Anatomy A Love Story Quotes

My heart is yours, Hazel Sinnett," Jack said. "Forever. Beating or still.

It was an impossible situation, a trick of society as a whole: force women to live at the mercy of whichever man wants them but shame them for anything they might do to get a man to want them.

The Anatomy of Conflict: If there is no communication then there is no respect. If there is no respect then there is no caring. If there is no caring then there is no understanding. If there is no understanding then there is no compassion. If there is no compassion then there is no empathy. If there is no empathy then there is no forgiveness. If there is no forgiveness then there is no kindness. If there is no kindness then there is no honesty. If there is no honesty then there is no love. If there is no love then God doesn't reside there. If God doesn't reside there then there is no peace. If there is no peace then there is no happiness. If there is no happiness ----then there IS CONFLICT BECAUSE THERE IS NO COMMUNICATION!

Someone should tell you you're beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year's, and on the eigth of August, just because.

My beating heart is still yours, the letter said, and I’ll be waiting for you.

What were miracles, but science that man didn’t yet understand? And didn’t that make it all the more miraculous that the secrets of the universe were out there, codes one might decipher if smart enough, tenacious enough?

Audiences love both the feeling part (reliving the life) and the thinking part (figuring out the puzzle) of a story. Every good story has both.

Hazel Sinnett, you are the most miraculous creature I have ever come across, and I am going to be thinking about how beautiful you are until the day I die.

There are always women behind the scenes, pulling the strings, Hazel. We are invisible to history, but we also survive.

Perhaps you could take only one book with you to read at the gardens. After all, you'll only be there for the afternoon." Hazel choked on her tea. "One book? One book? Now you're being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? It what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.

Let him spend every night in the dirt if it meant getting his mornings with her.

What were miracles, but science that man didn't yet understand?

All progress requires human sacrifice.

there’s no hell worse than a world in which I would see you grow old and lose you and then be forced to live another day.

Mortui vivos docent; the dead teach the living.

Do not play games with your future. It permits the possibility of losing

Dead bodies are never going to bite you. They're never going to do anything to you. It's living things that hurt you.

She had gotten love, and that was more than plenty of people got on this planet.

She could say she had a headache. Or she was feeling faint. No one seemed to ask too many questions about a woman feeling faint, nor about the broader cultural phenomenon of an entire society of women who seemed to swoon en masse.

IT’S THE LESSON YOUNG GIRLS EVERYWHERE were taught their entire lives—don’t be seduced by the men you meet, protect your virtue—until, of course, their entire lives depended on seduction by the right man. It was an impossible situation, a trick of society as a whole: force women to live at the mercy of whichever man wants them but shame them for anything they might do to get a man to want them. Passivity was the ultimate virtue. Heaven forbid you turn into someone like Hyacinth Coldwater. Be patient, be silent, be beautiful and untouched as an orchid, and then and only then will your reward come: a bell jar to keep you safe.

Love is nothing but the prolonged agony of waiting for it to end. The fear of losing the ones we love makes us do selfish and foolish and cruel things. The only freedom is freedom from love, and once your love is gone, it can be perfect, crystallized in your memory forever.

Complicated love stories are the best kind.

You will always have to watch people you love die,” Marie-Anne said. “Do you think mortality protects you from that?

I've taken you for a lot of things, but a fool was never one of them.

What were miracles, but science that man didn’t yet understand?

Being a woman had closed many doors

Morte magis metuenda senectus. Do you know Latin, Miss Sinnett?” “Only some, I’m sorry to say. Is it—er—something like, ‘We fear old age—’?” “‘Old age should rather be feared than death.

Will you still love me even if all of England despises me?" Hazel said. "We're Scots, Hazel," Jack said, a smile extending across his face. "If England hates you, we can hate them right back.

Being a woman had closed many doors to Hazel Sinnett, but it had also revealed to her a valuable tool in her arsenal: women were almost entirely overlooked as people, which gave her the power of invisibility. People saw women, they saw the dresses women wore on public walks through the park, and the gloved hands they rested on their suitors’ elbows at the theater, but women were never threats.

We men fear death. Death! Gruesome and terrible! Inevitable and senseless! We dance towards her as we might a beautiful woman and Death waltzes back towards us, beckoning, always beckoning. Once the veil is pierced, we never return.

I believe you shall do great things." He said it like he said almost everything, just a statement of fact.

There's no hell worse than a world in which I would see you grow old and loose you and then be forced to live another day.

No one has ever told me that I'm beautiful before," Hazel said. She hadn't realized it was true until she said it out loud. Jack stood with his hands on either side of her face and stared at her for a few heartbeats. Then he leaned in and softly kissed both her eyelids. "Someone should tell you that you're beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year's, and on the eighth of August, just because." He kissed her lips once more, gently, and then pulled away and gazed into her eyes. "Hazel Sinnett, you are the most miraculous creature I have ever come across, and I am going to be thinking about how beautiful you are until the day I die.

The physician works with his mind. The surgeon works with his hands, and his brute strength.

Dead bodies are never going to bite you. They’re never going to do anything to you. It’s living things that hurt you.

the house could be lonely. But loneliness, like frost, usually melted in the morning sun.

Passivity was the ultimate virtue

Every one of us deserves to die,' Dr. Beecham said. 'It is our only birthright.

That’s the thing about this sort of thing: a sharp bit of hurt now to save a lot of hurt adding up over time.

His smiles felt like secrets shared from across the room every time.

Live long enough and the past becomes an endless parade of mistakes and things that might have been done better or differently. What can we do but continue on, and try again?

From a raging fire that threatened to turn Hazel’s world to ash, the longing instead dampened to a small flame, a flickering candle visible only in the corner of her eyes. You can’t speak to him now, but he’s there if you need him, the candle said. He’s just there, only just out of view. That was the real way she survived losing Jack: by pretending that she hadn’t lost him at all, and that at any moment she might walk up to the big house and see him smiling up at her over tea, see the way his canine teeth extended past the others and overlapped, see his messy hair, which had always contained a hidden pocket of sawdust.

One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.” “Two books then, miss.

I used to be so confident. That’s the funny thing: I used to think that I knew everything, that I could do anything. And then you see it firsthand, and you realize how thin the line is between everything being all right and everything being ruined forever and you just become suddenly aware that you know nothing. I’m just a silly little girl playing dress-up and pretending.

women were almost entirely overlooked as people, which gave her the power of invisibility. People saw women, they saw the dresses women wore on public walks through the park, and the gloved hands they rested on their suitors’ elbows at the theater, but women were never threats.

Be patient, be silent, be beautiful and untouched as an orchid, and then and only then will your reward come: a bell jar to keep you safe.

My heart is yours, Hazel Sinnett', Jack said. 'Forever. Beating or still.

I can survive a hanging and a stabbing and shipwreck and starvation. And I still wouldn't dare to do anything as foolish as standing up Hazel Sinnett.

Yeah,” Hazel responded with the most masculine swagger she could manage. “I do. And the ladies seem to like it just fine.

Your success is their success, and your failure their failure.

IT WAS AMAZINGLY EASY TO DIE IN EDINBURGH. People did it every day.

And there seems to be so little interest in the public when it’s the poor who die. So few who care.

Even sinners deserved a headstone.

Someone should tell you that you're beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year's, and on the eighth of August, just because.

One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned.

While Davey tugged the rope, Munro, still in the grave, helped to guide the body out of the small hole in the coffin and back toward the surface world, a strange reverse birth for a body past death.

He fell in love with her half coated in mud, exhausted and blood splattered. In another universe, they would be able to go hand in hand to a dinner party, with nothing to worry about and no nightmare chasing them.

What were miracles, but science that man didn't yet understand? And didn't that make it all the more miraculous that the secrets of the universe were out there, codes one might decipher if smart enough, tenacious enough?

It would just mean another night at the kirkyard, and he would steal and sell a thousand bodies if it meant buying her the things that would show her how much he adored her. Let him spend every night in the dirt if it meant getting his mornings with her.

Make the options as equal as possible, with one seeming only slightly better than the other. A classic example of a choice between two positives is between love and honor. In A Farewell to Arms, the hero chooses love. In The Maltese Falcon (and almost all detective stories), the hero chooses honor.

That’s your mistake. You think you’re stuffed with rose leaves? Turn around and look at it, it may do you good!... Now listen here to the anatomy lecture! This upper story’s the brain, which is hungry for something called truth and doesn’t get much but keeps on feeling hungry! This middle’s the belly which is hungry for food. This part down here is the sex which is hungry for love because it is sometimes lonesome. I’ve fed all three, as much of all three as I could, or as much as I wanted.—You’ve fed none—nothing. Well—maybe your belly a little—watery subsistence—but love or truth, nothing but—nothing but hand-me-down notions!—attitudes—poses! Now you can go.

Someone should tell you that you’re beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you’re beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you’re beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year’s, and on the eighth of August, just because.” He kissed her lips once more, gently, and then pulled away and gazed into her eyes. “Hazel Sinnett, you are the most miraculous creature I have ever come across, and I am going to be thinking about how beautiful you are until the day I die.

NO MUSE IS GOOD MUSE -by Rochelle Distelheim To be an Artist you need talent, as well as a wife who washes the socks and the children, and returns phone calls and library books and types. In other words, the reason there are so many more Men Geniuses than Women Geniuses is not Genius. It is because Hemingway never joined the P.T.A. And Arthur Rubinstein ignored Halloween. Do you think Portnoy's creator sits through children's theater matinees--on Saturdays? Or that Norman Mailer faced 'driver's ed' failure, chicken pox or chipped teeth? Fitzgerald's night was so tender because the fender his teen-ager dented happened when Papa was at a story conference. Since Picasso does the painting, Mrs. Picasso did the toilet training. And if Saul Bellow, National Book Award winner, invited thirty-three for Thanksgiving Day dinner, I'll bet he had help. I'm sure Henry Moore was never a Cub Scout leader, and Leonard Bernstein never instructed a tricycler On becoming a bicycler just before he conducted. Tell me again my anatomy is not necessarily my destiny, tell me my hang-up is a personal and not a universal quandary, and I'll tell you no muse is a good muse unless she also helps with the laundry. -Rochelle Distelheim ===============================

When I launched my AI career in 1983, I did so by waxing philosophic in my application to the Ph.D. program at Carnegie Mellon. I described AI as “the quantification of the human thinking process, the explication of human behavior,” and our “final step” to understanding ourselves. It was a succinct distillation of the romantic notions in the field at that time and one that inspired me as I pushed the bounds of AI capabilities and human knowledge. Today, thirty-five years older and hopefully a bit wiser, I see things differently. The AI programs that we’ve created have proven capable of mimicking and surpassing human brains at many tasks. As a researcher and scientist, I’m proud of these accomplishments. But if the original goal was to truly understand myself and other human beings, then these decades of “progress” got me nowhere. In effect, I got my sense of anatomy mixed up. Instead of seeking to outperform the human brain, I should have sought to understand the human heart. It’s a lesson that it took me far too long to learn. I have spent much of my adult life obsessively working to optimize my impact, to turn my brain into a finely tuned algorithm for maximizing my own influence. I bounced between countries and worked across time zones for that purpose, never realizing that something far more meaningful and far more human lay in the hearts of the family members, friends, and loved ones who surrounded me. It took a cancer diagnosis and the unselfish love of my family for me to finally connect all these dots into a clearer picture of what separates us from the machines we build. That process changed my life, and in a roundabout way has led me back to my original goal of using AI to reveal our nature as human beings. If AI ever allows us to truly understand ourselves, it will not be because these algorithms captured the mechanical essence of the human mind. It will be because they liberated us to forget about optimizations and to instead focus on what truly makes us human: loving and being loved. Reaching that point will require hard work and conscious choices by all of us. Luckily, as human beings, we possess the free will to choose our own goals that AI still lacks. We can choose to come together, working across class boundaries and national borders to write our own ending to the AI story. Let us choose to let machines be machines, and let humans be humans. Let us choose to simply use our machines, and more importantly, to love one another.

Even if the girl were me, the guy in the story isn’t Hunter. The guy in the story knows all about anatomy.” “Hunter is taking anatomy,” Summer said. My scissors stopped their progress across the magazine page, and the metallic scrapings of Summer’s scissors and Jordis’s filled my ears like alarm bells. I forced myself to start cutting again before they noticed I’d stopped. “No, he isn’t,” I told Summer. “He’s a business major. Why would he take anatomy?” “I don’t know,” she admitted, “but I saw his anatomy book on his bed when I went to Manohar’s room yesterday.” “And why did you go to Manohar’s room yesterday?” Jordis asked with as much innuendo as her Danish accent would allow. “Oh, it was nothing like that,” Summer assured her. “I was pacing in the hall outside his room-“ “Because you just happened to find yourself three flights up on a men’s floor for no apparent reason,” I played along. Laughing, she put her hand over my mouth. “-and he called me inside because he was making mulligatawny and wanted me to sample it.” Jordis and I cracked up, careful to move our sharp scissors aside before we doubled over laughing on the bed. Summer smiled ruefully at us. Finally Jordis managed, “You sampled his mulligatawny! Was it good?” “It was okay,” Summer said. “I would have to get used to it.” That made Jordis and me laugh harder. Coughing through it, I asked Summer, “Are you going to sample his mulligatawny again?” Still smiling, she shook her head. “Sometimes mulligatawny is just mulligatawny.” “Oh,” Jordis and I said together.

Someone should tell you that you're beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year's...

Being a woman had closed many doors to Hazel Sinnett, but it had also revealed to her a valuable tool in her arsenal: women were almost entirely overlooked as people, which gave her the power of invisibility. People saw women, they saw the dresses women wore on public walks through the park, and the gloved hands they rested on their suitors’ elbows at the theater, but women were never threats. They were never challenges worthy of meaningful consideration.

The type of characters who attend that sort of thing! Drunkards … and rapists! And … and … theater actors!

To examine the causes of life, we must first have recourse to death.

Someone should tell you that you’re beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you’re beautiful on Wednesdays. And at teatime. Someone should tell you you’re beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year’s, and on the eighth of August, just because.

IT’S THE LESSON YOUNG GIRLS EVERYWHERE were taught their entire lives—don’t be seduced by the men you meet, protect your virtue—until, of course, their entire lives depended on seduction by the right man. It was an impossible situation, a trick of society as a whole: force women to live at the mercy of whichever man wants them but shame them for anything they might do to get a man to want them. Passivity was the ultimate virtue.

My beating heart is still yours, and I'll be waiting for you.

You say doctors will make the best poets. They will search your emotions by the skin; cutting open to reveal and revel with surgical precison. They will play with heavy drugs and blades-- nothing shall hide beneath the armors of bone and muscle. They know the anatomy of the heart too well. They will find the things you have hidden in your chest. I say doctors will never be poets. They are too mechanical, too fast with their edges and ridges. They cannot see the pain as pain but merely as an anomaly. That sadness is black bile not melancholia. They cannot sing to you but only clammer in medical jargon. Poets will use their imperfect words, and perfect rhymes to find the secrets of your rib cage with ease. They will find every flaw of your broken body and make it the best story you've never heard. Doctors, they will put love to define as a momentary rush of adrenaline, an arrythmia for another human caused due to an imbalance of the heart rhythm. Poets will tell you that love is the first jolt of life for them. They will say love is a state of euphoria that takes those irregular rhythms to perfect symphonies. Doctors say that veins carry blood devout of oxygen. I say that they carry your broken emotions to their feelings factory to mend it within its beautiful catacombs. All those doctors will find and fix you with perfect solutions. And these poets will do their best to be your perfect solution. For Aarshia. I am to be a doctor with a poet's heart.

JANUARY 10 Akiba When Akiba was on his deathbed, he bemoaned to his rabbi that he felt he was a failure. His rabbi moved closer and asked why, and Akiba confessed that he had not lived a life like Moses. The poor man began to cry, admitting that he feared God's judgment. At this, his rabbi leaned into his ear and whispered gently, “God will not judge Akiba for not being Moses. God will judge Akiba for not being Akiba.” —FROM THE TALMUD We are born with only one obligation—to be completely who we are. Yet how much of our time is spent comparing ourselves to others, dead and alive? This is encouraged as necessary in the pursuit of excellence. Yet a flower in its excellence does not yearn to be a fish, and a fish in its unmanaged elegance does not long to be a tiger. But we humans find ourselves always falling into the dream of another life. Or we secretly aspire to the fortune or fame of people we don't really know. When feeling badly about ourselves, we often try on other skins rather than understand and care for our own. Yet when we compare ourselves to others, we see neither ourselves nor those we look up to. We only experience the tension of comparing, as if there is only one ounce of being to feed all our hungers. But the Universe reveals its abundance most clearly when we can be who we are. Mysteriously, every weed and ant and wounded rabbit, every living creature has its unique anatomy of being which, when given over to, is more than enough. Being human, though, we are often troubled and blocked by insecurity, that windedness of heart that makes us feel unworthy. And when winded and troubled, we sometimes feel compelled to puff ourselves up. For in our pain, it seems to make sense that if we were larger, we would be further from our pain. If we were larger, we would be harder to miss. If we were larger, we'd have a better chance of being loved. Then, not surprisingly, others need to be made smaller so we can maintain our illusion of seeming bigger than our pain. Of course, history is the humbling story of our misbegotten inflations, and truth is the corrective story of how we return to exactly who we are. And compassion, sweet compassion, is the never-ending story of how we embrace each other and forgive ourselves for not accepting our beautifully particular place in the fabric of all there is. Fill a wide bowl with water. Then clear your mind in meditation and look closely at your reflection. While looking at your reflection, allow yourself to feel the tension of one comparison you carry. Feel the pain of measuring yourself against another. Close your eyes and let this feeling through. Now, once again, look closely at your reflection in the bowl, and try to see yourself in comparison to no one.

A voice like knotted wood dipped in honey interrupted her thoughts.

So that was a kiss. That was the thing that she had read about in novels and poems, that had inspired great artists. It was wetter than she had imagined, and colder.

Your success is their success, and your failure their failure. You are greater than yourself now. It's not fair to be a symbol, Miss Sinnett, when it is so much easier to be a person.

I'm not a fool, Jack Currer, no matter what you might think of me. Oh, I assure you, Miss Sinnett, I've taken you for a lot of things, but a fool was never one of them.

Love is nothing but the prolonged agony of waiting for it to end. The fear of losing the ones we love makes us do selfish and foolish and cruel things. The only freedom is freedom from love, and once your love is gone, it can be perfect, crystallized in your memory forever.

When Jack looked at Hazel, the flame was alive and licking at the air around it. It was seeing fire in person for the first time.

My heart is yours, Hazel Sinnett,” Jack said. “Forever. Beating or still.” “Beating or still,” she said.

Blond hair was for toddlers with rosy cheeks, not tall, broad-chested men with unidentifiable accents who made Hazel's mouth go dry when they stepped closer to her.

Royal Court might be a friendlier prison, but it is a prison all the same.

Godlike power had reduced humanity to a game for them. It had made them cruel. Hazel promised herself, as she sat against that door, that her mission as a doctor would always be to help people.

She had always been an independent child. By virtue of an absent father and a mother who disappeared into herself, from a young age Hazel felt, perhaps naïvely, that she was responsible for herself and her own circumstances.

The basin that Samuel had brought out immediately served its purpose. The beggar brought it up below his chin and used it to catch the blood and drool that came running from between his lips. He hadn’t even had time to scream. The doctor sniffed and examined the tooth, which was still glistening with blood. “Quickly now,” he said to Lord Almont. “We must act while the tooth is still fresh from the mouth if we hope to affix it to your gum.

Go back! I have a household to run. A medical practice. My treatise! I’ve been working on a treatise—a sort of manual of medicine and anatomy, and my papers will be all over my laboratory.

- Хтось має казати тобі, яка ти красива, щоразу коли сходить сонце. Хтось має казати ,я ка ти красива, щосереди. І за чаюванням. Хтось має казати тобі, яка ти красива, на Різдво й Великдень. У Ніч Ґая Фокса, на Новий рік і восьмого серпня. І просто так. - Гейзел Сіннет, ти найдивовижніше створіння, яке мені зустрічалося, і до самої смерті думатиму про те, яка ти красива.

During the Revolution,” she explained. “A brilliant mind made to roll through the filthy streets. Power might belong in the hands of the people, Miss Sinnett, but that doesn’t mean mobs are always wise. People need leaders. Good men like Mr. Lewis here.

Once there was a single consciousness that unified everything. Within this consciousness were two beings: Shiva, the infinite supreme consciousness, and Shakti, the eternal supreme consciousness. Shiva represents time, and Shakti, space. Here is the yang of Oriental medicine, cloaked in the Shiva figure, and the yin shown within the Shakti. These two beings separated, creating a distinction between matter and consciousness within the universe—and within the children of the universe, including people. Shakti lies within us all, coiled within our root chakra in the guise of a serpent. In this form, she is the Kundalini Shakti, the “power at rest.”15 She only becomes manifest, however, when she moves—and that is her ultimate goal, to rise through the denseness of the body until she can rejoin her great love, Shiva, who resides in the seventh chakra. When unified, the two create through supreme consciousness. Shakti is not just an ethereal being. She is seen as the cause of prana, or life force. She has sound and form; she is composed of alphabet characters, or mantras. When Shiva and Shakti join, they create nada (pure cosmic sound) and maha bindu (the supreme truth that underlies all manifestation). What does this mean for the initiate who fuses these two beings—these two parts of him- or herself? The graduate is freed from the confines of the physical body. Innate powers—mystical, magical abilities—awaken. Moreover, the soul is freed from the wheel of life that forces reincarnation. Science tells a similar story, using different words. According to recent studies, the entire world can be reduced to frequency and vibration. As we saw in Part III, we are all composed of the L-fields and T-fields that form unified frequencies. We are all made of the “male” and the “female,” the electrical and the magnetic. If we can achieve the balance and blending of each, then there is harmony, and within that harmony, healing. To follow the path of kundalini is not “only” to achieve an enlightened state of mind. It is to heal the mind, soul, spirit—and body.

One book? One book? Now you’re being absurd. What if I finish it? Or what if I find it impossibly dull, what then? What am I supposed to read if I either complete the book I brought or I otherwise discover it to be unreadable? Or what if it no longer holds my attention? Someone could spill tea on it. There. Think of that. Someone could spill tea on my one book, and then I would be marooned. Honestly, Iona, you must use your head.

IT’S THE LESSON YOUNG GIRLS EVERYWHERE were taught their entire lives—don’t be seduced by the men you meet, protect your virtue—until, of course, their entire lives depended on seduction by the right man. It was an impossible situation, a trick of society as a whole: force women to live at the mercy of whichever man wants them but shame them for anything they might do to get a man to want them.

Losing the one you love is the only freedom.

If I held a match to my heart, would I be able to see its workings, would I know my body the way I know a city, with its internal civilization of chemical messengers, electrical storms, cellular cities in which past, present, and future are contained, would I walk the thousand miles of arterial roadways, bridging paths of communication, and coiled tubing for waste and nutrients, would I know where the passion to live and love comes from? It is no wonder we neglect the natural world outside ourselves when we do not have the interest to know the one within.

He doesn't deserve to die," Hazel said. "Every one of us deserves to die," Dr. Beecham said. "It is our only birthright.

Is anyone actually happy?" Hazel asked. "People like you and me? Very intelligent people? Almost never. But who knows? Perhaps we will be the exception.

It was frightening, really," Bernard had said, bringing a cup of tea to his lips and beckoning for the servant to bring another ginger biscuit. "But marvelous, though, in its own strange way, don't you think?

a trick of society as a whole: force women to live at the mercy of whichever man wants them but shame them for anything they might do to get a man to want them.

Somebody should tell you that you're beautiful every time the sun comes up. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Wednesdays. And at tea time. Someone should tell you you're beautiful on Christmas Day and Christmas Eve and the evening before Christmas Eve, and on Easter. He should tell you on Guy Fawkes Night and on New Year's, and on the eight of August, just because.

Some women,” Lord Almont said to his son, “have yet to learn that we enjoy looking at them more than listening to them.