Argyle Quotes

You believe in God?" demanded Billy Karma. "I believe in thirty-seven separate and distinct gods," answered Argyle proudly. "That puts me thirty-six ahead of you." "It makes you a pagan." "It makes you a man of limited vision," said Argyle.

People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles. This is the first thing I hear when I come back to the city. Blair picks me up from LAX and mutters this under her breath as she drives up the onramp. She says, "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." Though that sentence shouldn't bother me, it stays in my mind for an uncomfortably long time. Nothing else seems to matter. Not the fact that I'm eighteen and it's December and the ride on the plane had been rough and the couple from Santa Barbara, who were sitting across from me in first class, had gotten pretty drunk. Not the mud that had splattered on the legs of my jeans, which felt kind of cold and loose, earlier that day at an airport in New Hampshire. Not the stain on the arm of the wrinkled, damp shirt I wear, a shirt which looked fresh and clean this morning. Not the tear on the neck of my gray argyle vest, which seems vaguely more eastern than before, especially next to Blair's clean tight jeans and her pale-blue shirt. All of this seems irrelevant next to that one sentence. It seems easier to hear that people are afraid to merge than "I'm pretty sure Muriel is anorexic" or the singer on the radio crying out about magnetic waves. Nothing else seems to matter to me but those ten words. Not the warm winds, which seem to propel the car down the empty asphalt freeway, or the faded smell of marijuana which still faintly permeates Blaire's car. All it comes down to is the fact that I'm a boy coming home for a month and meeting someone whom I haven't seen for four months and people are afraid to merge.

A Witch with a weak song is barely a Witch at all.

The night was so deep the shadows seemed to bleed darkness.

I can only control my actions, not their reactions," Senna replied. "But I have to live with both.

He felt lost without his hatred–lost and afraid. About Mickey Argyle

Whatever your grievances, I'm sure we can address them without resorting to war," persisted Argyle.... Nonsense," said the alien. "Do you know how many laborers and industries we'd put out of work if we were to stop the war just because a few bleeding hearts think we can talk out our grievances?

This man was made with tweed and argyle, and sewn together with an Oxford comma.

In part. She sat down and pulled her necklace out of her shirt. "I read about it in my mother's journal. The Witches believe we are all parts of a whole. Like the phases of the moon. Together, we complete the circle and bring balance.

Don't be afraid to let your past and present come together to create something new

He studied her lips like they were a riddle he desperately needed to solve.

She realized that home wasn't a place. It was here, safe in his arms. As long as she had this, everything would be all right.

Something soft turn to stone within her. She had no choice. She had to fight. She had to win. She would learn. And then she'd free them. Or join them.

Self-betterment is the rarest form of ambition.

Let not the curse of Witches Destroy a land of natural riches. Plants, preserve life in thy roots, Seeds sleep in earth, send forth no shoots Until the Witches shall disperse This terrible and unjust curse.

Without asking, he moved behind her and brushed her hair over her shoulder. Drawing the necklace around her neck, he fastened the clasp. The amber felt cool against her sweltering skin. Lifting it, she rotated the pendant, watching as it caught the light. "It's lovely." Before she could change her mind, she dug into her pocket and shoved the rest of the coins into his hand.

Wishing. Hoping. They are dangerous words. If you hope for something to be true and it is not, that realization can break you. But until then, while that belief runs warm in your blood, it can drive you to do amazing things.

I refuse to live in ignorance and helplessness.

There comes a time for us not to just be survivors, but to be warriors. Yara, you have your life, and the chance to make the most of it. Don't run or hide from that challenge or let your guilt keep you from living your life. This gift is such a beautiful opportunity. Embrace it. Seize every opportunity from here on out. Live.

... Other students lived on campus and got drunk at parties. Other students dated and graduated and got married and led normal lives. She wanted to marry an ex-con and pretend being kidnapped had been a normal thing she could forget about. ...

A light, this side of the hills toward Argyle, / flowed like fog through the hollows, rose to the depth / of the hills, illumined me. I faded in it / as the world faded in me, dissolved in the light. / No one to know and nothing knowable. / Oh, we know that knowing is not our way; / but, the choice is ours, would make it our way, would leave / the world for the same world made knowable.

Dying is easy Senna, living is hard.

With two strokes of a pen, any man can change torture into fortune.

With wings like clear ice, the purple-black fairy flew down and pressed her tiny lips to Ilyenna’s. Suddenly, the cold embraced her like an old friend. She felt as if winter’s secrets were hidden somewhere deep inside her, waiting to be discovered.

Good and evil, joy and sorrow. All things strive for balance. And that means good and bad things end.

She wasn't totally unaware of herself, though. She knew there was pain, but in the same way she knew the sun was hot. It was far away and only tendrils of it reached her.

It's hard to care about people when you're always afraid you might lose them. But I think not caring is worse.

It doesn’t matter how beautiful the wall is if the garden inside is dying. No one can live like that forever.

The choices we make when no one is watching bear more weight than the choices that are forced upon us.

We all lie, Laurel. The world would be worse if we didn’t, but it’s also more brittle because we do.

Strong as stone, supple as a sapling.

Who is this pompous hobgoblin? His jaw had grown square, his belly had gone soft. He was parading like a dictator in jockey shorts and argyle socks.

because everyone knew you knitted argyle socks only for a boyfriend.

Now that we know that Spring Roll is a girl, we should probably think about setting up her room. Gabriel kept his eyes on the road as he drove the Volvo one Saturday morning in May. We should also talk about names. That sounds good. Maybe you should think about what you want and we can go shopping. Julia turned to look at him. Now? I said I'd take you to lunch, and we can do that. But afterward, we need to start thinking about Spring Roll's room. We want it to be attractive, but functional. Something comfortable for you and for her, but not juvenile. She's a baby, Gabriel. Her stuff is going to be juvenile. You know what I mean. I want it to be elegant and not look like a preschool. Good grief. Julia fought a grin as she began imagining what the Professor would design. (Argyle patterns, dark wood, and chocolate brown leather immediately came to mind.) He cleared his throat. I might have done some searching on the Internet. Oh, really? From where? Restoration Hardware? Of course not. He bristled. Their things wouldn't be appropriate for a baby's room. So where then? He gazed at her triumphantly. Pottery Barn Kids. Julia groaned. We've become yuppies. Gabriel stared at her in mock horror. Why do you say that? We're driving a Volvo and talking about shopping at Pottery Barn. First of all, Volvos have an excellent safety rating and they're more attractive than a minivan. Secondly, Pottery Barn's furniture happens to be both functional and aesthetically pleasing. I'd like to take you to one their stores so you can see for yourself. As long as we get Thai food first. Now it was Gabriel's turn to roll his eyes. Fine. But we're ordering takeout and taking it to the park for a picnic. And I'm having Indian food, instead. If I see another plate of pad Thai, I'm going to lose it. Julia burst into peals of laughter.

Joshen tipped her chin up and kissed her. He was always soft and gentle, but today Senna felt an undeniable hunger somewhere deep inside him. He was trying to suppress it. But she didn’t want that. She wanted him to banish the lingering foulness of the curse and the fear that had never released her from its sweaty grasp, replacing all of that with the sweet taste of his mouth.

Their locked hands offered a stark reminder of how many scars lingered … shards of war and distressing anguish forever branded them. Yet in this endearing moment of comfort, their adversity became skinspeak between survivors phoenixing from the ashes of their perilous journey—their burning eagerness for survival overcoming the forces that once tried to stifle their light.

A slow smile spread across his lips as his gaze left my face and raked my body up and down. The guy seemed to be mentally undressing me. As quickly as he mentally removed my clothing, I mentally replaced them with unappealing apparel. An argyle cardigan. A loose jumpsuit. A floral-print muumuu.

You have the freedom and the ability to decide what to do with your life, and that includes learning how to welcome happiness again. It's a conscious choice we each have to make, to emerge from the embers of profound loss and hopelessness, to become the fire that warms us, lights our path, all of it. We can embody that warmth and light.

She shivered as the wind’s fingers painted her skin silver with moonlight.

The basic human craving is for meaning.

A fairy’s kiss also has the power to kill,

Whatever setback you encounter don't give up on your hopes and dreams

The only thing that frightens me about death is that I'll no longer be able to help those in need.

Your past only defines a single trodden path, but who you are here, and now, in this very moment, is another path filled with infinite possibility.

It's not weakness to embrace the inevitable. What matters most is what you do next.

Out here, without the clouds of cigar smoke, there was nothing to compete with the scent of the rich wood panelling, the preparation of savory foods somewhere off in the house and, over that, the subtle sweetness of the more polite Argyll's cologne. It wasn't like the bottle I slipped under Charlie's pillow every Christmas Eve, not quite so familiar. This had a sweeter edge to it, the difference between flowers and berries.

In 1867, George Campbell, Duke of Argyll, had published The Reign of Law, a book that Darwin found deeply annoying. A supporter of Richard Owen, Campbell argued that while evolution (or "Development") might be observable in the fossil record, it was merely evidence of God's purpose. God, for example, would cause horses and oxen to evolve in time to meet human needs. The brightly colored plumage of birds, Campbell went on, were simply God's decorations of nature for humanity's enjoyment.

He knew that she was watching him but he didn’t look back, simply raised an arm in silent salute and was swallowed by the dark. There was some light though, a bright slice of crescent moon and a scattering of the faintest stars as though someone had flung a handful of diamond dust into the dark. The Queen-Moon, surrounded by all her starry Fays, although she suspected Keats was writing about a full moon and the moon above Argyll Road seemed more like a moon-in-waiting. She was in a—rather poor—poetic mood. It was the enormity of war, she thought, it left you scrabbling for ways to think about it.

But there’s never been anyone? Really?” Sarah shrugs. “Penny and I were tutored at home when we were young . . . but in year ten, there was this one boy.” I rub my hands together. “Here we go—tell me everything. I want all the sick, lurid details. Was he a footballer? Big and strong, captain of the team, the most popular boy in school?” I could see it. Sarah’s delicate, long and lithe, but dainty, beautiful—any young man would’ve been desperate to have her on his arm. In his lap. In his bed, on the hood of his car, riding his face . . . all of the above. “He was captain of the chess team.” I cover my eyes with my hand. “His name was Davey. He wore these adorable tweed jackets and bow ties, he had blond hair, and was a bit pale because of the asthma. He had the same glasses as I and he had a different pair of argyle socks for every day of the year.” “You’re messing with me, right?” She shakes her head. “Argyle socks, Sarah? I am so disappointed in you right now.” “He was nice,” she chides. “You leave my Davey alone.” Then she laughs again—delighted and free. My cock reacts hard and fast, emphasis on hard. It’s like sodding granite. “So what happened to old Davey boy?” “I was alone in the library one day and he came up and started to ask me to the spring social. And I was so excited and nervous I could barely breathe.” I picture how she must’ve looked then. But in my mind’s eyes she’s really not any different than she is right now. Innocent, sweet, and so real she couldn’t deceive someone if her life depended on it. “And then before he could finish the question, I . . .” I don’t realize I’m leaning toward her until she stops talking and I almost fall over. “You . . . what?” Sarah hides behind her hands. “I threw up on him.” And I try not to laugh. I swear I try . . . but I’m only human. So I end up laughing so hard the car shakes and I can’t speak for several minutes. “Christ almighty.” “And I’d had fish and chips for lunch.” Sarah’s laughing too. “It was awful.” “Oh you poor thing.” I shake my head, still chuckling. “And poor Davey.” “Yes.” She wipes under her eyes with her finger. “Poor Davey. He never came near me again after that.” “Coward—he didn’t deserve you. I would’ve swam through a whole lake of puke to take a girl like you to the social.” She smiles so brightly at me, her cheeks maroon and round like two shiny apples. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’m all about the compliments.

Your son was accused of a crime he did not commit, was tried for it, condemned—and died in prison. Justice has come too late for him. But such justice as can be done, almost certainly will be done, and will be seen to be done. The Home Secretary will probably advise the Queen that a free pardon should be granted.” Hester laughed. “A free pardon—for something he didn’t do?” “I know. The terminology always seems unrealistic. But I understand that the custom is for a question to be asked in the House, the reply to which will make it clear that Jack Argyle did not commit the crime for which he was sentenced, and the newspapers will report that fact freely.

Iriel," Cara said with a soft voice. "It's like comparing granite to clay. The clay may take shape more easily, but the granite, once you've chiseled it into place, is so much stronger. For some people, motherhood comes more easily. For others, it takes a hammer and chisel. No one is made for motherhood. Motherhood is made for you.

I had opened the obvious drawer, the top drawer of the room's only dresser, and found myself gazing into a masculine cache of compressed, crumpled things. Wash-worn Brooks Brothers white cotton shorts now a pale shade of gray. Snake-tangled, unpaired argyle socks, all in bright Easter colors like clover ad mauve which still showed fairly crisp near the tops, but down toward the heels were marred by thread pills and snags, and at the toes by the outright abjection of holes. To see laid bare in their entirety those socks, of which I'd heretofore glimpsed only brief merry stripes, when a pant cuff rose up from the rim of a shoe, was like seeing the man himself fully exposed to me--naked.

There were two naked people sitting at the table, though it took Sully’s grandson Will a moment to realize this because, in the center of the table, in addition to a pile of crumpled money, was a mound of clothing and a revolver and, most startling to Will, the lower half of a leg, standing up straight. The leg wore a shoe, a brown wing tip, and a sock, argyle, and above the sock the leg was pink, the color of Will’s own skin when his mother or Grandma Vera drew his bathwater too hot and he’d stayed in it too long. Near the top of the limb was what looked like some sort of complex harness. Because he was busy trying to account for this leg, he didn’t immediately notice the two naked people. “Oh,

You’re quite right,” said MacMaster. “You’re putting your finger on the thing that matters. If you think it over, you know, that’s always the interesting part of any murder. What the person was like who was murdered. Everybody’s always so busy inquiring into the mind of the murderer. You’ve been thinking, probably, that Mrs. Argyle was the sort of woman who shouldn’t have been murdered.” “I should imagine that everyone felt that.” “Ethically,” said MacMaster, “you’re quite right. But you know”—he rubbed his nose—“isn’t it the Chinese who held that beneficence is to be accounted a sin rather than a virtue? They’ve got something there, you know. Beneficence does things to people. Ties ’em up in knots. We all know what human nature’s like. Do a chap a good turn and you feel kindly towards him. You like him. But the chap who’s had the good turn done to him, does he feel so kindly to

The key point here is Macaulay’s belief that “knowledge and reflection” on the part of the Hindus, especially the Brahmanas, would cause them to give up their age-old belief in anything Vedic in favor of Christianity. The purpose was to turn the strength of Hindu intellectuals against their own kind by utilizing their commitment to scholarship in uprooting their own tradition, which Macaulay viewed as nothing more than superstitions. His plan was to educate the Hindus to become Christians and turn them into collaborators. He persisted with this idea for fifteen years until he found the money and the right man for turning his utopian idea into reality. He needed someone who would translate and interpret the Vedic texts in such a way that the newly educated Indian elite would see the superiority of the Bible and choose that over everything else. Upon his return to England, after a good deal of effort he found a talented but impoverished young German Vedic scholar by name Friedrich Max Muller who was willing to take on the arduous job. Macaulay used his influence with the East India Company to find funds for Max Muller’s translation of the Rig Veda. Though an ardent German nationalist, Max Muller agreed for the sake of Christianity to work for the East India Company, which in reality meant the British Government of India. He also badly needed a major sponsor for his ambitious plans, which he felt he had at last found. The fact is that Max Muller was paid by the East India Company to further its colonial aims, and worked in cooperation with others who were motivated by the superiority of the German race through the white Aryan race theory. This was the genesis of his great enterprise, translating the Rig Veda with Sayana's commentary and the editing of the fifty-volume Sacred Books of the East. In this way, there can be no doubt regarding Max Muller’s initial aim and commitment to converting Indians to Christianity. Writing to his wife in 1866 he observed: “It [the Rig Veda] is the root of their religion and to show them what the root is, I feel sure, is the only way of uprooting all that has sprung from it during the last three thousand years.” Two years later he also wrote the Duke of Argyle, then acting Secretary of State for India: “The ancient religion of India is doomed. And if Christianity does not take its place, whose fault will it be?” This makes it very clear that Max Muller was an agent of the British government paid to advance its colonial interests. Nonetheless, he still remained an ardent German nationalist even while working in England. This helps explain why he used his position as a recognized Vedic and Sanskrit scholar to promote the idea of the “Aryan race” and the “Aryan nation,” a theory amongst a certain class of so-called scholars, which has maintained its influence even until today.

Even when you're keeping score, golf is all about focusing on the shot at hand, the total score being a sum of those shots. On magic mushrooms, each shot was an act of self-expression - a karate kick, a pirouette, a paintbrush stroke. The course was an aren, a stage, and a canvas. That's the way it felt playing in the backcountry, too. Going beyond the simple visual appreciation of a landscape and interacting with it beyond the reach of the physical body. Launching shots across canyons and rivers and down mountainsides and beaches. The motion of the body determining the motion of the ball - its flight an extension of the body like a spider riding the wind on a silken thread or a perfectly cast fly arcing down onto the surface of the water. This is the part of the game that is hard for nongolfers to see. You have to play to feel it. It isn't visible through the TV screen or from outside the picket fences and privet hedges. The forest gets lost in tress of tartan and argyle, visors and V-necks. Golf seems to be one thing but is very much another, and backcountry golf and mushroom night golf are as true to the nature of the game as any stuffy country club championship or Saturday Nassau or fourball.

right now my mind is full of images, an overwhelming flood of memories and ideas—you have any idea how many memories are buried in the mind? Fishing for bluegill on Lake Argyle with my father, the hook caught in his thumb, forcing it through the other side and cutting it off with wirecutters, the severed barb flying dangerously into the air spinning its cut facet gleaming in the sun and I jerking back for fear it would plunge into my eye, squinting protectively, opening my eyes again it is mud, all mud, a universe of mud and the mortar shell has just taken flight, my fingers jammed into my ears, the smell of the explosion penetrating my sinuses making them clench up and bleed, the shell exploding in the trees, a puff of white smoke but the trees are still there and the gunfire still raining down like hailstones on the cellar door on the day that the tornado wrecked our farmhouse and we packed into my aunt’s fruit cellar and I looked up at the stacked mason jars of rhubarb and tomatoes and wondered what would happen to us when the glass shattered and flew through the air like the horizontal sleet of Soldier Field on the day that I caught five for eighty-seven yards and put such a hit on Cornelius Hayes that he took five minutes to get up. God, I can see my entire life!

He was talking animatedly to two senior ladies, dressed in enough finery to buy the average home, no doubt. He brought one of their hands to his mouth, and then her friend's. He was such a charmer. I was charmed from here. "He gets that from me," Feragal growled into my ear, leaving me to Ciaran, now making his way towards me. I watched him stride certainly all the way to where I waited for him. "Wow," he said, placing his hand at my waist, grazing his thumb over the detailing of the sash there. I was going to kiss Martha again when I got home. "I like your sporran." I grinned. "I like your everything," he countered, leaning in to kiss my cheek. "You look beautiful, Holly." And I was done for the night. I could spill food down myself, trip over, whatever. The look in Ciaran's eyes was what I'd most wanted from the evening, and I already had it. To tuck away and keep forever.

There is nothing better than being on the water." Captain Argyle Arbuckle

Destiny was real and it stood before her in a sharp black suit, red tie, and argyle socks.

The later years of the Romans, who abandoned Britain in 410, were perturbed by attacks of the Scoti (Scots) from Ireland, and it is to a settlement in Argyll of “Dalriadic” Scots from Ireland about 500 A.D. that our country owes the name of Scotland.

Again starting with an unusual Y-chromosome, they noticed its occurrence in a related set of surnames that were linked to branches of the Ui Neill, the clan that had held the High Kingship at Tara, and had expelled the Dál Riata to Argyll. The Ui Neill equivalent of Somerled was Niall Noigiallach, better known as Niall of the Nine Hostages, who lived in the second half of the fourth century AD. This was a time when the Romans were beginning to withdraw from mainland Britain. According to legend, Niall raided and harassed western Britain and specialized in capturing and then ransoming high-ranking hostages, hence his soubriquet. His most famous captive was one Succat, who went on to become St Patrick. Niall’s military exploits carried him over the sea to Scotland, where he fought the Picts who were trying to retake the recent Irish colonies of Dalriada. It was during a raid even further afield, in France, that an arrow from the bow of an Irish rival killed Niall on the banks of the River Loire in AD 405. Niall was succeeded in the High Kingship by his nephew, Dathi, his father’s brother’s son. This was typical of the Gaelic tradition of derbhfine, the rules of inheritance that chose the new king from among the direct male relatives of the old. This served to ensure the patrilineal inheritance of the High Kingship itself

The best hazels for lichens are found in woodlands where hazel forms the dominant canopy, on ridges and knolls or slopes close to the sea. Prime examples are found at Ballachuan Hazelwood SWT Reserve (on the Isle of Seil, Argyll), south of Drimnin (Morvern), Struidh Wood (on Eigg) and Resipole Ravine (Sunart).

It’s so awful when people are always right. It’ makes you feel more and more inadequate. - Hester Argyle

From their rooms, the boys watched Princeton alumni stroll around the golf course wearing their knickerbockers, high argyle socks, and tweed caps.

He shrugged. “Wardof didn’t say and I didn’t

The historian Major-General Sir David Stewart of Garth described them as an ‘excellent, orderly regiment of well-behaved serviceable men, fit for any duty’ and the novelist Sir Walter Scott used his journal to call them a ‘regiment of Sutherland giants’. (One of their number was Samuel McDonald, a native of Lairg, who was seven feet four inches tall. Throughout the army he was known as ‘Big Sam’.)

Charles wore khaki Dockers, with monochrome argyle socks and leather tasseled loafers. The temperature was only supposed to be sixty-five, so he wore a pale blue rugby shirt. He put his feet up on the table and crossed his ankles.

Talk turned to current affairs. When the Bush-Gore election came up, Michael noted, “We discovered that to the credit of Gore he said his favourite book was Le Rouge et Le Noir.” Stendhal was one of Michael’s all-time favourites. “That settled things for Michael,” I said. “Yes,” he quickly agreed. “How’s Plymouth Argyle doing Michael?” Peter asked. “It’s dreadful. We’ve had the worst beginning of a season for years,” Michael replied, dropping his voice in disgust. “So we don’t need to press that subject.” We all laughed. Michael started to rise with his usual stagger. “Are you all right, Michael?” Emma asked. “Just let people help you,” Celine suggested. “I know,” Michael said. “You must do it,” Celine insisted. “You’ve always been independent, but it’s not in your best interests.” Celine was the only one of Michael’s friends who was quite this direct with him. While in Bermuda, Celine and Peter had provided a wheelchair for Michael, so that he could get around more quickly. Celine pressed her case in a jolly way, nearly always punctuating her remarks with laughter. A former centrefold, she was short and zaftig. She recommended that Michael find a nice girl with long hair to give him a massage. “It might work,” Michael agreed. He kept saying his legs had been getting better in Dubrovnik. I saw no sign of that, but I did marvel at how he negotiated the three sets of stairs from the kitchen to the living room (at street level) and then up another flight to where Jill’s study and his library are and then yet another all the way up to his bedroom. It was a very long haul that he laboriously

Water, Plants, and Sunlight.

Let not the curse of Witches Destroy a land of natural riches. Plants, preserve life in thy roots, Seeds sleep in earth, send forth no shoots Until the Witches shall disperse This terrible and unjust curse.   She

Love isn't something that fades with time. It just grows sharper with longing.

There is so much beauty in life, there is more than enough so that no child should go to bed hungry. We can only achieve this noble goal when caring hearts reach out - let's keep hope alive.

For every innocent, there is also evil.

Dying is a lot easier than living through hell.

Her hair was in two French braids, and she was wearing a blue-and-white flowered cotton pajama top, a necklace of large red beads, yellow denim shorts, yellow-and-mint green argyle socks, and pink flip-flops.

He met her gaze head on. “That the witches in Kalari

Brusenna

Atât timp cât un număr suficient de oameni cred că e autentic, chiar e.

O viață petrecută lucrând sub egida Ministerului Apărării îl învățase o sumedenie de tehnici de supraviețuire într-o lume care făcea ca lupta armată să pară civilizată și plină de stil.

Of course, thousands of years of traditional masculinity weren't going away without a fight. They lingered in the vestigial memories of men, occasionally challenging a decision to read the directions or wear argyle, hoping for a day when a hurtling piece of space rock will send the world back to a time before the advent of styling gels.

A te trezi, în Roma ca și în oricare alt oraș, e o treabă personală și cel mai bine e să o rezolvi în liniște.

... o zi fără înghețată era o zi pierdută.

Dar Bottando știa, datorită unei înțelepciuni ascuțite în ani întregi de activitate, că nu exista nici un document care să ateste că responsabilitatea nu-i mai aparținea, iar asta era îngrijorător.

Tommaso nu voise decât un strat de protecție între el și responsabilitate, în cazul în care se întâmpla ceva rău.

Nu pot să spun că sunt mulțumit. Dar asta este. Ce poți face? Oamenii ăștia insistă să împartă faima cu mine.

I tell you: that man has balls, bigger balls than he knows.

It's the second of September, and everything is changing -- the pace of the streets, the weight of the air -- as nature turns its colors in gold anticipation. Summer has yawned its last afternoon, our espadrilles have been traded for argyle, and everyone is walking with a briskness in their step. Fall is my favorite season. It feels like life is moving, the world is tilting, the hemisphere is bowing its annual curtsy to meet the coming chill. I think I love fall because I love new beginnings.

In the year 1868, famous Indologist Max Muller wrote in a letter to the Duke of Argyll, who was the then Secretary of Education to India, “India had been conquered once, but India must be conquered again and that second conquest must be a conquest by education.” In one letter, which Muller wrote to his wife, it has been revealed that he was especially employed to translate the Vedas in such a way that the Hindus lose faith in them.

Re-center Your Focus Take Obedient Action

were saddened because of the fear that the king will kill then,

one, but the name of its aboriginal island still apparently brings a sense of true north to all these conductors, brakemen, lawyers, salesmen, and football coaches. Not long ago, it occurred to me that although all my clansmen in America had talked for so long about Colonsay, as far as I knew none of them had ever been there. For that matter, all that I knew about it was that it was one of the Hebrides, in the islands of Argyll. As soon as I could, I took my wife and our four young daughters and went to live for a while on Colonsay.

A fit and lean lifestyle starts with desire

October, the vast majority of the Scottish lords were behind Lord James and Argyll.

Religion—even true religion—has a tendency to twist itself into nothing more than justification for human turpitude.

Charles Archibald Argyle III is so perfectly pedigreed, he should wear a crown. But the cat doesn’t wear a crown—he wears a knit vest in navy blue. May evenings can still be chilly, after all, and Charles Archibald Argyle III is hairless. He sits at the end of my bed, curled on his fleece blanket, watching as I prepare to meet my new “associates.” I stand in my closet, a scowl on my face, scanning rows upon rows of outfits.

but the most glamorous was undeniably Theresa’s granny, Margaret, Duchess of Argyll. In fact she was probably the most glamorous woman I’ve ever met. Margaret had the looks of Ava Gardner, the balls of Bette Davis and the sex drive of Peter Stringfellow.

If you’re not strong enough without him, you’ll never be strong enough with him.

Sacra repacked her kit, each item in its place. “This isn’t about Joshen. This is about you. If you’re not strong enough without him, you’ll never be strong enough with him.” Leaning forward, she rested her hand on Senna’s arm. “You owe it to him, to yourself, to become the woman you’re meant to be.

None of us are ever free, Larkin, but we can choose the chains that bind us.