Ariel Best Quotes

Want to talk third wave feminism, you could cite Ariel Levy and the idea that women have internalized male oppression. Going to spring break at Fort Lauderdale, getting drunk, and flashing your breasts isn't an act of personal empowerment. It's you, so fashioned and programmed by the construct of patriarchal society that you no longer know what's best for yourself. A damsel too dumb to even know she's in distress.

She sees the image of God in human beings, he thought, even when they are not at their best.

Forgive is the last best thing i can do.

I can promise that I’ll always try to be the best version of myself for you.

Maybe it goes without saying that if you want to become a famous writer before you’re dead, you’ll have to write something. But the folks in my classes with the biggest ideas and the best publicity shots ready to grace the back covers of their best-selling novels are also usually the ones who aren’t holding any paper.

feel like a soulmate implies some sort of…divine intervention. I think the best love stories come from the people who say that love came out of nowhere for them, not from the people who were looking for love in the first place.

Still, you can’t deny that, like goldfish and gummies, The Little Mermaid is fucking magical. I still feel sparkles in my stomach when I watch it. Despite Ariel wearing an ocean bra for most of that movie, and despite the fact that a man ultimately saves her from an evil plus-sized sea witch, and despite Ariel ditching her entire family for this man just because he’s a handsome prince, I gave in and showed The Little Mermaid to Mari on repeat. Those songs are also the shit. I’m a sucker for a drunk seagull best friend and since this is a safe space free of judgment: Ariel’s dad is kinda hot? I still find my feelings about King Triton confusing. He looks like Santa with abs and a tail.

I think if two people are meant to be together, then they will be. I don’t know if that makes them soulmates though. I feel like a soulmate implies some sort of…divine intervention. I think the best love stories come from the people who say that love came out of nowhere for them, not from the people who were looking for love in the first place.

Be better than me. Do good in this world. Be selfless and passionate and never let go of the way you choose to see the best in everyone.

I try my best to not let my eyes trail down his body and drink him in, but what can I say? He’s hot, and I have eyes. And a vagina.

I would tell him what it felt like to stand in that stadium and watch Jesse Owens beat Adolf Hitler’s best runners to win the gold medal. And then, what it felt like, afterward, to interview the son of black sharecroppers from Alabama knowing that he had just changed the world. I would tell him about standing in the shadow of the Hindenburg as it passed over the field.

All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl'd clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality

Still, the facts are always there. Every teacher, every parent, every priest who serves this kind of neighborhood knows what these inequalities imply. So the sweetness of the moment loses something of its sweetness later on when you're reminded of the odds these children face and of the ways injustice slowly soils innocence. You wish you could eternalize these times of early glory. You wish that Elio and Ariel and Pineapple could stay here in this garden of their juvenile timidity forever. You know they can't. You have a sense of what's ahead. You do your best to shut it out. You want to know them as they are. You do not want to think too much of what may someday be.

Do you believe in soulmates, Elena?” I think about it for a long time. Do I? Everyone wants to believe they exist. Everyone wants to believe that there’s someone out there that was always meant to love them. “I think if two people are meant to be together, then they will be. I don’t know if that makes them soulmates though. I feel like a soulmate implies some sort of…divine intervention. I think the best love stories come from the people who say that love came out of nowhere for them, not from the people who were looking for love in the first place.” I squeeze his hand in mine. “Do you believe in soulmates?” The corner of his mouth tilts into a smile. “Not until I found you.

Want to talk third-wave feminism, you could cite Ariel Levy and the idea that women have internalized male oppression. Going to spring break at Fort Lauderdale, getting drunk, and flashing your breasts isn’t an act of personal empowerment. It’s you, so fashioned and programmed by the construct of patriarchal society that you no longer know what’s best for yourself. A damsel too dumb to even know she’s in distress.

Hey, Ariel," Flounder called shyly. "Before you go... could you... could you sing that lullaby? The one you used to sing to me after I lost my mother?" Her eyes widened. "Flounder, you haven't asked me that in years... even before I lost my voice." "And I won't ask again! It's just that" - he looked around. Jona politely pretended to watch something out in the sea, over by the far rocks- "we're alone here. No one from Atlantica is going to hear us. I don't know when you're going to have another chance." And Ariel, who lost her voice for years and had mixed feelings about singing for others, sang more sweetly than she ever had before, or ever would again. And no one heard but one fish, one seagull, the sand and the water and the evening breeze coming over the waves, and the rising moon.

Ariel Lawhon, you know what a terrible human I can be and yet you love me anyway. That’s the true definition of a best friend. Thank you for the gift of your friendship. Ashley was right—it really is like no other.

Grief, what a son of a bitch, Ariel, we have a surfeit of it, far too much, you and me and most of us in this century and the wreckage of centuries that came before. A son of a bitch, but absolutely necessary. Without pain, life means nothing. The tree needs the sound it makes as it falls, so it can be heard, at least in the future, its way of demanding witnesses. Which is why we need funeral rites, great or small, the outpouring of sorrow, the long and short good-bye, like the one your people have just held for Allende, why the worst sin is to disappear a body and deny the mourning, a crime against life because it doesn't allow life to go on, other trees to grow from the soil of the tree as it dies away. And that's why the refrain, do not speak ill of the dead, makes sense. We're not erasing the bad acts, the mistakes and blindness, the cruelty and selfishness, the damage caused to others. But it's healthy to rescue, at least once in each person's odyssey, what's best for the future. And if we become extinct? No last rites, no words about us, no stories told, death will have the last word. So we have to tell that story now, before it's too late.

Ariel learned why humans wore shoes and boots on their feet, how many seasons there were in a year, what telescopes did, and how to spit out the olive seeds from the salad Eric had brought. And in turn, she taught Eric how to read a fish's face for emotion, why Atlantica had been kept a secret from humans, and the best tactics for evading sharks.

She’s my daughter and my best friend,” she says. She has said this all my life.

Thank you’ is the best prayer anyone could say.” —Alice Walker

The Hero with a Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell, The Lessons of History by Will and Ariel Durant, and River Out of Eden by Richard Dawkins.

Historians Will and Ariel Durant have written in The Story of Civilization: The Reformation that at the time of Luther, “a gallon of beer per day was the usual allowance per person, even for nuns.” This may help to explain why beer figures so prominently in the life and writings of the great reformer. He was German, after all, and he lived at a time when beer was the European drink of choice. Moreover, having been freed from what he considered to be a narrow and life-draining religious legalism, he stepped into the world ready to enjoy its pleasures to the glory of God. For Luther, beer flowed best in a vibrant Christian life.

Ariel swam away from the others. She needed to be by herself for a few moments. Resting on a rock, she thought things over. She pulled a pink flower from her hair—Eric had given it to her just before she had left the surface. She loved Eric and wanted to be with him. But she loved her family, too. I have to stay strong, she told herself. I’ll just do the best I can. And if that isn’t enough…well… She’d think about that later. There! Ariel put the flower back in her hair. She did feel a bit better. Slowly, she made her way back to the concert hall. “Hi, Ariel!” called her sisters from inside.

It had been a wonderful life. Not a life full of wonderful event. No, not by a long shot. But a wonderful life in its own way. She’d seen in this war the very worst one human could do to another. But she’d also seen the very best. Perhaps only the people who see the very worst get to see the very best. Or maybe it was just that because she’d seen the worst, she’d been able to recognize the best. That was its own kind of wonderful. Hope, she was discovering, could do that. It could let a person see the glorious light of the sun from even the darkest corner of a dungeon—even if wishing the dungeon there was no way out. Even if the dungeon was the last place you’d see this side of heaven.

The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed. —ERNEST HEMINGWAY

Ariel, when you have children, you’ll find you make decisions according to what you think is best for that child. And we thought it best that Larry not succumb to his homesickness. Now, tell me how your classes are going.

This is how it has been between us for the last few years. I know why, but still, it hurts. The joy of having sons is that they worship their mothers. Until one day, suddenly, they don’t. I am not like you, he realizes. We are different. Then, that boy—once small and sweet—begins the long, hard process of separation, until at last he rips the seam. But the holes where mother and son were once knit together remain. “Sally has been at the house helping Hannah with a quilt.” Jonathan clears his throat. “I was just escorting her home.” “Is that what you were doing?” He doesn’t bother explaining how they came to be parked beneath a tree, pressed up against the wagon. Silence stretches between us, long and awkward. “Perhaps you’d best get her the rest of the way there.” I meet Sally’s eyes purposefully, then. “Lest you upset her father.

Thank you, Facebook Quizzes, for helping me identify my Disney princess spirit, my old-person name, my mental disorder, and the color of my soul. All in one evening. Best, Ariel Harriet Schizophrenic Mauve.

She knew her husband to be an understanding man. Allowing people their eccentricities, faults, and mess-ups was one of his virtues, something best learned early by anyone who would presume to work with animals.

ARIEL! You're SINGING!" An explosion of grey and white feathers landed on the beach next to them. As soon as he recovered himself, Scuttle threw his wings around her in a gull-y embrace. "I am," she said, stroking his head. "Oh, it's so good to hear you," Scuttle said with a sigh. "It does my old heart... It's just the best." Ariel smiled. There was something specifically beautiful about what he had said: It's so good to hear you. He didn't say anything about her singing, just that it was good to hear her voice. He was genuinely pleased just that she had her voice back- whatever she chose to do with it. This is a friend.

Attina- Ariel didn't spell out the sign; she moved her hand to suggest the robes of a goddess, the sign for Athena, for whom her sister was named. There was an implication of regalness and wisdom; Ariel was appealing to her oldest sister for her best values.

There’s this…gunk on the floor,” she muttered, pushing even harder with the mop. “It’s gross, so be sure you don’t step in it or bring in more…” I took a step sideways. Katie looked up at me with a horrified glance. “Look out!” I jumped. When I landed, I felt something rubbery and squishy beneath one foot. Swallowing heavily, I carefully looked down to see what I was standing in. “Gross!” I yelled, jumping away from the horrible puddle of muck on the floor. “I think someone threw up,” I stammered. “And they threw up a lot.” Katie’s laughter echoed around the cabin. After a moment, the others began to join in. Everyone in the cabin was laughing except me. I was still staring in horror at the stuff on the floor. Katie dropped the mop she was holding with a clatter and moved toward me. When she reached me, she bent over and picked up the gross puddle. “Look, rubber vomit. Isn’t it great?” she asked, giggling. “Don’t you love it?” I felt my mouth drop open. I bet I looked like one of the fish in my fish tank as I stared at Katie and her puddle of rubber vomit. But then I looked at Katie’s face and I couldn’t help it. I had to smile, too. She looked so happy that I’d fallen for her joke. Her green eyes twinkled happily. “This is the best joke I’ve played in ages!” Katie announced. Then she threw her free arm around my shoulders and gave me a big squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re in our cabin! I’ve been wanting to use this for a long time. Denni is no fun to play tricks on. She’s too grumpy! And Ariel doesn’t get my jokes half the time.” Katie giggled again and I noticed that she had a mouthful of braces. “I thought you guys would never come inside! It seemed like I’d been pushing on that mop for hours!

She said, “Everything happens for a reason.” Technically, that is a statement of fact. The reason I was talking to that woman was that she was friends with David. The reason she was friends with David was that he’d moved to the suburbs, where he didn’t know anyone. The reason he didn’t know anyone was that his best friends (his real friends) had grown up with him in those same suburbs and vowed never to return, because even though Westchester is tranquil and wonderfully vegetated, there is an empty stillness that falls there every day from New Year’s until the crocuses come up that can suck the joy right out of life. Was that what she meant?

Ariel, thank you for everything. You helped me more than you'll ever know, and I will forever be grateful. Our first proper encounter may have been you spilling a drink on my fresh white tee, but very quickly you've become someone extremely important in my life. You are by far the best gift I could ask for. Merry Christmas! Love, Trey xxx

I made the best decision of my life twenty-three years ago when I married Ashley Lawhon. He has made all the difference in a life that could have gone either way. That’s a gift and a mercy that cannot be explained. He’s the reason for my laugh lines and also my stretch marks (hello, four children). He is the inspiration for every touching thing that Martha Ballard says about marriage in this book. He’s the reason that I have no interest in writing about bad marriages. He makes me laugh every day. He lets me sleep in every day. He is my best friend, my safe place, my one and only lover. I am who I am today because he has loved me well. That is a thing

I think the best love stories come from the people who say that love came out of nowhere for them, not from the people who were looking for love in the first place.” I squeeze his hand in mine.

I think the best love stories come from the people who say that love came out of nowhere for them, not from the people who were looking for love in the first place.

I read once that when a child experiences trauma, the best way to help them is to talk about it, to hold a light up to their experience, acknowledge it, and say, “This was not your fault.” And with that permission to talk about it should come a space that is safe and supportive, and most importantly, free of whatever the trauma was. But for Zan and me, this was impossible. We carried our traumas with us in our bones and in our faces. We saw our experiences reflected in the shocked and horrified reactions of strangers when they looked at us. We saw our pain in our very reflections. And worst of all, we saw every awful memory reflected in the face of each other. Everything we were at that time, every aspect of our identity, was a result of our suffering.

We buried Paolo with his sex bunny at the foot of a tree in the backyard, where they lie wrapped in an endless embrace in their Mexican serape. For weeks, Lucy looked like she was about to sob. Our home felt empty without that cat; we were palpably down a man. It was a wet, gray winter and it passed slowly with very little daylight. — PERIODICALLY, LUCY WOULD STILL seem drunk. I heard her entering the house while I was taking a shower one afternoon, and I came out wrapped in a yellow towel, excited to see her. But I took one look and saw that it wasn’t really her. There was a blurriness in her eyes, a vacated twist to her facial expression. I felt the floor turn to water under my feet. Lucy had vanished, and in her place someone furtive and messy was telling me things that didn’t add up. Sometimes her speech would be slurred, but usually it was subtle. Something would just be…off. Then a terrible queasiness would slither through me and come out of my mouth in different ways. Sometimes fearful, sad, pleading: “Honey, have you been drinking?” Sometimes unhinged, abject: “I can’t take this anymore.” Sometimes icy, condemning, ruthless: “You’re the worst,” I said once, and meant it. (To my best friend in the world. To the person I had slept next to on a thousand naked nights, I said, You’re the worst.)

It had also been a wonderful life. Not a life entirely full of wonderful events. No, not by a long shot. But a wonderful life in its own way. She’d seen in this war the very worst one human could do to another. But she’d also seen the very best. Perhaps only the people who see the very worst get to see the very best.

It takes decades to really know a man, Dolly. And you’ve barely had weeks with that one. I’d suggest you not assume anything about what he will or will not do.” It’s a hard lesson, but it’s best she learn it now.

Be better than me. Do good in this world. Be selfless and passionate and never let go of the way you choose to see the best in everyone. 

I’ve never been in a relationship. I can’t promise it will always be easy, but I can promise that I’ll always try to be the best version of myself for you.

For the first time, I regret nearly ending my life. I almost missed out on the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Paul McCartney’s solo career, Willie Mays’ last season with the New York Mets, Robert De Niro in Cape Fear, William Jennings Bryan at the Scopes Monkey Trial, John Ashbery’s Flowchart, Georgia O’Keeffe’s last 10 years of paintings, T.S. Eliot’s plays, & John Glenn’s last flight as an astronaut. The Beatles’ Long and Winding Road, Jim Brown’s last season, Keats’ Odes, Mozart’s concertos, Sylvia Plath’s Ariel, Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, Wilfred Owen’s lyrics, & Marie Curie in her laboratory. The former set we recall- if at all- because all of the folk were past their prime- way past. Almost embarrassing were their quests &/or achievements. The latter we recall- & will most likely always do so with fondness & fervor- because they left their respective quests at the height of their powers. It’s how we all hope to be recalled. When we think of an afterlife we always envision ourselves at the prime of our life. Who would want to inhabit a realm filled with yipping old yentas & crusty altacockers? It’s one of the oldest stereotypes there is about the creationary impulse: The fires of youth. One of the great sources of woe for a lot of artists is that just as they get enough time & experience under their belts to gain technical skill in their field, the impulse to do so wanes. There seems to be a brief nexus where the 2- skill & desire- meet & are sustaining. Too young & a lot of crap- with potential- is produced. Too old & little work is made- & what is is skilled but dull, repetitive, & uninteresting. Thus most artists, &/or scientists, have similar careers which graphed would form a nice slowly rising & falling horizontal arc whose rounded apex is between the years 35 & 50. But is it necessarily so? There are examples of such who defy the conventional wisdom in poetry. The 2 best examples in the English language are Wallace Stevens & William Butler Yeats- in fact their poetry probably kept improving with age. But for every Stevens & Yeats there’s the last 20 years of Whitman’s bloated poetry & terrible prose, Hardy’s verse, Pound’s Cantos, Ginsberg’s last 30 years, Ashbery, James Merrill, W.S. Merwin, Muriel Rukeyser, Gwendolyn Brooks, Robert Bly, Quincy Troupe, & on & on.