, but his family seems to wait for him.” Another Amboseli elephant, named Tito, broke a leg when he was a year old, probably from falling into a garbage pit.

Of all the things that sustain a leader over time, love is the most lasting. It's hard to imagine leaders getting up day after day, putting in the long hours and hard work it takes to make extraordinary things happen, without having their hearts in it. The best-kept secret of successful leaders is love: staying in love with leading, with the people who do the work, with what their organizations provide, and with those who honor the organization by using its products and services. Leadership is not an affair of the head. Leadership is an affair of the heart.

Their affair had been three of the most intense, reckless, terrifying, happy, alive months of his life. Like how he imagined being on heroin felt if the high never ended, if every syringe didn’t also contain the possibility of death. They’d been partners at the time, and there had been one week when they’d been on the road together in northern California. Every night, they rented two rooms. Every night, for five days, he stayed with her. They barely slept that week. Couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Couldn’t stop talking when they weren’t making love, and the daylight hours when they had to pretend to be professionals made it all the more beautifully excruciating. He had never felt such a complete lack of self-consciousness around anyone. Even Theresa. Unconditional acceptance. Not just of his body and mind, but also of something more, of something indefinably him. Ethan had never connected with anyone on this level. The most generous blessing and life-destroying curse all wrapped up in the same woman, and despite the pain of the guilt and the knowledge of how it would crush his wife, whom he still loved, the idea of turning away from Kate seemed like a betrayal of his soul. So she had done it for him. On a cold and rainy night in Capitol Hill. In a booth over glasses of Belgian beer in a loud dark bar called the Stumbling Monk. He was ready to leave Theresa. To throw everything away. He had asked Kate there to tell her that and instead she had reached across the scuffed wood of a table worn smooth by ten thousand pint glasses and broken his heart. Kate wasn’t married, had no children. She wasn’t ready to jump off the cliff with him when he had so much pulling him back from the ledge. Two weeks later, she was in Boise, pursuant to her own transfer request. One year later, she was missing in a town in Idaho in the middle of nowhere called Wayward Pines, with Ethan off to find her. Eighteen hundred years later, after almost everything they had known had turned to dust or eroded out of existence, here they stood, facing each other in a toy shop in the last town on earth. For a moment, staring into her face at close range blanked Ethan’s mind. Kate spoke first. “I was wondering if you’d ever drop in.” “I was wondering that myself.” “Congratulations.” “For?” She reached over the counter and tapped his shiny brass star. “Your promotion. Nice to see a familiar face running the show. How are you adjusting to the new job?” She was good. In this short exchange, it was obvious that Kate had mastered the superficial conversational flow that the best of Wayward Pines could achieve without straining. “It’s going well,” he said. “Good to have something steady and challenging, I bet.” Kate smiled, and Ethan couldn’t help hearing the subtext, wondered if everyone did. If it ever went silent. As opposed to running half naked through town while we all try to kill you. “The job’s a good fit,” he said. “That’s great. Really happy for you. So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” “I just wanted to pop in and say hi.” “Well, that was nice of you. How’s your son?” “Ben’s great,” Ethan said.

To discuss spirituality and to be proficient in spirituality are two different subjects. First, talks over that and the second displays the source by itself. All can explore that, while all can be not that spirited source. The conversation can be a false matter, and based on deception, whereas, the spiritual figure's image is simply clear, as a visionary mirror. Such ones adopt a way of the fasting and patience, stay away from worldly affairs, and believe in God perfectly. They do not beg to the world and not sell their prayers. They remain the best supporter of all people and do not backbite, nor appreciate such conduct. They win the heart and mind of the people with their humility, tolerance, forgiveness, love, and sincerity, in their tearful state of passion.

The sensation I was feeling on the clifftop was some sort of reverberation in the air itself.… The whale had submerged and I was still feeling something. The strange rhythm seemed now to be coming from behind me, from the land, so I turned to look across the gorge … where my heart stopped.… Standing there in the shade of the tree was an elephant … staring out to sea!… A female with a left tusk broken off near the base.… I knew who she was, who she had to be. I recognized her from a color photograph put out by the Department of Water Affairs and Forestry under the title “The Last Remaining Knysna Elephant.” This was the Matriarch herself.… She was here because she no longer had anyone to talk to in the forest. She was standing here on the edge of the ocean because it was the next, nearest, and most powerful source of infrasound. The underrumble of the surf would have been well within her range, a soothing balm for an animal used to being surrounded by low and comforting frequencies, by the lifesounds of a herd, and now this was the next-best thing. My heart went out to her. The whole idea of this grandmother of many being alone for the first time in her life was tragic, conjuring up the vision of countless other old and lonely souls. But just as I was about to be consumed by helpless sorrow, something even more extraordinary took place.… The throbbing was back in the air. I could feel it, and I began to understand why. The blue whale was on the surface again, pointed inshore, resting, her blowhole clearly visible. The Matriarch was here for the whale! The largest animal in the ocean and the largest living land animal were no more than a hundred yards apart, and I was convinced that they were communicating! In infrasound, in concert, sharing big brains and long lives, understanding the pain of high investment in a few precious offspring, aware of the importance and the pleasure of complex sociality, these rare and lovely great ladies were commiserating over the back fence of this rocky Cape shore, woman to woman, matriarch to matriarch, almost the last of their kind. I turned, blinking away the tears, and left them to it. This was no place for a mere man.