Arrows Series Quotes

Besides getting several paper cuts in the same day or receiving the news that someone in your family has betrayed you to your enemies, one of the most unpleasant experiences in life is a job interview. It is very nerve-wracking to explain to someone all the things you can do in the hopes that they will pay you to do them. I once had a very difficult job interview in which I had not only to explain that I could hit an olive with a bow and arrow, memorize up to three pages of poetry, and determine if there was poison mixed into cheese fondue without tasting it, but I had to demonstrate all these things as well.

More than Captain America your kids need Amelia Earhart – more than Ant Man, they need Abraham Lincoln - more than Green Arrow they need Gandhi – more than Iron Man they need Isaac Newton.

Time if the inner form of animal sense that animates events-the still frames-of the spatial world. The mind animates the world like the motor and gears of a projector. Each weaves a series of still pictures-a series of spatial states-into an order, into the 'current' of life. Motion is created in our minds by running "film cells" together. Remember that everything you perceive-even this page-is actively, repeatedly, being constructed inside your head. It's happening to you right now. Your eyes cannot see through the wall of the cranium; all experience including visual experience is an organized whirl of information in your brain. If your mind could stop its "motor" for a moment, you'd get a freeze frame, just as the movie projector isolated the arrow in one position with no momentum. In fact, time can be defined as the inner summation of spatial states.

Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.

Life is a series of challenges, adventures, and yes, even battles. There will always be giants to subdue and dragons to slay. I have already decided to die with my sword in hand. There is more courage in us than danger ahead of us. You are strong enough for the battles ahead.

No rule is perfect, but this one works: Our fears point us, like a self-indicting arrow, in the direction of the right thing to do.

Having thought, I have acted, she thought. Let the arrow fly.

Every single negative emotion is an arrow sign pointing towards a problem which needs your attention

The Perfect Master placed bow in his hand and let fly his arrows at where I did stand, one arrow which with his Love he had fired wounded me ceaselessly: my heart pierced.

Khalil Gibran said that parents are like a bow, And children like arrows. The more the bow bends and stretches, the farther the arrow flies. I fly, not because I am special, but because they stretched for me.

No rule is perfect, but this one works: Our fears point us, like a self-indicting arrow, in the direction of the right thing to do. One part of us knows what we ought to do, but the other part reminds us of the inevitable consequences. Fear alerts us to danger, but also to opportunity. If it wasn’t scary, everyone would do it. If it was easy, there wouldn’t be any growth in it. That tinge of self-preservation is the pinging of the metal detector going off. We may have found something. Will we ignore it? Or will we dig?

You have to have approached a place from all four cardinal points if you want to take it in, and what’s more, you also have to have left it from all these points. Otherwise it will quite unexpectedly cross your path three or four times before you are prepared to discover it. One stage further, and you seek it out, you orient your-self by it. The same thing with houses. It is only after having crept along a series of them in search of a very specific one that you come to learn what they contain. From the arches of gates, on the frames of house doors, in letters of varying size, black, blue, yellow, red, in the shape of arrows or in the image of boots or freshly-ironed laundry or a word stoop or a stairway’s solid landing, the life leaps out at you, combative, determined, mute. You have to have traveled the streets by streetcar to realize how this running battle con-tinues up along the various stories and finally reaches its decisive pitch on the roofs.

Live water heals memories. I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays. You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or longing, “This is it.” But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, “Here it comes!” Here it comes. In the far distance I can see the concrete bridge where the road crosses the creek. Under the bridge and beyond it the water is flat and silent, blued by distance and stilled by depth. It is so much sky, a fallen shred caught in the cleft of banks. But it pours. The channel here is straight as an arrow; grace is itself an archer. Between the dangling wands of bankside willows, and Osage orange, I see the creek pour down. It spills toward me streaming over a series of sandstone tiers, down and down, and down. I feel as though I stand at the foot of an infinitely high staircase, down which some exuberant spirit is flinging tennis ball after tennis ball, eternally, and the one thing I want in the world is a tennis ball.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who was admired by all, but no one dared to ask for her hand in marriage. In despair, the king consulted the god Apollo. He told him that Psyche should be dressed in mourning and left alone on top of a mountain. Before daybreak, a serpent would come to meet and marry her. The king obeyed, and all night the princess waited for her husband to appear, deathly afraid and freezing cold. Finally, she slept. When she awoke, she found herself crowned a queen in a beautiful palace. Every night her husband came to her and they made love, but he had imposed one condition: Psyche could have all she desired, but she had to trust him completely and could never see his face.” How awful, I think, but I don’t dare interrupt him. “The young woman lived happily for a long time. She had comfort, affection, joy, and she was in love with the man who visited her every night. However, occasionally she was afraid that she was married to a hideous serpent. Early one morning, while her husband slept, she lit a lantern and saw Eros, a man of incredible beauty, lying by her side. The light woke him, and seeing that the woman he loved was unable to fulfill his one request, Eros vanished. Desperate to get her lover back, Psyche submitted to a series of tasks given to her by Aphrodite, Eros’s mother. Needless to say, her mother-in-law was incredibly jealous of Psyche’s beauty and she did everything she could to thwart the couple’s reconciliation. In one of the tasks, Psyche opened a box that makes her fall into a deep sleep.” I grow anxious to find out how the story will end. “Eros was also in love and regretted not having been more lenient toward his wife. He managed to enter the castle and wake her with the tip of his arrow. ‘You nearly died because of your curiosity,’ he told her. ‘You sought security in knowledge and destroyed our relationship.’ But in love, nothing is destroyed forever. Imbued with this conviction, they go to Zeus, the god of gods, and beg that their union never be undone. Zeus passionately pleaded the cause of the lovers with strong arguments and threats until he gained Aphrodite’s support. From that day on, Psyche (our unconscious, but logical, side) and Eros (love) were together forever.” I pour another glass of wine. I rest my head on his shoulder. “Those who cannot accept this, and who always try to find an explanation for magical and mysterious human relationships, will miss the best part of life.

Sargent painted a series of three portraits of the author Robert Louis Stevenson and the second, Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson and his Wife (1885), is now one of the artist’s best known portraits. Completed less than a year before the publication of the hugely popular The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Sargent depicts Stevenson pacing before us, while his wife Fanny is seated in background to the right of the door. Reviews were mixed about the painting, with some critics feeling that the arrangement of the composition was odd and the depiction of the novelist was unflattering. However, Stevenson thought Sargent had correctly captured his odd manner of fidgeting about the room while he was trying to write. When Sargent painted the canvas, he wrote to Henry James and said that Stevenson “seemed to me the most intense creature I had ever met.” Sargent was twenty-nine years old at the time and Stevenson was thirty-four and at the height of his most productive period. He had just published Treasure Island in book form in 1883, his first full-length novel, and his popularity only grew in the public’s eye with The Black Arrow (1883), A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885) and Kidnapped (1886). Interestingly, Portrait of Robert Louis Stevenson and his Wife sold in 2004 for $8.8 million to the Las Vegas casino mogul Steve Wynn to be installed at his newest casino, Wynn Las Vegas.

Learning, like more primitive forms of feedback, is a process which reads differently forward and backward in time. The whole conception of the apparently purposive organism, whether it is mechanical, biological, or social, is that of an arrow with a particular direction in the stream of time rather than that of a line segment facing both ways which we may regard as going in either direction.

near the doorway that led to the courtyard, suddenly reminding me of when he and I departed down that eastern road so many days ago... I turned and smiled. “Goodbye for now,” I said to the Minecraftians. “Bye, Skeleton Steve,” Xenocide99 said. “You want some more arrows?” “Sure,” I said, and I took what he gave me and stuffed the ammo into my pack. “Goodbye, Skeleton Steve!” LuckyMist said with a smile and wet eyes. She rushed me and gave me a fierce hug! My bones clunked. “We’ll visit soon, okay??” “You’ll be on a huge, weird mountain north of a zombie-infested village to the east, huh?” WolfBroJake asked, clapping me on the shoulder with an armored hand. “Yeah, basically,” I replied. “There’s also a really big, blue lake. And the tower is on the smaller of the two huge peaks.” “Take care, bro,” the warrior said. “See you soon.” “Bye, Slinger!!” LuckyMist exclaimed. “Take care of Skeleton Steve!” Slinger clicked his fangs together and smiled. “I will. Goodbye for now, Minecraftians!” The female Minecraftian then ran up to Elias and gave the Enderman a huge hug as well. “Goodbye again, Elias! Visit us soon, okay??” “I will, LuckyMist...” the Enderman ninja replied, returning the hug and cupping her cheek with a large, black hand. “Goodbye, my friends; Xenocide99, WolfBroJake...” “Bye, Elias,” the warrior replied. “Goodbye for now,” I said again to all of them. With that, I hopped onto Slinger’s back in the courtyard colored by the late afternoon sun, and we—along with Elias, Eridar, and Eirzon—departed to the east...

If you come across a blue, glowing rabbit running in forested areas, shoot it with an arrow, and it will leave rupees everywhere. If you want even more rupees, quietly sneak up on it and hit it repeatedly with a weapon. It will give you more rupees than shooting it with an arrow. Breath of the Wild Tip 34 You can use Cryonis to cross large bodies of water and deadly swamps without exhausting your staminal. However, use caution when it is raining. The blocks will be extra slippery and may cause you to fall off.

Wait! You fool!" Braydon shouted from far behind. "Raaaauuggghhh!!" Steve shouted, charging down the hillside. His blood was rushing in his arms and leg, his heart felt like it was on fire, and he couldn't keep from smiling! He grinned from ear to ear as he charged the squad of six wither skeletons heading through the desert toward the western sun. He was looking forward to a battle. Braydon had told him to charge, after all... It was fine. He could take them. None of them had armor. They weren't armed with bows. They clearly had nothing more than stone swords. Steve could already imagine their bones shattering under his wooden weapon. It would have been nicer to have a better blade, but maybe he could take one of theirs. "I'm charging!" Steve shouted back to Braydon, who was now somewhere up the slope behind him. The six skeletons all turned to look at Steve without expression. They held their stone swords high and faced the incoming Minecraftian warrior. "But let me soften them up a little first!" Braydon shouted back from yet farther away. It was fine. Steve charged on, anticipating the moment he dove into combat. He visualized his sword plowing through the first blackened ribcage and extended it to his side, low, ready... No problem. Skeletons were slow. He'd be able to run circles around— The six dark skeletons suddenly burst into a surprising run. They charged at him. Their bones clunked from afar. Steve balked. Dang. Not normal skeletons! Two arrows streaked past him from Braydon. One hit one skeleton, then the other hit a second. The two struck wither skeletons stumbled with arrows in their ribs, but kept coming. Gosh—they were fast! Just as fast as Steve was! Then, they were on him. All of the wither skeletons moved to surround Steve, but he expected that. He was just sorry to see them all moving so quickly. He was supposed to dominate them with his speed. Oh well. He'd have to try something else.

From the silent bow, the arrow flies." - Til Aarron, Bard of the Longmarchers

I strung a crystal arrow through my bow and shot it straight through one of the fox’s hearts.

arrows in both eyes, and the other two had lost one eye each, but it didn’t seem to be stopping them. “Argh! What are those things?!” Carl shouted, and he staggered backward into the glitchy white cloud. Dave wanted

Porkins was right, Dave knew. There wasn’t much else that he, Carl and Porkins could do apart from watch. They didn’t want to hurt Spidroth, so they couldn’t fire arrows at her or attack her with swords. Plus, Spidroth was such an amazing fighter that Alex was the only one who stood a chance against her in battle.

Every church starts out saying, “What if …” and the rest of the sentence is about how we could reach out. After a while we start saying, “What if …” and the rest of the sentence is about us. Is it selfishness setting in? I used to think it was a spiritual problem. Now I think it’s the natural progression of an organization’s life cycle. The longer you are together as a group, the more aware you become of each other’s needs, and the more responsive you become to each other’s needs. Slowly the arrows get turned in. It is a natural progression. But a natural progression is not what we want. We want a supernatural progression. We want God to help us so lost people are continually prioritized. It’s time to love the pitcher less and the water more.

Relevance, Clarity, and Accuracy “Relevance” and “accuracy” refer to how well your ad copy matches what’s on your landing page. “Clarity” covers a wider variety of sins you’ll need to avoid, including:          Missing lines of text          Excessive spacing          “Extremely bad grammar” (This is Google’s exact wording, implying that they’ll allow a modicum of imperfect grammar.)          Generic call-to-action phrases (such as “click here” or “+1”).          Using characters for anything other than their intended or usual meaning. For example, the greater-than “>” symbol is fine if you’re using it to indicate that something actually is greater than something else. But you can’t use it as an arrow.          Words in all-capitals          Bad spelling          Repetition. For example, “Buy! Buy! Buy!” would be flagged as unacceptable. Follow the above guidelines when you build your ads and you’ll be fine 99 percent of the time. Still, be sure and visit the AdWords Policy Center page and review their directions. SYSTEMATICALLY

They waited. Reiko let the silence and the sounds fill her. Having thought, I have acted, she thought. Let the arrow fly. In

Next release Shooting the Arrow (3rd series of Getting To Know Anonymous)

To the side on the lower level was a room where all the sporting and hunting equipment was kept in lockers. Tyrell ruled this area and—by now—he had returned to it. He looked up when Aidan came running in with Sheridan’s bow and quiver. “I was wondering if I’d see you back here,” he said as he checked everything over. “Found all her arrows, but one, but it’s okay. She probably buried it in the hay.” “Like a needle in a haystack?” mused Aidan.

When his dead father touched his hand, Athson almost dropped the arrow.

When his dead father touched his hand, Athson almost dropped the arrow." From The Bow of Destiny

Ok Kevin," he said to himself, "We were born for this! If we are ever going to find Laura then we can't be scared of the dark, can we?" He knew he had to press on, for both their sakes. He felt so awful thinking of her alone and scared, and probably always in danger. He knew the best help he could give her right now was to never give up. He knew he would find her, but he also knew he needed more supplies. He was going to hurry to his base to stock up, and then resume his journey. Taking a deep breath he said aloud, "On the count of three we'll run... ONE...TWO ... GO!!!" Kevin sprang from the tunnel entrance and launched towards the direction of his home. As he zoomed through the valley, he was pretty sure he passed a dozen spiders, some skeletons (arrows whizzed past his head a few times), and definitely a few zombies (he could hear their deep moans all around him). But it didn't matter; he just kept on running, passing through low-hanging tree branches and leaves as he went. He was so intent on reaching his home that he didn't see the drop off just a few blocks ahead of him, and went flying over the edge before his mind even registered what was happening. Falling

Our Lord God says to each of these souls; “You shall not follow the multitude to do evil: neither shall you yield in judgment to the opinion of the most part.” [941] Vices, and the wicked and their ways and customs unite to do evil; they defend and help each other in their ill-doings. They will not succeed, but when they seem most in accord, they will be bound in bundles to be thrown into hell, where they will pay dearly for the cool and shady road by which they travelled in their life-time.   The judgment and opinions of such people must neither be approved nor followed, for the more there are who share them, the more go astray. Christ alone goes rightly, and all who do not follow him are on the wrong track. You must not be surprised that only one does well and many fail, for there is but one way of hitting the mark—to aim the arrow straight at it—and there are countless ways of missing it. To hit the bull's-eye that wins everlasting life, go by the straight, direct road taken by Christ our Redeemer.

You imagine that you have enemies, though no one wishes you ill; you take to yourself a remark that was not meant for you; the speaker was not thinking of you, but you conjecture that the arrow was aimed at yourself. You have wounded yourself with children's weapons, with words of little meaning. You are so touchy and sensitive that people dare not speak to you, lest you should feel wounded when not attacked and complain without reason. Do not be so sensitive , be wide-minded; remember how Saul heard what was said against him and pretended not to know, letting it pass, and afterwards, when he could have avenged himself, despised reprisals.[1114]

Hamlet. “To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heartache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come . . .

You didn't almost kill me." "I shot an arrow at you!" she snapped. His head tilted to the side, his dark hair spilled across his forehead. "That hardly counts." Irritation shot through her, she clasped the towel to her as she knelt on the bed to face him. "Then give me another one and this time I'll make it count!

She turned back to him slowly, those eyes of hers meeting his until he felt the impact all the way through his body, as if she'd shot an arrow and it was lodged in the vicinity of his heart. He had to resist putting his hand over his chest and pressing hard.

Every single negative emotion is an arrow sign pointing towards a problem which needs your attention!

if Gay Cupid had miraculously shown up and shot an arrow into Ben’s extremely toned ass,

With clear targets, Apollo’s archers had flawless aim. Most of them could nock five or six arrows at once.

Dang it!” I exclaimed, looking ahead again. “The face-statue thing shoots arrows! What was that?! What’d I get stuck on?!

The Titan army ringed the building, standing maybe ten metres from the doors. Kronos’s vanguard was in the lead – Ethan Nakamura, the dracaena queen in her green armour and two Hyperboreans. I didn’t see Prometheus. The slimy weasel was probably hiding back at their headquarters. But Kronos himself stood right in front with his scythe in hand. The only thing standing in his way was … ‘Chiron,’ Annabeth said, her voice trembling. If Chiron heard us, he didn’t answer. He had an arrow notched, aimed straight at Kronos’s face.

Blessed are the meek, for they are barricaded from the shots of the devil's artillery and the persecutions of this world by sacks of wool. They are like glass vessels packed in hay or straw to preserve them from jarring. Meekness is the strong shield by which the arrows of wrath are broken or turned aside. The meek are clothed in very soft cotton which defends them perfectly without offence to anyone.

As the battle began Ivo Taillefer, the minstrel knight who had claimed the right to make the first attack, advanced up the hill on horseback, throwing his lance and sword into the air and catching them before the English army. He then charged deep into the English ranks, and was slain. The cavalry charges of William’s mail-clad knights, cumbersome in manœuvre, beat in vain upon the dense, ordered masses of the English. Neither the arrow hail nor the assaults of the horsemen could prevail against them. William’s left wing of cavalry was thrown into disorder, and retreated rapidly down the hill. On this the troops on Harold’s right, who were mainly the local “fyrd”, broke their ranks in eager pursuit. William, in the centre, turned his disciplined squadrons upon them and cut them to pieces. The Normans then re-formed their ranks and began a second series of charges upon the English masses, subjecting them in the intervals to severe archery. It has often been remarked that this part of the action resembles the afternoon at Waterloo, when Ney’s cavalry exhausted themselves upon the British squares, torn by artillery in the intervals. In both cases the tortured infantry stood unbroken. Never, it was said, had the Norman knights met foot-soldiers of this stubbornness. They were utterly unable to break through the shield-walls, and they suffered serious losses from deft blows of the axe-men, or from javelins, or clubs hurled from the ranks behind. But the arrow showers took a cruel toll. So closely, it was said, were the English wedged that the wounded could not be removed, and the dead scarcely found room in which to sink upon the ground. The autumn afternoon was far spent before any result had been achieved, and it was then that William adopted the time-honoured ruse of a feigned retreat. He had seen how readily Harold’s right had quitted their positions in pursuit after the first repulse of the Normans. He now organised a sham retreat in apparent disorder, while keeping a powerful force in his own hands. The house-carls around Harold preserved their discipline and kept their ranks, but the sense of relief to the less trained forces after these hours of combat was such that seeing their enemy in flight proved irresistible. They surged forward on the impulse of victory, and when half-way down the hill were savagely slaughtered by William’s horsemen. There remained, as the dusk grew, only the valiant bodyguard who fought round the King and his standard. His brothers, Gyrth and Leofwine, had already been killed. William now directed his archers to shoot high into the air, so that the arrows would fall behind the shield-wall, and one of these pierced Harold in the right eye, inflicting a mortal wound. He fell at the foot of the royal standard, unconquerable except by death, which does not count in honour. The hard-fought battle was now decided. The last formed body of troops was broken, though by no means overwhelmed. They withdrew into the woods behind, and William, who had fought in the foremost ranks and had three horses killed under him, could claim the victory. Nevertheless the pursuit was heavily checked. There is a sudden deep ditch on the reverse slope of the hill of Hastings, into which large numbers of Norman horsemen fell, and in which they were butchered by the infuriated English lurking in the wood. The dead king’s naked body, wrapped only in a robe of purple, was hidden among the rocks of the bay. His mother in vain offered the weight of the body in gold for permission to bury him in holy ground. The Norman Duke’s answer was that Harold would be more fittingly laid upon the Saxon shore which he had given his life to defend. The body was later transferred to Waltham Abbey, which he had founded. Although here the English once again accepted conquest and bowed in a new destiny, yet ever must the name of Harold be honoured in the Island for which he and his famous house-carls fought indomitably to the end.

Life is a series of challenges, adventures, and yes, even battles. There will always be giants to subdue and dragons to slay. I have already decided to die with my sword in hand. There is more courage in us than danger ahead of us. You are strong enough for the battles ahead. My intention for this book is that you would never surrender, that you would never settle, that you would save nothing for the next life. May you die with your quivers empty. May you die with your hearts full.

Princess Anna was never more than a few steps away from him. He was beginning to feel like a besieged castle. The man should be the arrow, and the woman should be the target. Here, however, it seemed that the target was flying around trying to run into the arrow. There was something wrong about it.

He took a step closer to me, the laughter still dancing on his face. 'Feeling better today?' I mumbled some noncommittal response. 'Good,' he said, either ignoring or hiding his amusement. 'But just in case, I wanted to give you this,' he added, pulling some papers from his tunic and extending them to me. I bit the inside of my cheek as I stared down at the three pieces of paper. It was a series of five-lined... poems. There were five of them altogether, and I began sweating at words I didn't recognise. It would take me an entire day just to figure out what these words meant. 'Before you bolt or start yelling...' he said, coming around to peer over my shoulder. If I'd dared, I could have leaned back into his chest. His breath warmed my neck, the shell of my ear. He cleared his throat and read the first poem. There once was a lady most beautiful Spirited, if a little unusual Her friends were few But how the men did queue But to all she gave a refusal. My brows rose so high I thought they'd touch my hairline, and I turned, blinking at him, our breath mingling as he finished the poem with a smile. Without waiting for my response, Tamlin took the papers and stepped a pace away to read the second poem, which wasn't nearly as polite as the first. By the time he read the third poem, my face was burning. Tamlin paused before he read the fourth, then handed me back the papers. 'Final word in the second and fourth line of each poem,' he said, jerking his chin toward the papers in my hands. Unusual. Queue. I looked at the second poem. Slaying. Conflagration. 'These are-' I stared. 'Your list of words was too interesting to pass up. And not good for love poems at all.' When I lifted my brow in silent inquiry, he said, 'We had contests to see who could write the dirtiest limericks while I was living with my father's war-band by the border. I don't particularly enjoy losing, so I took it upon myself to become good at them.' I didn't know how he'd remembered that long list I'd compiled- I didn't want to. Sensing I wasn't about to draw an arrow and shoot him, Tamlin took the papers and read the fifth poem, the dirtiest and foulest of them all. When he finished, I tipped back my head and howled, my laughter like sunshine shattering age-hardened ice.