Alexis Rose Quotes

The light that moves is not the light. The light that stays is not the light. The true light rose countless sleeps ago. It rose, even in the mouth of birds.

Pain carved through her belly and a great roaring filled her ears as the shadows rose around her. The last thing Immanuelle saw, before the night swallowed her, was the bright of the moon, winking through the trees.

Under the absolute sway of an individual despot the body was attacked in order to subdue the soul, and the soul escaped the blows which were directed against it and rose superior to the attempt; but such is not the course adopted by tyranny in democratic republics; there the body is left free, and the soul is enslaved.

Yes, I hate blown glass art and I happen to live in the blown glass art capital of the world, Seattle, Washington. Being a part of the Seattle artistic community, I often get invited to galleries that are displaying the latest glass sculptures by some amazing new/old/mid-career glass blower. I never go. Abstract art leaves me feeling stupid and bored. Perhaps it’s because I grew up inside a tribal culture, on a reservation where every song and dance had specific ownership, specific meaning, and specific historical context. Moreover, every work of art had use—art as tool: art to heal; art to honor, art to grieve. I think of the Spanish word carnal, defined as, ‘Of the appetites and passions of the body.’ And I think of Gertrude Stein’s line, ‘Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.’ When asked what that line meant, Stein said, ‘The poet could use the name of the thing and the thing was really there.’ So when I say drum, the drum is really being pounded in this poem; when I say fancydancer, the fancydancer is really spinning inside this poem; when I say Indian singer, that singer is really wailing inside this poem. But when it comes to abstract art—when it comes to studying an organically shaped giant piece of multi-colored glass—I end up thinking, ‘That looks like my kidney. Anybody’s kidney, really. And frankly, there can be no kidney-shaped art more beautiful—more useful and closer to our Creator—than the kidney itself. And beyond that, this glass isn’t funny. There’s no wit here. An organic shape is not inherently artistic. It doesn’t change my mind about the world. It only exists to be admired. And, frankly, if I wanted to only be in admiration of an organic form, I’m going to watch beach volleyball. I’m always going to prefer the curve of a woman’s hip or a man’s shoulder to a piece of glass that has some curves.

A few days earlier, Chess and Thomas had driven to Spokane for a cheap hamburger. They walked in downtown Spokane and stumbled onto a drunk couple arguing. "Get the fuck away from me!" the drunk woman yelled at her drunk husband, who squeezed his hand into a fist like he meant to hit her. Thomas and Chess flinched, then froze, transported back to all of those drunken arguments they'd witnessed and survived. The drunk couple in downtown Spokane pulled at each other's clothes and hearts, but they were white people. Chess and Thomas knew that white people hurt each other, too. Chess knew that white people felt pain just like Indians, Nerve endings, messages to the brain, reflexes. The doctor swung hammer against knee, and the world collapsed. "You fucker!" the white woman yelled at her husband, who opened his hands and held them out to his wife. An offering. That hand would not strike her. He pleaded with his wife until she fell back into his arms. That white woman and man held each other while Chess and Thomas watched. A hundred strangers walked by and never noticed any of it. After that, Chess and Thomas had sat in the van in a downtown parking lot. Thomas began to weep, deep ragged tears that rose along his rib cage, filled his mouth and nose, and exploded out.

Do we have an actual plan?'     'Certainly.' She sounded faintly affronted. 'We shall attend the salon in the guise of Mr. Lutrell and his faithful secretary. That's you. Then I'll draw the subject aside in order to ask her some questions about her latest work and use my art, guile, and intense personal charisma to lead her into confessing any role she might have had in the blackmailing of Eirene.'     'That doesn't sound like a plan, so much as a sequence of conversations with tremendous scope to go wrong.'     She rose imperiously from the chaise. 'I am the sorceress Shaharazad Hass. I never go wrong. I merely achieve things in a manner I had not intended.

La mémoire des femmes ressemble à ces tables anciennes dont elles se servent pour coudre. Il y a des tiroirs secrets ; il y en a, fermés depuis longtemps et qui ne peuvent s'ouvrir, il y a des fleurs séchées qui ne sont plus que de la poussière de roses ; des écheveaux emmêlés, quelquefois des épingles. La mémoire de Marie était très complaisante ; elle devait lui servir à broder son passé.

Problems,” lamented Duncan. “They never seem to end.” “Do they even end in the first place?” Duncan grimaced, “If only we know when they begin, we might be able to nip it in the bud before it putrefies.” “Not everyone recognizes the bud when it manifests itself,” interjected Juliette. “Quite true,” agreed Duncan. “But what is life without hurdles?” Juliette remarked, philosophical. “Some of us simple folk prefer smooth sailing lives,” he deadpanned. “What can I say?” she smiled, shrugging. “To each his own.

When it comes down to Life, Death, or Love you must Live to Love, or Die trying.

When it comes down to Life, Death, or Love you must Live to Love or Die trying.

When someone shows you their true colors, run.

Then it’s not a waste of time. Believe me, Rose, God hears you. It’s just that sometimes the answer doesn’t come right away. Or sometimes the answer is simply no.” “It is?” “Yes. No one gets everything they want.

Deacon pressed his lips together. “That bad, huh?” “I didn’t say it was bad.” He arched a brow. “I know you, Aiden. Your disappointment—in yourself, not Alex—is written all over you. It’s practically dripping from your grubby face.” My brows rose. “I’m grubby?” “You’re kind of gross. Might want to think about shaving, too, unless you’re going for the homeless look with no chance of getting laid.” I laughed and stood. “I’ll keep that in mind.

Writing in 1831, the greatest observer of America and democracy, Alexis de Tocqueville, summed up the threat of democratic despotism in terms that sound shockingly, eerily prescient: Under the absolute government of one alone, despotism struck the body crudely, so as to reach the soul; and the soul, escaping from those blows, rose gloriously above it; but in democratic republics, tyranny does not proceed in this way; it leaves the body and goes straight for the soul. The master no longer says to it: You shall think as I do or you shall die; he says: You are free not to think as I do; your life, your goods, everything remains to you; but from this day on, you are a stranger among us. You shall keep your privileges in the city, but they will become useless to you; for if you crave the vote of your fellow citizens, they will not grant it to you, and if you demand only their esteem, they will still pretend to refuse it to you. You shall remain among men, but you shall lose your rights of humanity. When you approach those like you, they shall flee you as being impure; and those who believe in your innocence, even they shall abandon you, for one would flee them in their turn. Go in peace, I leave you your life, but I leave it to you worse than death.37

question: “What is one negative belief about yourself in light of what has happened to you?” I’m crazy.—Kylie I don’t matter.—Denise I am unlovable.—Madelyn I’m sloppy seconds.—Alexis I’m damaged goods.—Lynette I’m not sexy enough.—Quanesha I am tired of being his porn substitute.—Lucy I’m willing to humiliate myself to keep my commitment.—Benya Overweight and out of shape, I will never please a man.—Melissa I am invisible—not a soul knows what I am dealing with.—Sarenna I’m on husband number two. I can’t compete—not then and not now.—Paige It’s my fault; he had an affair because I’m too controlling.—Jeri Lyn I deserve what happened to me. I am paying for sins in my past.—Gloria I’m too old and can never measure up to what my husband has seen.—Rose I am not a good enough housekeeper. I am not good enough in bed.—Dorothy Anne I’m a horrible person. I can’t tell anyone what I’ve done to keep him happy.—Eliana I’m too critical and angry. She must be sweet. No wonder he doesn’t want me.—Andrea I can’t trust anyone. The person I trusted the most . . . lied over and over and over again.—Jillian

I loved the love and i still love of it, because it's a light break in endless darkness, the lake that awaits you on the desert, the rose that cannot wither, the warm nest of birds. Love, between hello and goodbye we never are alone.

And Viola, helpless in the face of a desolation that felt like rage, swept on, “Never taking no for an answer. Always thinking you can fix everything and everyone. So endlessly convinced you know best.” “But I usually do know best,” offered Lady Marleigh in a small voice. “You know nothing” – Viola’s voice rose in a wild shriek – “You know nothing of me.” “I know – that you are family. And I know that I want you to be happy.