Andreas Lie Quotes

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word home means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bedroom when you were eight. See, I want to know the first time you felt the weight of hate, and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms or would leave your snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name, and if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you to tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. Tell me, knowing I often picture Gandhi at ten years old beating up little boys at school. If you were walking by a chemical plant where smokestacks were filling the sky with dark black clouds would you holler “Poison! Poison! Poison!” really loud or would you whisper “That cloud looks like a fish, and that cloud looks like a fairy!” Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin? Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea? And if you don’t believe in miracles, tell me — how would you explain the miracle of my life to me? See, I wanna know if you believe in any god or if you believe in many gods or better yet what gods believe in you. And for all the times that you’ve knelt before the temple of yourself, have the prayers you asked come true? And if they didn’t, did you feel denied? And if you felt denied, denied by who? I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? Would you think less of me if I told you I’ve lived my entire life a little off-key? And I’m not nearly as smart as my poetry I just plagiarize the thoughts of the people around me who have learned the wisdom of silence. Do you believe that concrete perpetuates violence? And if you do — I want you to tell me of a meadow where my skateboard will soar. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving, and if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes from other people’s wounds, and if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon — that if you wanted to, you could pop, but you never would ‘cause you’d never want it to stop. If a tree fell in the forest and you were the only one there to hear — if its fall to the ground didn’t make a sound, would you panic in fear that you didn’t exist, or would you bask in the bliss of your nothingness? And lastly, let me ask you this: If you and I went for a walk and the entire walk, we didn’t talk — do you think eventually, we’d… kiss? No, wait. That’s asking too much — after all, this is only our first date.

Brian Andreas Promise #1: Promises to Myself #1: I will tell the truth unless I get confused & I think I could get in real trouble if someone found out, in which case, I will lie as convincingly as possible for as long as I feel the need.

Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination.' (Leviticus 18:22). That means simply that it is foul to do to other men what men habitually, proudly, manfully do to women: use them as inanimate, empty, concave things; fuck them into submission; subordinate them through sex.

I want you to tell me about every person you've ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn't think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mothers name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mothers joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you've been unkind. Tell me all the ways you've been cruel.Do you believe that Mary was really a virgin? Do you believe that Moses really parted the sea? And if you don’t believe in miracles, tell me, how would you explain the miracle of my life to me? And for all the times you've knelt before the temple of yourself, have the prayers you've asked come true? And if they didn't did you feel denied? And if you felt denied, denied by who[m]? I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see in the mirror on a day a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who ever taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment, will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds. And if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon that if you wanted to you could pop—but you never would because you’d never want it to stop.

I would drink a thousand lies just to see your face again.

I WANT YOU TO TELL ME ABOUT EVERY PERSON YOU’VE EVER BEEN IN LOVE WITH. TELL ME WHY YOU LOVED THEM, THEN TELL ME WHY THEY LOVED YOU. TELL ME ABOUT A DAY IN YOUR LIFE YOU DIDN’T THINK YOU’D LIVE THROUGH. TELL ME WHAT THE WORD “HOME” MEANS TO YOU AND TELL ME IN A WAY THAT I’LL KNOW YOUR MOTHER’S NAME JUST BY THE WAY YOU DESCRIBE YOUR BED ROOM WHEN YOU WERE 8. SEE, I WANNA KNOW THE FIRST TIME YOU FELT THE WEIGHT OF HATE AND IF THAT DAY STILL TREMBLES BENEATH YOUR BONES. DO YOU PREFER TO PLAY IN PUDDLES OF RAIN OR BOUNCE IN THE BELLIES OF SNOW? AND IF YOU WERE TO BUILD A SNOWMAN, WOULD YOU RIP TWO BRANCHES FROM A TREE TO BUILD YOUR SNOWMAN ARMS? OR WOULD YOU LEAVE THE SNOWMAN ARMLESS FOR THE SAKE OF BEING HARMLESS TO THE TREE? AND IF YOU WOULD, WOULD YOU NOTICE HOW THAT TREE WEEPS FOR YOU BECAUSE YOUR SNOWMAN HAS NO ARMS TO HUG YOU EVERY TIME YOU KISS HIM ON THE CHEEK? DO YOU KISS YOUR FRIENDS ON THE CHEEK? DO YOU SLEEP BESIDE THEM WHEN THEY’RE SAD, EVEN IF IT MAKES YOUR LOVER MAD? DO YOU THINK THAT ANGER IS A SINCERE EMOTION OR JUST THE TIMID MOTION OF A FRAGILE HEART TRYING TO BEAT AWAY ITS PAIN? SEE, I WANNA KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF YOUR FIRST NAME. AND IF YOU OFTEN LIE AWAKE AT NIGHT AND IMAGINE YOUR MOTHER’S JOY WHEN SHE SPOKE IT FOR THE VERY FIRST TIME. I WANT YOU TELL ME ALL THE WAYS YOU’VE BEEN UNKIND. TELL ME ALL THE WAYS YOU’VE BEEN CRUEL. SEE, I WANNA KNOW MORE THAN WHAT YOU DO FOR A LIVING. I WANNA KNOW HOW MUCH OF YOUR LIFE YOU SPEND JUST GIVING. AND IF YOU LOVE YOURSELF ENOUGH TO ALSO RECEIVE SOMETIMES. I WANNA KNOW IF YOU BLEED SOMETIMES THROUGH OTHER PEOPLE’S WOUNDS.

The lies we tell ourselves are the worst ones.

I think of you a lot. Do you think of me, Andrea? Don’t lie to me.” “Yes!” I snarled, my face burning. “Yes, I do! All the time. I can’t get you out of my head. I wish I could!” He hugged me so hard, my bones nearly crunched. “You’ve made yourself into a new person and so have I. We deserve a fucking chance. I want you and you want me. Why aren’t we together? I’ll deal with your hang-ups if you’ll deal with mine, but if you’re still too scared to even try, then you’re not worth waiting for. I have some goddamn pride left and I won’t wait forever.

I'm not going to lie to you and say it gets easier, because it doesn't. It's just that you get used to it. The human animal has an amazing capacity to get used to almost anything.

There are people who come into our lives to disprove the lies we believe about ourselves.

I am hardened by the suffering of others. Another lie I told myself because I couldn't save everyone.

Right to here,” I said, holding the can up to show her his length. Her eyes widened. “Shut up!” she said, “you're lying, girl!

I've been lying in bed as good as dead for days, and now I'm completely done in.

I met a woman and we were lying in her bed, about to kiss for the very first time. Just before our lips touched she jumped up and ran to her closet and grabbed a stethoscope. She came back to the bed, put the earpieces in my ears, slipped the disc down her shirt onto her heart, and whispered, 'I want you to listen to my heart speed up when you kiss me.' And I kissed her, and I listened to her heart beat faster and faster and faster.

Education is the key to Afghanistan's successful future, Fawad, because it fights ignorance and intolerance and brings the blessing of opportunity. When a man has knowledge he has power- the power to make informed decisions; the power to distinguish truth from lies; and the power to shape his own destiny in accordance with God's wills. He is stronger than the ignorant man, who can do nothing but blindly accept the supposed learning of another.

You want me to lie for you?" Aidan asked, watching them. "Believe in me, the way you did in my mama." Aidan wheezed and sputtered. What did she know 'bout him and Miz Garnett? "Please." She sounded like a young gal and a grown woman too. "Believe in me." "That's the most a person can do for another," Aidan said. "I believe in you too.

Traditionally and practically, the world is brought to women by men; they are the outside on which female intelligence must feed. The food is poor, orphan’s gruel. This is because men bring home half-truths, ego-laden lies, and use them to demand solace or sex or housekeeping. The intelligence of women is not out in the world, acting on its own behalf; it is kept small, inside the home, acting on behalf of another. This is true even when the woman works outside the home, because she is segregated into women’s work, and her intelligence does not have the same importance as the lay of her ass.

If you threw Elvis and a scarecrow in a blender, topped the whole thing off with Seagram's 7 and pressed dice, you would make my dad. He's got tar black hair and shoulder blades that cut through his undershirt like clipped wings. He looks like a gray-skinned, skinny-rat cowboy and I would be lying if I didn't say that I am, maybe sorta kinda, keep it secret, in love with him. And you would be, too, you would, if you met him before drink number five or six. Just meet him then. Get lost before things get ugly.

Andrea exploded out of the staircase, her eyes huge. “Someone broke into Curran’s private quarters in the Keep and welded his weight bench together. They also melted the lock on the room where he entertains his women. Was it you?” “He’s making a big deal about never expecting me to behave like a shapeshifter. So I did.” “Are you out of your mind?” It’s not polite to lie to your best friend. “It’s a possibility.” “You challenged him. The whole Keep is talking about it. He’ll have to retaliate. He’s a cat, Kate, which means he’s weird, and he never courted anyone that way. There is no telling what he’ll do. He doesn’t operate in the same world you do. He might blow up your house because he thinks it’s funny.” I waved my arm. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t get it.” Andrea shook her blond head. “Oh no. He got it.” “How do you know?” “Your office smells like him.

No road map, no manifesto, no vision from the climate movement - and it has its fair share of radicals - ever sketched anything like the meteor storm of state interventions that hit the planet in March 2020, and yet we were always told that we were being unrealistic, unpragmatic, dreamers or alarmists. Never again should such lies be given a hearing.

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. —Oliver Wendell Holmes

Don't ever be honest about who you are—and I mean that as a life rule, not just in this instance.

Son akşamları için plan buydu, yaşanması gereken, yaşanmayan. Bazen bu kadar çok hayal edilen şey bir anıya dönüşür ve asla parçalanamaz.

The illusion we are separate is the biggest lie. We are essential; we are goodness. We are more than individual; we are a part of a collective whole

The lie I told you… it’s something my father would have done.” I shook my head as though I could shake myself free of the guilt. But guilt was there to remind me of when I misstepped.

Jack knew the last thing Pat needed was to listen to him complain about his own aches and pains, so he lied and told Andrea’s husband he was fine and then they prayed together for her recovery.

Love is an answer to the lack that lies at the heart of aliveness, but it does not compensate for that lack—it transforms it. Love transforms that lack into an excess that produces new contradictions; it is the luminous chasm and the ephemeral mass, freedom in impossibility, the always insufficient answer to the paradox of life: “vivacidad pura” (Octavio Paz)—pure aliveness, experienced from inside the world.

Kept in institutions until they die as a punishment for having lived so long, for having outlived their sex-appropriate work, old white women find themselves drugged (6.1 prescriptions for an average patient, more than half the patients given drugs like Thorazine and Mellaril); sick from neglect with bedsores, urinary, eye, and ear infections; left lying in their own filth, tied into so-called geriatric chairs or tied into bed; sometimes not fed, not given heat, not given any nursing care; sometimes left in burning baths (from which there have been drownings); sometimes beaten and left with broken bones. Even in old age, a woman had better have a man to protect her. She has earned no place in society on her own.

From a Berkeley Notebook' ~Denis Johnson One changes so much from moment to moment that when one hugs oneself against the chill air at the inception of spring, at night, knees drawn to chin, he finds himself in the arms of a total stranger, the arms of one he might move away from on the dark playground. Also, it breaks the heart that the sign revolving like a flame above the gas station remembers the price of gas, but forgets entirely this face it has been looking at all day. And so the heart is exhausted that even the face of the dismal facts we wait for the loves of the past to come walking from the fire, the tree, the stone, tangible and unchanged and repentant but what can you do. Half the time I think about my wife and child, the other half I think how to become a citizen with an apartment, and sex too is quite on my mind, though it seems the women have no time for you here, for which in my larger, more mature moments I can’t blame them. These are the absolute Pastures I am led to: I am in Berkeley, California, trapped inside my body, I am the secret my body is going to keep forever, as if its secret were merely silence. It lies between two mistakes of the earth, the San Andreas and Hayward faults, and at night from the hill above the stadium where I sleep, I can see the yellow aurora of Telegraph Avenue uplifted by the holocaust. My sleeping bag has little cowboys lassoing bulls embroidered all over its pastel inner lining, the pines are tall and straight, converging in a sort of roof above me, it’s nice, oh loves, oh loves, why aren’t you here? Morgan, my pyjamas are so lonesome without the orangutans—I write and write, and transcend nothing, escape nothing, nothing is truly born from me, yet magically it’s better than nothing—I know you must be quite changed by now, but you are just the same, too, like those stars that keep shining for a long time after they go out—but it’s just a light they touch us with this evening amid the fine rain like mist, among the pines.

Everyone needs to believe they would have seen it sooner, that they would've been able to help her. People need this lie to feel certain that nothing like this could ever happen to them, that the Clearys are the stuff of horror movies, rather than ordinary life. The truth is, nothing can prepare you for something like Penny.

Bazen geçmiş hâlâ buradaymış, içinde bulunduğumuz anın boyalı yüzeyinin altında saklanıyormuş ve tırnakla şöyle bir kazıyınca her şeyin hâlâ devam ettiğini görebilecekmişiz gibi hissediyorum. Belki şu an yalnızca bilimin sınırlarını zorluyoruz, belki bu karşı karşıya oluğumuz doğaüstü bir durum değil de ölmüş, kaybolmuş sanılanlarla paylaşılan fiziksel alanın, ince bir bölmenin arasından ortaya çıkışı sadece.

If the men on the Andrea Gail had simply died, and their bodies were lying in state somewhere, their loved ones could make their goodbyes and get on with their lives. But they didn’t die, they disappeared off the face of the earth and, strictly speaking, it’s just a matter of faith that these men will never return. Such faith takes work, it takes effort. The people of Gloucester must willfully extract these men from their lives and banish them to another world.

Perhaps the first thing we can do is to acknowledge that there is, in reality, no such thing as living in the past. If there were, many brokenhearted people would be hopping the first train there. We are always living in the present moment; that’s all we have. But the present is not empty. Our internal sanctuaries cannot be robbed of what has already been or the treasure trove of memories we bring to everything we do and all that we see. Yesterday may be a time to which we can never go back, but it is also the guardian of what can never be taken from us—each moment shared and every tender word exchanged. We will always have these. When we are grieving, however, reaching for things in the past can be like stuffing our pockets with make-believe gold. We think the real gold lies behind us when, in reality, it lies within.

The pride comes from accomplishment. I have done what I wanted to do more than any other thing in life. I have become a writer, published two books of integrity and worth. I did not know what those two books would cost me, how very difficult it would be to write them, to survive the opposition to them. I did not imagine that they would demand of me ruthless devotion, spartan discipline, continuing material deprivation, visceral anxiety about the rudiments of survival, and a faith in myself made more of iron than innocence. I have also learned to live alone, developed a rigorous emotional independence, a self-directed creative will, and a passionate commitment to my own sense of right and wrong. This I had to learn not only to do, but to want to do. I have learned not to lie to myself about what I value—in art, in love, in friendship. I have learned to take responsibility for my own intense convictions and my own real limitations. I have learned to resist most of the forms of coercion and flattery that would rob me of access to my own conscience. I believe that, for a woman, I have accomplished a great deal.

We have to make a consideration: emotional states are deeply influenced by external events, and here lies the problem. Since the external events are unstable, namely, that they are in perpetual change - a situation that Buddhist tradition defines as “impermanence” - they are very difficult to be managed, and this bring people to panic. This difficulty to experience a reality in which nothing is permanent, that all is in constant motion- change, belongs to the human incapacity to accept the discontinuity of an occurrence of events that are always unpredictable and new. Impermanence is a principle that is a natural thing, but, in relation to the social and interhuman fields, this becomes a problem: especially in the last ten years, we can witness scenarios where instability, turbulence and uncertainty, frantically increase and continue to increase. Instability and change are perceivable everywhere - from the personal interaction between people to economic instability: in poor words, we don’t know what the future will bring to us and we feel a continuous pressure. People feel a need for safety and stability, but this is an impossible thing in the conditions in which society finds itself, and here lies one of the main reasons why tensions, anxiety, and panic have became common situations.

To be honest? I'd thought myself above them. What a nasty little counter-culture snob I was. There they were, doing their fucking best, trying to have a life, trying to bring up their children decently, struggling to make the payments on the little house, wondering where their youth had gone, where love had gone, what was to become of them and all I could do was be a snotty, judgmental cow. But it was no good. I couldn't be like them. I'd seen too much, done too much that was outside anything they knew. I wasn't better than them, but I was different. We had no point of contact other than work. Even then, they disapproved of my attitude, my ways of dealing with the clients. Many's the time I'd ground my teeth as Andrea or Fran had taken the piss out of some hapless, useless, illiterate get they were assigned to; being funny at the expense of their stupidity, their complete inability to deal with straight society. Sure, I knew it was partly a defence mechanism; they did it because it was laugh or scream, and we were always told it wasn't good to let the clients get too close. But all too often - not always, but enough times to make me seethe with irritation - there was an ingrained, self-serving elitism in there too. Who'd see it better than me? They sealed themselves up in their white-collar world like chrysalides and waited for some kind of reward for being good girls and boys, for playing the game, being a bit of a cut above the messy rest - a reward that didn't exist, would never come and that they would only realise was a lie when it was far too late. Now I would be one of the Others, the clients, the ones who stood outside in the cold and, shivering, looked in at the lighted windows of reason and middle-class respectability. I would be another colossal fuck-up, another dinner party story. But my sin was all the greater because I'd wilfully defected from the right side to the hopelessly, eternally wrong side. I was not only a screw-up, I was a traitor.

Carbonara: The union of al dente noodles (traditionally spaghetti, but in this case rigatoni), crispy pork, and a cloak of lightly cooked egg and cheese is arguably the second most famous pasta in Italy, after Bologna's tagliatelle al ragù. The key to an excellent carbonara lies in the strategic incorporation of the egg, which is added raw to the hot pasta just before serving: add it when the pasta is too hot, and it will scramble and clump around the noodles; add it too late, and you'll have a viscous tide of raw egg dragging down your pasta. Cacio e pepe: Said to have originated as a means of sustenance for shepherds on the road, who could bear to carry dried pasta, a hunk of cheese, and black pepper but little else. Cacio e pepe is the most magical and befuddling of all Italian dishes, something that reads like arithmetic on paper but plays out like calculus in the pan. With nothing more than these three ingredients (and perhaps a bit of oil or butter, depending on who's cooking), plus a splash of water and a lot of movement in the pan to emulsify the fat from the cheese with the H2O, you end up with a sauce that clings to the noodles and to your taste memories in equal measure. Amatriciana: The only red pasta of the bunch. It doesn't come from Rome at all but from the town of Amatrice on the border of Lazio and Abruzzo (the influence of neighboring Abruzzo on Roman cuisine, especially in the pasta department, cannot be overstated). It's made predominantly with bucatini- thick, tubular spaghetti- dressed in tomato sauce revved up with crispy guanciale and a touch of chili. It's funky and sweet, with a mild bite- a rare study of opposing flavors in a cuisine that doesn't typically go for contrasts. Gricia: The least known of the four kings, especially outside Rome, but according to Andrea, gricia is the bridge between them all: the rendered pork fat that gooses a carbonara or amatriciana, the funky cheese and pepper punch at the heart of cacio e pepe. "It all starts with gricia.

Now he had to decide--what was the right thing to do? Something that required courage. Something that was frightening, because the unknown was lying in wait on the other side.

With Ivory, I want nothing between us but the naked truth. But Andrea? All I’ll give her is the best-dressed lie.

Now he knows that he has to build the new Andrea. He just has to wait for the wounds heal, new skin grows, and he feels better. He will be fragile, sensitive, but will have new skin. Eating biscuits with a latte, he lies down on the couch and puts a film on at random, but doesn’t watch it. Instead, he thinks about Susy, and how she must never know of his change of skin. She will only see the new one.  

good friends listen but best friends know when you just can’t find the words.

I can't read the words she wrote - my proof that joy exists, my reminder that hope is possible - knowing they're all a lie.

In 1967, Arendt wrote an essay for the New Yorker called “Truth and Politics” that articulated where such mendacity could lead. “The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth is not that the lies will now be accepted as truth, and the truth be defamed as lies, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world—and the category of truth vs. falsehood is among the mental means to this end—is being destroyed.

Andrea maintained that men like Alain lied so constantly, so passionately, that some basic distinction had been lost. They were artists in their own right, Andrea said, intent on restructuring reality,

I buried my face in her fur, wrapping my arms around her neck. She waited patiently while I sobbed, my tears wetting her chest. I’d been so foolish—a child yearning for connection. And he’d taken advantage of that, letting me seek out his approval the way I’d sought my father’s. I had to be stronger than that. “I sent him away,” I told Thrana. “He lied and I told him to leave.” She let out a breath. It smelled of the ocean. A heavy paw came to rest on my back—her version of an embrace. I sagged into it, knowing that even though I loved her, it wasn’t enough for me. “You need other people,” she said, as though reading the thoughts in my head. “This is not good.” “It was the only thing I could do.” “I know. But, Lin—we were both hurt. I trust you now. You need this too.” I drew back, wiping at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “How do I find the right people? I don’t seem to be good at finding them.” She puffed up, as though proud to be giving me advice. “You make a mistake. You try again.” Her tail lashed. I let out a rueful laugh. I wished it were as simple as Thrana made it sound.

I’d forgotten what a joy it was, losing myself in this work, putting together the pieces like a complex puzzle. There was a logic and simplicity in it that didn’t exist in politics and governance. I couldn’t please everyone I needed to, no matter how hard I tried. This, though, bent to my will and my thoughts. I could understand a little why my father had locked himself away, why he had let his constructs control the Empire. People were fickle, confusing, disloyal. People lied to you. People betrayed you.

Thrana had to be carried to the courtyard and lifted into a covered cart. Mephi hovered by the side of the cart, making worried little noises in the back of his throat. “She’ll be fine,” I told him as servants hurried past us. My gaze kept flicking to the door to the entrance hall where Lin lingered as she spoke with Chala, her long sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Neither looked happy. “You did this too, remember?” He looked between me and Thrana lying unconscious in the cart. “I looked like that?” He sidled over to me, winding about my legs. “No wonder you were worried.” “I couldn’t have woken you even if I had five fresh-caught fish in hand.” “Impossible!” I laughed at his shocked expression.

Nisong did. If Coral, Leaf, Grass, Frond and Shell had been her family, Coral was now all she had left. “I told him I’d watch over him. I said I’d keep him safe.” She’d lied to him.

I remember the time on the school bus back before anyone could drive, Jenny bet me a dollar, to put my hand down her jeans to prove she wears thong undies. Saying that I am such a baby, for not knowing, that’s how that all started, she felt like she had to teach me everything. Anyways back then I was still where Mickey Mouse Briefs and did even think about what was underneath. She beat me to feel that she was not a virgin, that she was all open and smooth, unlike me at the time. I didn’t even shave my legs yet. So, I did, I went for it. The rush here was touching a girl inappropriately, with everyone looking, and hoping the driver didn’t see. I’ll never forget Danny Hover looking over the site with Andrea Doeskin smelling, like little perv’s, and Shy saying- ‘Oh my God’- snickering at the fact, from the set accordingly. Yeah, it’s that kind of rush I get, over and over being with them. Just like Jenny got Liv fixed up with Dilco, it’s all about the rush in the end. Jenny can be a hell of a lot of fun, and it’s that fun that keeps me coming back for more, the same way Liv and Maddie do, and other girls keep trying to be like us, it’s all about the craziness. I don’t know why but when I am with them- I want to be so naughty! I remember Marcel smacking my butt, just to be cute, every time he would see me in the hallways of a school. -Yeah, he’s weird, but I couldn’t stop thinking about him as I was- well… doing me. Yet Ray’s photo was looking at me on my nightstand. ~*~ In my bed, I snap the bright light off when I hear my little sis coming down the hall, everyone goes back to being fuzzy, like I’m not looking at my room but only at a blurry photo of my room that was taken with a shaky hand incorrectly and nothing match up with the real thing. My sis went into the bathroom next door to tinkle, so I snapped on my nightlight, and then that light modifies everything, so it looks somewhat ordinary again. If my sis sees my light on from the crack at the bottom of my door, she will come bursting in. I have learned to keep it as dark as I can when I hear her coming run down the hallway. I love her, yet I want my privacy. All at once it comes back to me, like a hangover rush all my blood starts going back up into my head: the party, my sis getting laid, the argument with Ray, falling to Marcel, all the sex, all the drinking, and drugs, it’s all thumping hard in my brain, like my covered button was a few moments ago, on cam. I am still lying here uncovered, with everything still out in the open. ‘Kellie!’ My door swings open, hammering the door handle against my wall, and sis comes bolting across my room, jumping in my bed, pacing over my textbook's notebooks, love notes, and pills of dirty tops and bottoms and discarded jeans, I panic thinking my Victoria’s Secret Heritage Pink nighty way over there on the floor, where I thought it off and left it the night before. Yet it’s not liked my sis has not seen me naked before… but is wired when this happens. Something is not right, something seems very wrong and oggie; something skirts the edges of my memory, but then it is gone as my head pounds and sis is bouncing on my bed on top of me, throwing her arms and legs around my nude torso. Saying- ‘So what are you going to show me today?’ I am thinking to myself- girl you already got it down, doing what you’re doing now, I don’t need to teach you anything. Kellie- she is so hot… (Oh God not in that way, she’s- my sis.) She is like a little furnace with her worth coming from her tiny body. It’s not too long before her nighty rides up, and I can see it all in my face like she wants to be just like me, and then she starts asking her questions.

In 2014, Google left the American Legislative Exchange Council (ALEC) in a public show of disgust: for many years, the Council, a business body specialising in drafting laws favourable to the free market, had given voice to denial. With its water-powered data centres and wind turbines flying on kites, Google wanted to be seen as part of the solution, ‘so we should not be aligned with such people. They’re just literally lying’, an executive explained.

For the moment, Mr. Fontanelli, your trillion is nothing but a pile of money that’s lying around uselessly. But if you use it to gain economic influence, you may be able to force the world to change!

On a smoggy spring day, the midday sun baked two California Highway Patrolmen in dark blue uniforms and a bearded dirt biker astride his Yamaha. They stood on a dirt road between the San Andreas barren earthquake faulted hills crisscrossed with biker’s trails. The sergeant stood next to the still body of Eduardo Sanchez, a thirteen-year-old boy clad in a t-shirt and oversized shorts, lying on his back with three bullet wounds and powder burns tattooed on his forehead. An astonished look captured his small immature cold face.

Emahla, for you. I would drink a thousand lies just to see your face again.

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

This is a pathetic institution. The Alanga will build something stronger. Something not filled with lies about us.

standard forms are imposed in dress, behavior, sexual relation, punctuation. standard form s are imposed on consciousness and behavior—on knowing and expressing— so that we will not presume freedom , so that freedom will appear —in all its particulars — impossible and unworkable, so that we will not know what telling the truth is, so that we will not feel compelled to tell it, so that we will spend our time and our holy human energy telling the necessary lies. standard forms are sometimes called conventions, conventions are mightier than armies, police, and prisons. each citizen becomes the enforcer, the doorkeeper, an instrument o f the Law, an unfeeling guard punching his fellow man hard in the belly.

To kill a people without spilling blood, steal their stories, then feed them self-serving lies.

A sunflower is nothing without its potato.

How can these paradoxes ever be resolved? The answer lies in your eyes. The answer lies in the radiance with which you greet my presence, because it gifts to you a share of aliveness that, echoed in your gaze, welcomes me. The answer lies in the fact that I will do everything to prevent your death, and that this "everything" includes the possibility of my own death. I cannot ward off the biocentric tragedy. But I can live it to the fullest, can make myself into its embodiment. I can take on the responsibility for it. I can do what is necessary or you to live and for me to live. I can take on good will for your life, as I have for my own. I alone carry the responsibility for myself. For my courage. For my death.

For a man like Humboldt, who only needed a few hours’ sleep, it was torture having to lie in the dark without anything to read, dissect or investigate.

Exploitation is real and identifiable and fighting it makes you strong, not weak. And sexual violence is real, and it is intolerable and fighting it makes you strong, not weak. And women-hating is real and its systematized in pornography, and in acts of sexual violence against women, and fighting it makes you strong, not weak. And the right and the left both weather it’s Phyliss Schlafly who’s lecturing on how, if you had been virtuous, you wouldn’t have been sexually harassed or the left thats explaining to you that you should celebrate your sexuality and forget about rape. Forget about it, don’t have a bad attitude, don’t feel like a victim. They both want women to accept the status quo, to live in the status quo, and not to organize the political resistance(that i talked about earlier.) Because the first step in resisting exploitation is recognizing it, seeing it and knowing it and not lying about where it is sitting on you. And the second step is enough caring about other women. That if today, you are fine, and yesterday, you were fine, but your sister hanging from the tree is not fine, that you will go the distance to cut her down.

Reporting live from Northwestern Memorial Hospital, I’m Mel Hayes. Andrea, back to you.”

Andrea, this story has more twists and turns than a soap opera.

The Past lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.” Nathaniel Hawthorne The House of Seven Gables

Perhaps we’re back at the frontiers only of science here, and there’s nothing supernatural about it – just the emergence, through a thinning divide, of physical space shared with all that’s thought dead and lost.

Canto I And then went down to the ship, Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and We set up mast and sail on that swart ship, Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward Bore us out onward with bellying canvas, Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess. Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller, Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end. Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean, Came we then to the bounds of deepest water, To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever With glitter of sun-rays Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven Swartest night stretched over wretched men there. The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place Aforesaid by Circe. Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus, And drawing sword from my hip I dug the ell-square pitkin; Poured we libations unto each the dead, First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour. Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death’s-heads; As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods, A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep. Dark blood flowed in the fosse, Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides Of youths and of the old who had borne much; Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender, Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads, Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms, These many crowded about me; with shouting, Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts; Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze; Poured ointment, cried to the gods, To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine; Unsheathed the narrow sword, I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead, Till I should hear Tiresias. But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor, Unburied, cast on the wide earth, Limbs that we left in the house of Circe, Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other. Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech: “Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast? “Cam’st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?” And he in heavy speech: “Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Circe’s ingle. “Going down the long ladder unguarded, “I fell against the buttress, “Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus. “But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied, “Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed: “A man of no fortune, and with a name to come. “And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows.” And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban, Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first: “A second time? why? man of ill star, “Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region? “Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever “For soothsay.” And I stepped back, And he strong with the blood, said then: “Odysseus “Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas, “Lose all companions.” And then Anticlea came. Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus, In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer. And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outward and away And unto Circe. Venerandam, In the Cretan’s phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite, Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, orichalchi, with golden Girdles and breast bands, thou with dark eyelids Bearing the golden bough of Argicida. So that:

Because I care, I tell myself. Because I get involved, I repeat. Because any single action counts, I lie.

I am at peace with the past,” answered Arianna. And that was, perhaps, the best revenge of all.

Age brings with it a certain self-awareness, and with it a tolerance for faults, both our own and those of others.

Education is the key to Afghanistan’s successful future, Fawad, because it fights ignorance and intolerance and brings the blessing of opportunity. When a man has knowledge he has power – the power to make informed decisions; the power to distinguish truth from lies; and the power to shape his own destiny in accordance with God’s will. He is stronger than the ignorant man who can do nothing but blindly accept the supposed learning of another.

Curran leaned over and looked at me. His gray eyes glowed with tiny golden sparks. He slowly furrowed his blond eyebrows and moved them up and down. “Is that your smoldering look?” “Yes. I’m trying to communicate the promise of nights of ecstasy.” I laughed. “Did you read that pirate book Andrea left for me?” “I might have leafed through it. So how about it? Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Black Bear Lodge, so we can lie in bed all day, get drunk and fat, and not have to think about anything related to Atlanta for the entire time?” “Will I get nights of ecstasy?” “And days. Ecstasy all the time.” Two weeks, just Curran and me. It sounded heavenly. I would’ve killed to be able to go and I meant it literally. “Deal, Your Majesty.