Ali Cross Quotes

Ali Bell doesn't play hide-and-seek," Lucas said. "She plays hide-and-pray-I-don't-find-you." Mackenzie smiled. "When Ali Bell gives you the finger, she's telling you how many seconds you have to live." Cole chuckled, saying, "Fear of spiders is arachnophobia, and fear of tight spaces is claustrophobia, but fear of Ali Bell is just called logic." "Oh, oh." Kat clapped excitedly. "There used to be a street named after Ali Bell, but it was changed because nobody crosses Ali Bell and lives. True story.

And it was always the stories that needed the telling that gave us the rope we could cross any river with. They balanced us high above any crevasse. They made us be natural acrobats. They made us brave. They met us well. They changed us. It was in their nature to.

I don’t want to be work. I don’t want you to feel that I’m work.” “Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you’re not worth people’s time and effort, and that if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you. That’s not how love works, Elsie.

Edges are magic, too; there's a kind of forbidden magic on the borders of things, always a ceremony of crossing over, even if we ignore it or are unaware of it.

We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world—a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just Whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. . . . No redeeming social value. Just whores. Get out of our way, or we’ll kill you. Well, shit on that dumbness. George W. Bush does not speak for me or my son or my mother or my friends or the people I respect in this world. We didn’t vote for these cheap, greedy little killers who speak for America today—and we will not vote for them again in 2002. Or 2004. Or ever. Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush? They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us—they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.

Nina sat down next to Alys. “Would you um … like some tea?” “With honey?” Alys asked. “I, uh … I think we have sugar?” “I only like tea with honey and lemon.” Nina looked like she might tell Alys exactly where she could put her honey and lemon, so Matthias said hurriedly, “How would you like a chocolate biscuit?” “Oh, I love chocolate!” Nina’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t remember saying you could give away my biscuits.” “It’s for a good cause,” Matthias said, retrieving the tin. He’d purchased the biscuits in the hope of getting Nina to eat more. “Besides, you’ve barely touched them.” “I’m saving them for later,” said Nina with a sniff. “And you should not cross me when it comes to sweets.” Jesper nodded. “She’s like a dessert-hoarding dragon.

What if . . . instead of saying, this border divides these places. We said, this border unites these places. This border holds together these two really interesting different places. What if we declared border crossings places where, listen, when you crossed them, you yourself became doubly possible.

He crossed the floor to start rifling through one of the supply chests, pulling free a small silver bottle and ripping open the top. "Is this liquor? Because I want to be completely intoxicated when Abba gets wind that his children are plotting a coup in a fucking closet." "That's weapons polish," Ali said quickly

Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you’re not worth people’s time and effort, and that if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you.” He says it matter-of-fact, like he’s Archimedes of Syracuse repeating his findings about upward buoyant forces to the acropolis for the tenth time. “That’s not how love works, Elsie. But don’t worry for now. I’ll show you.

I was through with sleep. I didn't like what it brought me.

I do have a heart, you see. I’ve got plenty of heart. I’m a fucking sentimental guy – once you get to know me. Show me a hurt puppy, or a long-distance telephone service commercial, or a film retrospective of Ali fights or Lou Gehrig’s last speech and I’ll weep real tears. I am a bastard, when crossed, though, no question.

Can we delay bloodshed for at least a few days? I didn't cross a cursed lake in a giant wooden bowl so I could be beheaded for treason before I had a chance to sample some royal cuisine." "That's not the punishment for treason," Ali murmured. "What's the punishment for treason then?" "Being trampled to death by a karkadann." Lubayd paled and this time, Ali knew it wasn't due to seasickness. "Oh," he choked out. "Don't you come from an inventive family?

It’s better to care too much than too little. Every single time.

Who does vote for these dishonest shitheads? Who among us can be happy and proud of having all this innocent blood on our hands? Who are these swine? These flag-sucking half-wits who get fleeced and fooled by stupid little rich kids like George Bush? They are the same ones who wanted to have Muhammad Ali locked up for refusing to kill gooks. They speak for all that is cruel and stupid and vicious in the American character. They are the racists and hate mongers among us -- they are the Ku Klux Klan. I piss down the throats of these Nazis. And I am too old to worry about whether they like it or not. Fuck them.

I LOVE YOU Don't just 'think' it. Say it before it's too late - The burden of regret is a heavy cross to bear

He laughed, the sound like boulders falling down a cliff face.

I watch him scratch his—big—neck, then cross his—wide—biceps on his—broad—chest.

Hypothesis: People who cross me will come to regret it.

BENEVOLENCE - When the sobbing of SELF PITY crosses over into the WEEPING FOR MANKIND

Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you?

He is very dangerous. Do not cross him.” What every girl wants to hear ten feet from the altar, especially when the hard line of her groom’s shoulders already looks cross.

Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you are not worth people’ time and effort and if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you.

What are you doing, Alys?" He'd turned to watch her, and his expression was disbelieving. She'd emerged from the winding staircase to stand in the open, but she hadn't yet been able to make her feet move further. "Facing my fears," she said in a wobbly voice. "Courting death?" "Are you going to kill me?" "The lightning might." "Are you you going to kill me?" she persisted, flinching when the thunder rumbled again. "Would you ride a horse for me?" he countered. "Yes." "Would you walk across this parapet to come to me?" "Yes." And shes started forward, shivering as the rain lashed down around them. She halted just out of reach, lifting her head and throwing back her shoulders with quiet determination. "Would you come to me?" she asked him. "Yes," he said. And he crossed the last few feet of the parapet and pulled her into his arms, kissing her mouth.

Many of the politicians in Delhi and Karachi, too, had once fought together against the British; they had social and family ties going back decades. They did not intend to militarize the border between them with pillboxes and rolls of barbed wire. They laughed at the suggestion that Punjabi farmers might one day need visas to cross from one end of the province to the other. Pakistan would be a secular, not an Islamic, state, its founder, Mohammad Ali Jinnah, promised: Hindus and Sikhs would be free to practice their faiths and would be treated equally under the law. India would be better off without two disgruntled corners of the subcontinent, its people were told, less

Because at the end of the day, your fresh-snow-white skin means that you get to walk around without having some white woman cross the street to get away from you, clutching her bag a little tighter because she thinks you’re going to rob her,

You lie, Elsie. Every single one of your interactions is a lie.” He crosses his arms and looms. We’re supposed to be on a tour of the department. I feel like he’s taking a tour of me. “Is this what you do with Greg, too? You code-switch a conjured, nonexistent persona he fell in love with?

From my travels across the imaginary map, I came to realise that there are two types of cities in the world. The first are those you cannot penetrate. Even when you’ve entered this type of city, you are always on the outside, constantly circling its walls. You are always at a distance, never crossing its threshold. The other type, meanwhile, you can never leave. Once you enter, you remain imprisoned there forever. Wherever you go, you are still there. You might combine it with other cities or make it part of bigger ones. You can add cities to it, like adding another layer to a cake, but you can’t get away.

Misery Lark? No need to be careful. She’s not particularly dangerous, so feel free to cross her. What is she gonna do? Chuck her lint roller at you? I snort out a soft laugh, and that’s a mistake. Because my future husband hears it, and finally turns to me. My stomach drops. My step falters. The murmurs quiet.

I don’t want to be work. I don’t want you to feel that I’m work.” “Somewhere along the way your wires got crossed. Your brain decided that you’re not worth people’s time and effort, and that if you ask for anything, they won’t just say no, they’ll also leave you. That’s not how love works, Elsie..."That's not how love works, Elsie. But don't worry for now. I'll show you.

There is no way I’m going home with you! Have you lost your mind?” His face lit in understanding. “Ahhhh…okay. So this is the part where you have the snit fit.” He shifted on the bed, making a show of getting more comfortable. “Sorry. It’s been a while. I wasn’t prepared.” He crossed his thick arms over his chest and made a shooing motion with four fingers while holding his bicep. “Carry on. I didn’t mean to interrupt.

I’d laughed when I’d seen Walter Benjamin’s name, because, much like my brother used to shout when we were kids in the back of the car and we were driving south, Ten points to the first person who can see the Forth Road Bridge, or my father when he was teaching me to drive, Ten points if you can hit that woman crossing the road, what you used to say when you’d make me come with you to those boring conferences was, Ten points to the first person who hears someone say the words Walter Benjamin.

George watches a dog cross the square through the noise and stop to sniff at something then amble off again as if nothing unusual is happening, so maybe something like this just happens here every week. Then, above the heads of everyone in the city, above the highest-tossed of the flags, church bells here and there announce midnight and as if they’ve been enchanted the next team after that to do a routine does it without drums and bugles but with its musicians humming instead, in tuneful voices and with a gentleness that seems sweet and absurd after the great din of the teams that have gone before. If only all ceremonials and pomp got hummed like that, her mother says.

Every time he moved, with every breath he took, it seemed the man was carried along by iridescent orange and black wings. She tried to convey how it was like travelling through the inside of a living body at times, the joints and folds of the earth, the liver-smooth flowstone, the helictites threading upward like synapses in search of a connection. She found it beautiful. Surely God would not have invented such a place as His spiritual gulag. It took Ali’s breath away. Sometimes, once men found out she was a nun, they would dare her in some way. What made Ike different was his abandon. He had a carelessness in his manner that was not reckless, but was full of risk. Winged. He was pursuing her, but not faster than she was pursuing him, and it made them like two ghosts circling. She ran her fingers along his back, and the bone and the muscle and hadal ink and scar tissue and the callouses from his pack straps astonished her. This was the body of a slave. Down from the Egypt, eye of the sun, in front of the Sinai, away from their skies like a sea inside out, their stars and planets spearing your soul, their cities like insects, all shell and mechanism, their blindness with eyes, their vertiginous plains and mind-crushing mountains. Down from the billions who had made the world in their own image. Their signature could be a thing of beauty. But it was a thing of death. Ali got one good look, then closed her eyes to the heat. In her mind, she imagined Ike sitting in the raft across from her wearing a vast grin while the pyre reflected off the lenses of his glacier glasses. That put a smile on her face. In death, he had become the light. There comes a time on every big mountain when you descend the snows and cross a border back to life. It is a first patch of green grass by the trail, or a waft of the forests far below, or the trickle of snowmelt braiding into a stream. Always before, whether he had been gone an hour or a week or much longer – and no matter how many mountains he had left behind – it was, for Ike, an instant that registered in his whole being. Ike was swept with a sense not of departure, but of advent. Not of survival. But of grace.

If you objectively look at life as a whole, it’s a daunting and impossible process. There are just far too many obstacles for one person alone to conquer. The world sucks. People are judged rather than accepted. Hate spreads far more easily than love. Power and money are valued more than morality. Insecurities are preyed upon rather than quelled.” His intense gaze never left mine when he asked, “Why would any of us want to live like that?” I didn’t have an answer for him because I sure as hell didn’t. And then he set his folder aside, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and saved my life. “Because life isn’t lived as a whole. You aren’t given a hundred years all at once. Time is doled out one very manageable second at a time. Stop looking at the big picture and find happiness in the seconds.

I am trying to stop being mystified. Important to concentrate on good hard facts. But which facts? One week before mu eighteenth birthday, on August 8th, did Pakistani troops in civilian clothing cross the cease-fire line in Kashmir and infiltrate the Indian sector, or did they not? In Delhi, Prime Minister Shastri announced “massive infiltration…to subvert the state:; but here is Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, Pakistan’s Foreign Minister, with his riposte: “We categorically deny any involvement in the rising against tyranny by the indigenous people of Kashmir”.

now,” Ali said. “I won’t be able to talk to her about any of this until after school is over for the day.” “Don’t,” Stu advised. “Let me get a little better handle on what’s going on before you discuss it with her. In fact, don’t discuss it with her at all. Once we have her thumbprint she’ll have access to all her grandmother’s financial dealings and so will we without anyone crossing over into forbidden territory.” Hacking into unauthorized servers was something Stu Ramey did very well, but there were always risks involved, and hacking into financial accounts when it wasn’t necessary was stupid.

The life of the world is but a bridge we must all cross over to the Hereafter (from Faith versus Materialism)

On the Birthday of Murtaza Bhutto My nephew drives on a route that crosses alongside 70 Clifton every day since I am in Karachi. It reminds me that when I was a working journalist. I visited the last 70 Clifton in 1977, the resident of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto. Later, Benazir Bhutto and then Murtaza Bhutto and Fatima Bhutto, during the driving towards Karachi Press Club, I asked my nephew to stop near 70 Clifton, so that we can click a few pics of it. Today is Murtaza Bhutto's Birthday, who became the victim of armed-evil and murdered. I stood outside 70 Clifton, remembering inside the conversations, discussions, and delightful atmosphere, in the Bhutto era. I felt sadness and pain, imagining that time when pleasure, joy, and mob walked around it, but today it was dead-quiet and displayed sadness on its walls, the Birthday existed; however, the figure held that day was not there, and his daughter far away from Pakistan, in exile-life, though, the justice has failed but not the God.

Miles’s pause had lasted just a little too long. Genially taking his turn to fill it, Illyan turned to Ekaterin. “Speaking of weddings, Madame Vorsoisson, how long has Miles been courting you? Have you awarded him a date yet? Personally, I think you ought to string him along and make him work for it.” A chill flush plunged to the pit of Miles’s stomach. Alys bit her lip. Even Galeni winced. Olivia looked up in confusion. “I thought we weren’t supposed to mention that yet.” Kou, next to her, muttered, “Hush, lovie.” Lord Dono, with malicious Vorrutyer innocence, turned to her and inquired, “What weren’t we supposed to mention?” “Oh, but if Captain Illyan said it, it must be all right,” Olivia concluded. Captain Illyan had his brains blown out last year, thought Miles. He is not all right. All right is precisely what he is not . . . Her gaze crossed Miles’s. “Or maybe . . .” Not, Miles finished silently for her. Ekaterin

itself. Up next, Mr. Yang’s wife, June, testified in a halting voice about hearing an argument on her front porch that day. As far as she could tell, she said, Alex had been aggressive from the moment he’d arrived, and then rude and dismissive when she’d come outside to find her husband unconscious on the sidewalk. Alex’s heart clenched as she spoke. He’d been giving CPR to Mr. Yang when his wife came out, and yes, it was entirely possible that he’d come off as rude in the moment. Still, it was hard to watch this woman in so much pain, even as she testified against him. If nothing else, the fact that she hadn’t actually

Fate isn’t always the good stuff, Remi. Sometimes the path provided isn’t a straight line but rather a journey filled with obstacles and detours. It took the unimaginable for me to find you, but I will never stop being grateful that there was even one single junction in time in which our paths crossed.

Cheddar Man’ had ‘dark to black skin’, curly dark hair, and blue eyes (see Figure 5). He was part of an original population that had been the first settlers who had crossed from continental Europe to Britain at the end of the last ice age, and 10 per cent of white British people alive today are descended from this group.

I've brought you a gift,' I said Noah's wild gaze turned to me. 'You can't do this!' I shushed him and ran my hand down his cheek. 'It was never the dark you were afraid, was it, Noah? It was the things you knew dwelled in it.' Alys reached out her dark-stained hands, and I thrust Noah towards her. She grinned, pouncing on him like a cat on a mouse. His scream was the last thing I heard as I left.

I thank God for you every single day of my life, Alex, and I thank him for letting me raise you, and see you turn into the man you did. But I want you to think about why you came to me in the first place, what was going on between your poor parents before they died. Simply put, Jannie and Damon and Ali deserve better than you had. ...Don't make them orphans, Alex.

An active imagination is a wonderful thing. But it can also be a burden, if you focus too much on the dark side of the street.

Alis looked me over from head to toe. 'You think a bit of rope snapping in my face will keep me from breaking your bones?' My blood went cold. 'You think that will do anything against one of us?' I might have kept apologising were it not for the sneer she gave me. I crossed my arms. 'It was a warning bell to give me time to run. Not a trap.' She seemed poised to spit on me, but then her sharp brown eyes narrowed. 'You can outrun us, either, girl.' 'I know,' I said, my heart calming at last. 'But at least I wouldn't face my death unaware.' Alis barked out a laugh. 'My master gave his word that you could live here- live, not die. We will obey.

it struck me with the force of certainty that I wasn’t the only one of us to be affected this way: that Theo was feeling it too, and this was why he was so cross. And Jonathan? Was he too infected with this deadly inertia? And where was it coming from?

(Bacon. Pig. Cops are pigs. Get it? Freaking hilarious, no?)

I met Ali in the refugee camp while covering the famine and cholera epidemic that erupted in Yemen in 2017. Two years before, Ali decided to leave his homeland “forever.” He managed to get onboard a small boat which took him to a tanker ship that would carry him and three hundred other refugees to Djibouti. The night of his escape, Ali’s skiff pulled next to the towering tanker. The tanker crew lowered a basket to raise him more than forty feet onto the deck. During that hoist, rising vertically above the sea, the basket lifted Ali to an epiphany. “The crazy people do not have the height dimension!” he explained. “They have only two dimensions!” Ali presented his right palm, flat as a drafting table. “The crazy people have only length and width,” he said. He drew the two dimensions in imaginary lines on his outstretched palm. Then, with his left hand, the one holding a phantom pencil, he drew a vertical line up from his palm, stopping at the level of his eyes. “You must have the vertical dimension to be truly human,” he said. The imaginary vertical line stood balanced on his palm. Ali’s eyes crossed slightly as he focused on the point of his invisible pencil. The line rose, like a cable lifting a basket, into a third dimension beyond humanity’s binary divisions: beyond the choice of Sunni or Shiite, Muslim or Christian, political left or right. Ali was mad. Maybe the war pushed him into insanity. Maybe it was the torturing heat. But within insanity, there can be a kind of clarity unavailable to those who consider themselves sane. In his escape from Yemen, swaying in a basket in the night, Ali saw something—something that looked to the rising draftsman like compassion, forgiveness and empathy—a third dimension, the dimension of peace.

Yoda wasn’t wrong when he said, “There is no try, only do.

On the Birthday of Murtaza Bhutto My nephew drives on a route that crosses alongside 70 Clifton every day since I am in Karachi. It reminds me that I was then a working journalist. I visited the last 70 Clifton in 1977, the resident of Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto, later, Benazir Bhutto, and then Murtaza Bhutto and Fatima Bhutto during the driving towards Karachi Press Club; I asked my nephew to stop near 70 Clifton so that we can click a few pics of it. Today is Murtaza Bhutto's Birthday, and he became the victim of armed evil and murder. I stood outside 70 Clifton, remembering inside the conversations, discussions, and delightful atmosphere in the Bhutto era. I felt sadness and pain, imagining that time when pleasure, joy, and mob walked around it, but today it was dead-quiet and displayed sadness on its walls; the Birthday existed; however, the figure held that day was not there, and his daughter far away from Pakistan in exile-life, though the justice has failed, not the God.

This particular shop uses three types of Sicilian pistachios and slow roasts them for twenty-four hours. Forty-seven judges from a gelato university crossed the world trying to find the absolute best, and they picked this one. So how could I not do that?" "'Gelato university'?" He chuckles. "I know, right? I definitely missed my calling," I reply, and I love how his laugh gets a little deeper. "But at least you didn't miss the gelato." "Exactly!" I smile, relishing the lightness between us once again. "What else is on your list?" he asks. "Definitely more lentils, and this region is known for truffles, so I have to do that. But they're also known for their meats here, which is interesting. Obviously the cured meats we're used to when we think of Italian charcuteries is here, but also a lot of roasted pork as well, and boar. And sausage! I read a recipe for amatriciana with sausage instead of guanciale. Umbria's actually one of the few regions of Italy without any coastline---" "So you did no research at all before coming?" he says, sarcasm peppered in with a smile. "Please, I'm just getting warmed up. I haven't even gotten into the olive oil varietals. And pesto! That pesto we had at the dinner last night on the lamb chops--- that pesto that has marjoram and walnuts instead of the one we're used to from Liguria, with basil and pine nuts.

Nope, Ali’s waiting on you. He’s in there watching some cockamamie show about a dysfunctional family that makes duck calls.

Ordinary love ages and dies quickly, but two beings with infinite imagination who feel they have long been travelling separate roads that were destined eventually to cross, two people each carrying a vast amount of pain as well as creative gifts they want to share with one another … these two immerse themselves in an endless sea that only death can interrupt.

To administer the ongoing rapid cycling process, Gilfoy created a small office led by Seema Dhanoa, the “director for simplicity.” This manager led a three-person team that included a senior consultant, Christina Fai, whose job it was to be a key facilitator and coach others at Vancity to lead the methodology, and a consultant, Ali Anderson, to coordinate workshops, capture ideas, manage the details, and work on the implementation of the rapid cycles. Rather than staff the team with permanent employees who again would come to “own” simplicity, she rotated employees in and out of the team on temporary assignments to facilitate workshops. Team members were volunteers selected on the basis of their cross-organizational experience, ability to facilitate discussions, ability to learn new processes, and overall curiosity. As they left and went on to other assignments, they would take their simplification experiences with them, helping to build a simplification mindset, competency, and culture within the organization.

The panoramic plethora of responses to Shakespeare by Western and Eastern critics is strongly indicative of the fact that the Bard crosses all nationalities and deserves to be called a global writer. That is why he is easily appreciated, manipulated, translated, adapted, and interpreted by everyone, everywhere.

What did I do, to bring this on myself ? Just tell me what I did, where I stepped, who I crossed… Something.’ ... ‘There’s no why. No how. Things happen, and all we can do is try to live with them.’ ‘How am I supposed to live with a body made of glass? I can’t accept it.’ ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said softly, ‘what you accept and what you don’t. The glass is there regardless.

Eddie said. “I

Eddie