Atmosphere A Love Story Quotes

I hate crickets,” he said. “Yes,” she replied. “Crickets are like cilantro. You either love ‘em or hate ‘em." “Did you just say cilantro?” The look on his face suggested she had just lost her mind. 

We are powerful enough to light the world at night, to artificially refrigerate food, to leave Earth’s atmosphere and orbit it from outer space. But we cannot save those we love from suffering. This is the story of human history as I understand it—the story of an organism that can do so much, but cannot do what it most wants.

Over all crowds there seems to float a vague distress, an atmosphere of pervasive melancholy, as if any large gathering of people creates an aura of terror and pity.

Is that shooting star just a happy accident or has the universe had it planned for a thousand years?” He tilted his face to the sky, his eyes tracking an imaginary star as it screamed to earth. He looked back to her. “Either way, you can’t stop it. You can beg it to slow down or you can just enjoy the show.” “Am I the star in this story or you?” Blake wrinkled his nose and chuckled. “Was that a bad analogy? I meant we’re the star, Livia. Us. This.” He shrugged his shoulders like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Us being in the same atmosphere is either a great cosmic catastrophe or the most serendipitous rendezvous.

We are powerful enough to light the world at night, to artificially refrigerate food, to leave Earth's atmosphere and orbit it from outer space. But we cannot save those we love from suffering. This is the story of human history as I understand it- the story of the organism that can do so much, but cannot do what it most wants.

We are powerful enough to light the world at night, to artificially refrigerate food, to leave Earth’s atmosphere and orbit it from outer space. But we cannot save those we love from suffering. This is the story of human history as I understand it—the story of an organism that can do so much, but cannot do what it most wants. —

There's blindness to new lovers. They exist in the rare atmosphere of their own colony, trusting by sense and feel, creatures consuming each other, building shelters with their hopes. Other worlds cease. I know I felt something as it began, an understanding, foreboding, ordinance, even. Love is never the oldest story. It grows in the rich darkness.

It was the most popular tree-buying destination in Asheville. Lots were everywhere in the mountains of North Carolina—this was Christmas-tree-farm country, after all—so to distinguish themselves, the Drummonds offered friendliness and tradition and atmosphere. And free organic hot apple cider. Asheville loved anything organic. It was that type of town.

The feeling of a full stomach with completely satiated taste buds, a nice atmosphere and good company under a night sky is one of the most pleasant things that one can experience.

.... romance is so much bigger than just a love story. Romance has to do with making things lovely because of love. Romance means absorbing the beauty of life, conversation, atmosphere, places, and surroundings. It means increasing our awareness of the fragrance of pine trees, freshly ground coffee, and sheets drying on the line; hearing the music of waves, children's laughter, and he rain drumming on the roof: seeing the signature of God on His creation. It means drinking the gift of life to the dregs. All to be enjoyed, all to be taken in." p. 17

Another relation crumbles, Another wall goes down, Once sensible in Love, Now they both appear mere clowns. The atmosphere is filled with grief, For no mistake of theirs, even the parents have no relief, Finding fault is now the common norm, And it further increases the storm. Is it that difficult to be in Love? The words took shape when I heard a story of another failure.

Our house was an old Tudor mansion. My father was very particular in keeping the smallest peculiarities of his home unaltered. Thus the many peaks and gables, the numerous turrets, and the mullioned windows with their quaint lozenge panes set in lead, remained very nearly as they had been three centuries back. Over and above the quaint melancholy of our dwelling, with the deep woods of its park and the sullen waters of the mere, our neighborhood was thinly peopled and primitive, and the people round us were ignorant, and tenacious of ancient ideas and traditions. Thus it was a superstitious atmosphere that we children were reared in, and we heard, from our infancy, countless tales of horror, some mere fables doubtless, others legends of dark deeds of the olden time, exaggerated by credulity and the love of the marvelous. ("Horror: A True Tale")

Certain coincidence is wonderful. Certain meetings are memorable. Sometimes you meet some people for just a moment and they leave indelible footprints on your mind. They give you the reasons to ponder over and over. They become your food for thought. Though they go, their presence is felt within the innermost of the heart and the soul; especially when such people were a reason for a smile, or they were a perfect fit for a vacuum or probably they were a heavenly sent or maybe they were an epitome of a great union; when their light could shine to brighten the dark side of our lives; when they knew how to arouse interest even in the face of dull atmosphere; when they did understand silence and know the value and power of words; when even their absence is felt more than their presence. You can’t just forget about such people. Though they leave, they live within our hearts, mind, body and soul.

The first practice is Face-to-Face Sitting. In a convocation of the whole sangha [community], everyone sits together mindfully, breathing and smiling, with the willingness to help, and not with the willingness to fight. This is basic. The two conflicting monks are present, and they know that everyone in the community expects them to make peace. Even before anything is said, the atmosphere of peace is already present. People refrain from listening to stories outside of the assembly, spreading news about this monk or other monks, commenting on the behavior of this monk or the other monks. That would not help. Everything must be said in public, in the community. So the two monks are sitting facing each other, breathing and, how hard, smiling.The second practice is Remembrance.

Though one of the greatest love stories in world literature, Anna Karenin is of course not just a novel of adventure. Being deeply concerned with moral matters, Tolstoy was eternally preoccupied with issues of importance to all mankind at all times. Now, there is a moral issue in Anna Karenin, though not the one that a casual reader might read into it. This moral is certainly not that having committed adultery, Anna had to pay for it (which in a certain vague sense can be said to be the moral at the bottom of the barrel in Madame Bovary). Certainly not this, and for obvious reasons: had Anna remained with Karenin and skillfully concealed from the world her affair, she would not have paid for it first with her happiness and then with her life. Anna was not punished for her sin (she might have got away with that) nor for violating the conventions of a society, very temporal as all conventions are and having nothing to do with the eternal demands of morality. What was then the moral "message" Tolstoy has conveyed in his novel? We can understand it better if we look at the rest of the book and draw a comparison between the Lyovin-Kitty story and the Vronski-Anna story. Lyovin's marriage is based on a metaphysical, not only physical, concept of love, on willingness for self-sacrifice, on mutual respect. The Anna-Vronski alliance was founded only in carnal love and therein lay its doom. It might seem, at first blush, that Anna was punished by society for falling in love with a man who was not her husband. Now such a "moral" would be of course completely "immoral," and completely inartistic, incidentally, since other ladies of fashion, in that same society, were having as many love-affairs as they liked but having them in secrecy, under a dark veil. (Remember Emma's blue veil on her ride with Rodolphe and her dark veil in her rendezvous at Rouen with Léon.) But frank unfortunate Anna does not wear this veil of deceit. The decrees of society are temporary ones ; what Tolstoy is interested in are the eternal demands of morality. And now comes the real moral point that he makes: Love cannot be exclusively carnal because then it is egotistic, and being egotistic it destroys instead of creating. It is thus sinful. And in order to make his point as artistically clear as possible, Tolstoy in a flow of extraordinary imagery depicts and places side by side, in vivid contrast, two loves: the carnal love of the Vronski-Anna couple (struggling amid their richly sensual but fateful and spiritually sterile emotions) and on the other hand the authentic, Christian love, as Tolstoy termed it, of the Lyovin-Kitty couple with the riches of sensual nature still there but balanced and harmonious in the pure atmosphere of responsibility, tenderness, truth, and family joys.

What we feel and how we feel is far more important than what we think and how we think. Feeling is the stuff of which our consciousness is made, the atmosphere in which all our thinking and all our conduct is bathed. All the motives which govern and drive our lives are emotional. Love and hate, anger and fear, curiosity and joy are the springs of all that is most noble and most detestable in the history of men and nations. The opening sentence of a sermon is an opportunity. A good introduction arrests me. It handcuffs me and drags me before the sermon, where I stand and hear a Word that makes me both tremble and rejoice. The best sermon introductions also engage the listener immediately. It’s a rare sermon, however, that suffers because of a good introduction. Mysteries beg for answers. People’s natural curiosity will entice them to stay tuned until the puzzle is solved. Any sentence that points out incongruity, contradiction, paradox, or irony will do. Talk about what people care about. Begin writing an introduction by asking, “Will my listeners care about this?” (Not, “Why should they care about this?”) Stepping into the pulpit calmly and scanning the congregation to the count of five can have a remarkable effect on preacher and congregation alike. It is as if you are saying, “I’m about to preach the Word of God. I want all of you settled. I’m not going to begin, in fact, until I have your complete attention.” No sermon is ready for preaching, not ready for writing out, until we can express its theme in a short, pregnant sentence as clear as crystal. The getting of that sentence is the hardest, most exacting, and most fruitful labor of study. We tend to use generalities for compelling reasons. Specifics often take research and extra thought, precious commodities to a pastor. Generalities are safe. We can’t help but use generalities when we can’t remember details of a story or when we want anonymity for someone. Still, the more specific their language, the better speakers communicate. I used to balk at spending a large amount of time on a story, because I wanted to get to the point. Now I realize the story gets the point across better than my declarative statements. Omit needless words. Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell. Limits—that is, form—challenge the mind, forcing creativity. Needless words weaken our offense. Listening to some speakers, you have to sift hundreds of gallons of water to get one speck of gold. If the sermon is so complicated that it needs a summary, its problems run deeper than the conclusion. The last sentence of a sermon already has authority; when the last sentence is Scripture, this is even more true. No matter what our tone or approach, we are wise to craft the conclusion carefully. In fact, given the crisis and opportunity that the conclusion presents—remember, it will likely be people’s lasting memory of the message—it’s probably a good practice to write out the conclusion, regardless of how much of the rest of the sermon is written. It is you who preaches Christ. And you will preach Christ a little differently than any other preacher. Not to do so is to deny your God-given uniqueness. Aim for clarity first. Beauty and eloquence should be added to make things even more clear, not more impressive. I’ll have not praise nor time for those who suppose that writing comes by some divine gift, some madness, some overflow of feeling. I’m especially grim on Christians who enter the field blithely unprepared and literarily innocent of any hard work—as though the substance of their message forgives the failure of its form.

The story line of Kings is so overcrowded, it’s hard to keep track. The narrator complains, there’s so much going on, Solomon can’t love God “wholeheartedly.” This is a crucial word. The new Jerusalem opens up a whole new layer of human problems. We are in a fluid world, full of lush possibilities. Religions, jobs, marriages, all forms of life feel like open questions. In this atmosphere, can anybody be “wholehearted” about anything? Cosmopolitan culture, when it thrives, is scary. But it is also thrilling, and the people love it: “Judah and Israel prospered, as many as the sand on the sea; they ate and drank and were happy.

Did dinosaurs sing? Was there a teeming, singing wilderness with all the species thumping around, tuning up for the next millennia? Of course, dinosaurs sang, I thought. They are the ancestors of the singing birds and cousins to the roaring crocodiles…turns out, no. Turns out the syrinx, the organ that produces birdsong and the larynx, the organ that produces operatic arias, didn’t evolve until after the dinosaur extinction event…Some dinosaurs blew air into their closed mouths and through nasal cavities into resonance chambers, which we see in fossils as bony crests. They made the forest echo with clear, ominous tones, eerily like a cello. I have heard it in recordings scientists made of the sound they produced when they blew air through crests constructed to mimic lambeosaurus’s. Some dinosaurs cooed to their mates like doves…turns out that even if dinosaurs didn’t sing, they danced. There is evidence in vigorous scrape marks found in 100-million year old Colorado sandstone. From the courting behavior of ostriches and grouse, scientists envision the dinosaur males coming together on courting grounds, bobbing and scratching, flaring their brilliant feathers and cooing. Imagine: huge animals, each weighing more than a dozen football teams, shaking the Earth for a chance at love. What the story of the dinosaurs tells me is that if the earth didn’t have music, it would waste no time inventing it. In birds, tantalizing evidence of birdsong is found in 67-million-year old fossils, marking the first know appearance of the syrinx. Now the whole Earth can chime, from deep in the sea to high in the atmosphere with the sounds of snapping shrimp, singing mice, roaring whales, moaning bears, clattering dragonflies, and a fish calling like a foghorn. Who could catalog the astonishing oeuvre of the Earth? And more songs are being created every year.

Xuan pulled out his phone and searched Google. He had to ask for the correct spelling of the drug. He wanted more real information about how much of a financial burden he would be to his parents. Money was a big concern. Possibly a deal breaker. “Several sites—it’s around five hundred dollars a day! That’s fifteen thousand a month! How could I let my parents pay that much for me?” Fifteen thousand dollars. I gasped, appalled. I staggered to the chair and collapsed into it. He’ll never agree to that. Xuan opened his mouth and closed it again, in shock. The atmosphere in the room plunged from friendly and informative to frigid with mathematical figures and calculations. I sat with my elbows on my knees, my face buried in my hands. Saints, I knew cancer treatment was expensive, but I never imagined it was that expensive. That was too much. Ironically, I didn’t know if I could live with myself, knowing my parents were working day and night to keep me alive. That would be a huge financial responsibility. I just couldn’t imagine allowing it, month after month. Sadly, I wondered how many people died every year because of the cost of medication in the United States. In a way, it seemed like pharmaceutical companies were getting away with murder.

One could not imagine a process more open to the elephantine logic of the Bible-smasher than this: that the sun should be created after the sunlight. The conception that lies at the back of the phrase is indeed profoundly antagonistic to much of the modern point of view. To many modern people it would sound like saying that foliage existed before the first leaf ; it would sound like saying that childhood existed before a baby was born. The idea is, as I have said, alien to most modern thought, and like many other ideas which are alien to most modern thought, it is a very subtle and a very sound idea. Whatever be the meaning of the passage in the actual primeval poem, there is a very real metaphysical meaning in the idea that light existed before the sun and stars. It is not barbaric; it is rather Platonic. The idea existed before any of the machinery which made manifest the idea. Justice existed when there was no need of judges, and mercy existed before any man was oppressed. The whole difference between construction and creation is exactly this: that a thing constructed can only be loved after it is constructed; but a thing created is loved before it exists, as the mother can love the unborn child. In creative art the essence of a book exists before the book or before even the details or main features of the book; the author enjoys it and lives in it with a kind of prophetic rapture. He wishes to write a comic story before he has thought of a single comic incident. He desires to write a sad story before he has thought of  anything sad. He knows the atmosphere before he knows anything. There is a low priggish maxim sometimes uttered by men so frivolous as to take humour seriously a maxim that a man should not laugh at his own jokes. But the great artist not only laughs at his own jokes; he laughs at his own jokes before he has made them.

The turning-point [in Klosters, Switzerland in 1988] [Diana’s sister] Jane’s wonderfully solid. If you ring up with a drama, she says: ‘Golly, gosh, Duch, how horrible, how sad and how awful’ and gets angry. But my sister Sarah swears: ‘Poor Duch, such a shitty thing to happen.’ My father says: ‘Just remember we always love you.’ But that summer [1988] when I made so many cock-ups I sat myself down in the autumn, when I was in Scotland, and I remember saying to myself: ‘Right, Diana, it’s no good, you’ve got to change it right round, this publicity, you’ve got to grow up and be responsible. You’ve got to understand that you can’t do what other 26- and 27-year olds are doing. You’ve been chosen to do a position so you must adapt to the position and stop fighting it.’ I remember my conversation so well, sitting by water. I always sit by water when contemplating. Stephen Twigg [a therapist] who comes to see me said once: ‘Whatever anybody else thinks of you is none of your business.’ That sat with me. Then once someone said to me, when I said I’ve got to go up to Balmoral, and they said: ‘Well, you’ve got to put up with them but they’ve also got to put up with you.’ This myth about me hating Balmoral--I love Scotland but just the atmosphere drains me to nothing. I go up ‘strong Diana.’ I come away depleted of everything because they just suck me dry, because I tune in to all their moods and, boy, are there some undercurrents there! Instead of having a holiday, it’ the most stressful time of the year. I love being out all day. I love the stalking. I’m much happier now. I’m not blissful but much more content than I’ve ever been. I’ve really gone down deep, scraped the bottom a couple times and come up again and it’s very nice meeting people now and talking about tai-chi and people say: ‘Tai-chi--what do you know about tai-chi?’ and I said: ‘An energy flow,’ and all this and they look at me and they say: ‘She’s the girl who’s supposed to like shopping and clothes the whole time. She’s not supposed to know about spiritual things.

Praise for THIS TENDER LAND “If you liked Where the Crawdads Sing, you’ll love This Tender Land by best-selling author William Kent Krueger. This story is as big-hearted as they come.” —Parade Magazine “If you’re among the millions who raced through Where the Crawdads Sing this year and are looking for another expansive, atmospheric American saga, look to the latest from Krueger.” —Entertainment Weekly “Rich with graceful writing and endearing characters… this is a book for the ages.” —The Denver Post “There are very few books (or movies, for that matter) that you can describe as ‘epic.’ But This Tender Land is just that.… This story will make you look at the world from a variety of viewpoints, as you watch these lost souls befriend one another in order to form their own unbreakable family unit.” —Suspense Magazine “[The characters’] adventures are heartstirring and their view of our complex nation, in particular the upper Midwest, is encyclopedic, if an encyclopedia could stir your heart as well as your brain.” —Sullivan County Democrat “Reminiscent of Huck and Jim and their trip down the Mississippi, the bedraggled youngsters encounter remarkable characters and learn life lessons as they escape by canoe down the Gilead River in Minnesota.” —Bookpage “Long, sprawling, and utterly captivating, readers will eat up every delicious word of it.” —New York Journal of Books “Krueger has crafted an American saga, epic in scope, a glorious and grand adventure that speaks of the heart and history of this country.” —Addison Independent (Vermont) “More than a simple journey; it is a deeply satisfying odyssey, a quest in search of self and home. Richly imagined and exceptionally well plotted and written, the novel is, most of all, a compelling, often haunting story that will captivate both adult and young adult readers.” —Booklist “Absorbing and wonderfully paced, this fictional narrative set against historical truths mesmerizes the reader with its evocations of compassion, courage, and self-discovery.… This Tender Land is a gripping, poignant tale swathed in both mythical and mystical overtones.” —Bob Drury, New York Times bestselling author of The Heart of Everything That Is “This Tender Land is a moving portrait of a time and place receding from the collective memory, but leaving its mark on the heart of what the nation has become.” —CrimeReads

America would love to put all the blame on the Ku Klux Klan,” he’d tell them, cutting a path through the saplings. “But what creates this atmosphere that allows the Klan to become bold?

I feel like I'm in the wrong place. It's like I have been plucked from my nice, happy life and left to hover somewhere foreign, uncomfortable, and indeterminate. My feet are dangling, unable to gain traction. The atmosphere is prickly, foggy, bitter, and stifling. I can't see. I'm disoriented and don't know which way to turn. I'm not supposed to be here. There's been some mistake. This is somebody else's story, somebody else's destiny. If this is my parallel universe, I don't like it one bit. I take solace in going to work and trying to escape the disorderly, turbulent chaos that fills my head.

Maria Bouroncle takes us deep into a story of real-life murder to show us the humanity – even love – behind the crime. A riveting read – haunting, atmospheric, and ultimately, heart-breaking.

When you truly decide to seek God, you will find Him. When you seek God with all your heart, His Spirit fills you and you are never the same. Your heart wants to burst with excitement. Your eyes fill with tears because of the love that has been poured out upon you. Your passion is ignited and your purpose begins to be established. When you truly find God, your fear melts away and you find yourself resting in an ocean of peace and an atmosphere of joy.

An Indirect quote - Some visitors came to a planet to see its resources and available benefits for them. They knew the universal secrets, but when they visited this planet, only primitive humans were living and there were dark in nature. So they tried to utilize them and to rule them, but as days and minutes passed these visitors started loving those dark people, and then they started teaching them about morality, perseverance, how to talk, how to walk and everything about utopian or high life style but some of these dark people misused it and some love stories became harassing stories and these visitors got tensed as they were teachers, they wanted to be respectful. But their main motive was to use the resources on this planet, because their planet already dead. And guy from those dark people asked a serious question after getting taught from them, you people came to utilize us and now you guys are enslaving us, just like you people we are also organisms of universe, and that sentence was a damn shocking for them then there was rain, a heavy rain or Indra. These dark people prayed a lot to preserve their culture with the knowledge they got from these visitors which in turn gave births of visitors souls to their children. Some of these dark people were used to build a plan against enemies as it was their psychology against thrests, and then there was manu smiriti or psychology given by visitors to not to give high positions to to these dark skinned people as they build a plan to destroy threats, they may turn violent people against universe. And then there was a girl in these dark people who said that, destruction is also another creation , and she was shakthi. Finally these visitors lost with their intention because these dark people started speaking truths, and still they had bad motives to kill these visitors those were called asuras, and this indra made his clans to protect humanity from these asuras. And people those who were interested in love and too much love to utilize these situations were given business opportunities on daily needs, people that were interested in extreme love I e - harassing people from these visitors were given protection duties. souls turned into another sex called trans, other than man and women to find out divergent i e mixed people. languages evolves, teaching evolved, business evolved, education evolved, there was silent guy who seems to be creator of these visitors, were given no duties at all other than science. But he himself was not a creator because for creating something new , he needs destruction or shiv and for protecting he needed another visitor called krishna, but what he forgot was this creator himself was a visitor from another planet were diamonds harvested and so called fairy tales and beautiful life was there but that planet was destroyed because of greediness. Because these visitors destroyed lots of planets already and with greedy, too much sex there were completely tired on this beautiful planet. and so finally they had no other planets to visit and whomever been sent did not return. So they finally found this is the final planet to survive. The unmentioned people are from west, and completely north and they were given important tasks to protect the planet which is the only available right now. These manu smiriti or visitors psychology did not enclose the details of creator but only said about who designed it - Bram. The god was born on west, north, south and down earth to find out what is the actual problem and when to end it for recreation. He found that there is no need of re creation as far as now because he loves all. But the problem is these visitors are from another planet or heaven or hell , and so they were greedy to enough to utilise all they had and sent their clans to search more but they did not return at all. And in between time frame, some visited but couldnt enter properly and those entered were affected much because of completely dynamic atmosphere.

Vasana is determinism that feels like free will. I’m reminded of my friend Jean, whom I’ve known for almost twenty years. Jean considers himself very spiritual and went so far in the early nineties as to walk way from his job with a newspaper in Denver to live in an ashram in western Massachusetts. But he found the atmosphere choking. “They’re all crypto Hindus,” he complained. “They don’t do anything but pray and chant and meditate.” So Jean decided to move on with his life. He’s fallen in love with a couple of women but has never married. He doesn’t like the notion of settling down and tends to move to a new state every four years or so. (He once told me that he counted up and discovered that he’s lived in forty different houses since he was born.) One day Jean called me with a story. He was on a date with a woman who had taken a sudden interest in Sufism, and while they were driving home, she told Jean that according to her Sufi teacher, everyone has a prevailing characteristic. “You mean the thing that is most prominent about them, like being extroverted or introverted?” he asked. “No, not prominent,” she said. “Your prevailing characteristic is hidden. You act on it without seeing that you’re acting on it.” The minute he heard this, Jean became excited. “I looked out the car window, and it hit me,” he said. “I sit on the fence. I am only comfortable if I can have both sides of a situation without committing to either.” All at once a great many pieces fell into place. Jean could see why he went into an ashram but didn’t feel like he was one of the group. He saw why he fell in love with women but always saw their faults. Much more came to light. Jean complains about his family yet never misses a Christmas with them. He considers himself an expert on every subject he’s studied—there have been many—but he doesn’t earn his living pursuing any of them. He is indeed an inveterate fence-sitter. And as his date suggested, Jean had no idea that his Vasana, for that’s what we’re talking about, made him enter into one situation after another without ever falling off the fence. “Just think,” he said with obvious surprise, “the thing that’s the most me is the thing I never saw.” If unconscious tendencies kept working in the dark, they wouldn’t be a problem. The genetic software in a penguin or wildebeest guides it to act without any knowledge that it is behaving much like every other penguin or wildebeest. But human beings, unique among all living creatures, want to break down Vasana. It’s not good enough to be a pawn who thinks he’s a king. We crave the assurance of absolute freedom and its result—a totally open future. Is this reasonable? Is it even possible? In his classic text, the Yoga Sutras, the sage Patanjali informs us that there are three types of Vasana. The kind that drives pleasant behavior he calls white Vasana; the kind that drives unpleasant behavior he calls dark Vasana; the kind that mixes the two he calls mixed Vasana. I would say Jean had mixed Vasana—he liked fence-sitting but he missed the reward of lasting love for another person, a driving aspiration, or a shared vision that would bond him with a community. He displayed the positives and negatives of someone who must keep every option open. The goal of the spiritual aspirant is to wear down Vasana so that clarity can be achieved. In clarity you know that you are not a puppet—you have released yourself from the unconscious drives that once fooled you into thinking that you were acting spontaneously.

At the end of World War II, some of the Grant Study men were majors; others were still privates. What made the difference? It turned out that the men’s attained military rank at discharge bore no relation to their body build, their parents’ social class, their endurance on the treadmill, or even their intelligence. What did correlate significantly with attained military rank was a generally cohesive home atmosphere in childhood and warm relationships with mother and siblings. Twenty-four of the twenty-seven men with the warmest childhoods made at least first lieutenant, and four became majors. In contrast, of the thirty men with the worst childhoods, thirteen failed to make first lieutenant, and none became majors. We don’t breed good officers; we don’t even build them on the playing fields of Eton; we raise them in loving homes. This result would undoubtedly have astonished physical anthropologist Earnest Hooton (see Chapter 3), whom the Study asked to write its first book.4 I offer this story for its morals. One is that belief isn’t enough—however impassioned our convictions, they need to be tested. Another is that information does nothing for us if we don’t make use of it. My brief excursion here answered a question that the Study had been entertaining from its very beginnings; the data that finally answered it had been available for almost seventy years. And a third: that longitudinal studies protect us from exactly such pitfalls, and from our other shortcomings of foresight and method. They give us the flexibility to re-ask old questions in new contexts, and to ask new questions of old data. That is a very important point of this book, and one I’ll keep returning to.

Mr. Skukman told me I should have been more appreciative of your sacrifice,” Lucetta said, her tone decidedly disgruntled. “And that sacrifice, according to him, was you offering to marry me.” Bram felt his lips curl. “Did he now?” She caught his eye. “He did, and I hate to admit this, but . . . he might be right about me not showing you the appropriate appreciation.” She blew out a breath. “Apparently, I’m difficult.” He couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Such conclusions can be surprising, but . . . truth be told, difficult may be part of your charm. It’s far more delightful than bossy.” Rolling her eyes, Lucetta leaned back on her elbows, earning a rumble of dissent from Montresor in the process as he resituated himself in the folds of her skirt. “Difficult though I may very well be,” she began, “I find myself curious about you. Tell me something interesting about Bram Haverstein.” “There’s not much to tell.” “I’m sure that’s not true. You live in a castle. There must be a riveting story behind that.” “I’m afraid it’s a rather dull story, not riveting. I loved the look of the place and knew it would provide me with enough room to keep a few animals and provide me with the calm atmosphere I need to . . . Well . . . who doesn’t enjoy a calm atmosphere?” “From what I’ve experienced since arriving at Ravenwood, the atmosphere here is anything but calm. And I don’t think that’s the real story behind why you bought the place.” She considered him for a long moment. “Quite honestly, I’ve come to the conclusion there’s far more to you than meets the eye.” Bram blinked. “Ah . . . well, I’m sure that could be said about most people.” “Why did you really purchase Ravenwood?” she pressed. Bram leaned back. “Fine, since persistence also seems to be part of your charm, I’ll tell you. But it’s hardly a riveting tale. You see, the previous owner, Mr. James Woodward, was desperate to sell because his wife had come to the conclusion Ravenwood was haunted. After one too many encounters with what she claimed were otherworldly beings and otherworldly experiences, she had Mrs. Macmillan pack her a bag and she left for the city, vowing to never step foot in Ravenwood again—which, I can honestly tell you, she never did.” “Mrs.

It was in this atmosphere of war, heroism, and controversy that my wife’s grandmother, Johanna Boel Sigurdardottir, met and fell in love with Samuel Emmett Hearn Jr. He was a gallant soldier, and she was a natural beauty.

But we must not think that just because we have words for all the parts of a tree, a tree really has all those parts. The leaf does not know, for instance, when it stops being a leaf and becomes a twig. And the trunk is not aware that it has stopped being a trunk and has become the roots. Indeed, the roots do not know when they stop being roots and become soil, nor the soil the moisture, nor the moisture the atmosphere, nor the atmosphere the sunlight." (pp 54-55)

The cynic creates a mental barrier, or shield around themselves, that is hard to penetrate. Why should an Afterlifer bother with that? Afterlifers don’t owe it to us to prove anything, but usually they are only happy to do so if approached in an atmosphere of mutual respect. An atmosphere of love is even more suitable, when possible, as it is closer to what they are used to and makes it much easier for them to approach us. They experience our thoughts and feelings as a tangible atmosphere around us. What type of atmosphere do your thoughts and feelings create? What type of Afterlifer would feel comfortable getting close to it? Hold these facts in mind and your connection with those who have passed on can improve considerably.

Horseman is the haunting sequel to the 1820 novel The Legend of Sleepy Hollow by Washington Irving and takes place two decades after the events that unfolded in the original. We are introduced to 14-year-old trans boy Bente “Ben” Van Brunt, who has been raised by his idiosyncratic grandparents - lively Brom “Bones” Van Brunt and prim Kristina Van Tassel - in the small town of Sleepy Hollow, New York, where gossip and rumour run rife and people are exceedingly closed-minded. He has lived with them on their farm ever since he was orphaned when his parents, Bendix and Fenna, died in suspicious and enigmatic circumstances. Ben and his only friend, Sander, head into the woodland one Autumn day to play a game known as Sleepy Hollow Boys, but they are both a little startled when they witness a group of men they recognise from the village discussing the headless, handless body of a local boy that has just been found. But this isn't the end; it is only the beginning. From that moment on, Ben feels an otherworldly presence following him wherever he ventures, and one day while scanning his grandfather’s fields he catches a fleeting glimpse of a weird creature seemingly sucking blood from a victim. An evil of an altogether different nature. But Ben knows this is not the elusive Horseman who has been the primary focus of folkloric tales in the area for many years because he can both feel and hear his presence. However, unlike others who fear the Headless Horseman, Ben can hear whispers in the woods at the end of a forbidden path, and he has visions of the Horseman who says he is there to protect him. Ben soon discovers connections between the recent murders and the death of his parents and realises he has been shaded from the truth about them his whole life. Thus begins a journey to unravel the mystery and establish his identity in the process. This is an enthralling and compulsively readable piece of horror fiction building on Irvings’ solid ground. Evoking such feelings as horror, terror, dread and claustrophobic oppressiveness, this tale invites you to immerse yourself in its sinister, creepy and disturbing narrative. The staggering beauty of the remote village location is juxtaposed with the darkness of the demons and devilish spirits that lurk there, and the village residents aren't exactly welcoming to outsiders or accepting of anyone different from their norm. What I love the most is that it is subtle and full of nuance, instead of the usual cheap thrills with which the genre is often pervaded, meaning the feeling of sheer panic creeps up on you when you least expect, and you come to the sudden realisation that the story has managed to get under your skin, into your psyche and even into your dreams (or should that be nightmares?) Published at a time when the nights are closing in and the light diminishes ever more rapidly, not to mention with Halloween around the corner, this is the perfect autumnal read for the spooky season full of both supernatural and real-world horrors. It begins innocuously enough to lull you into a false sense of security but soon becomes bleak and hauntingly atmospheric as well as frightening before descending into true nightmare-inducing territory. A chilling and eerie romp, and a story full of superstition, secrets, folklore and old wives’ tales and with messages about love, loss, belonging, family, grief, being unapologetically you and becoming more accepting and tolerant of those who are different. Highly recommended.

Oh, time and again, Mrs. Drinker told me that one had to have a doctor and one had to go to a hospital to have a baby. I was finally persuaded to make one concession: the doctor. But go to a hospital--that was ridiculous. Why? What for? I wasn't sick. In Europe you went to a hospital when you were dangerously sick, and many people died there, but babies were born at home. Would they in the hospital allow my husband to sit at my bed-side? Could I hold his hand, look into his eyes? Could my family be in the next room, singing and praying? The answer to all these questions was “nо." All right, that settled it. I tried to explain that a baby had to be born into a home, received by loving hands, not into a hospital, surrounded by ghostly-looking doctors and masked nurses, into the atmosphere of sterilizers and antiseptics. That's why I would ask the doctor to come to our house.

How I miss you two. I was so used to turning to you. It was heaven. Always to have you two to turn to in despair, in joy. There you were: strong—funny. Two rocks. What you did for me—wow! What luck to be born out of love and to live in an atmosphere of warmth and interest.

Cause every love story there's a certain glamor!

That love, which fails of perfect utterance here, Lives on to fill the heavenly atmosphere With its immortal song.

New state decrees included provisions that the dead be unceremoniously disinfected, packed into double body bags, and hastily buried—normally in unmarked graves—by officially appointed gravediggers wearing protective equipment. This new regulation prevented family members and friends from honoring loved ones, and it negated religious observance. The discovery of a body by a search team thus furnished ample potential for physical confrontations, just as a similar decree had led to clashes in plague-stricken Bombay in 1897–1898. This tense atmosphere was inflamed by multiple conspiracy theories. One Canadian reporter wrote that people “tell me stories about witchcraft, Ebola witch guns, crazy nurses injecting neighbours with Ebola and government conspiracies.”29 Untori, or plague spreaders, were said to be at work, as in the days of the Black Death described by Alessandro Manzoni. Some regarded health-care workers as cannibals or harvesters of body parts for the black market in human organs. The state, rumor also held, had embarked on a secret plot to eliminate the poor. Ebola perhaps was not a disease but a mysterious and lethal chemical. Alternatively, the ongoing land grab was deemed to have found ingenious new methods. Perhaps whites were orchestrating a plan to kill African blacks, or mine owners had discovered a deep seam of ore nearby and wanted to clear the surrounding area.

The atmosphere inside was terrible. Brenda stared into the distance whenever I was around her and hardly spoke to me. Little Jim passed me in the hall “you shouldn’t have done that” he said without malice. Was he scared too? Why was everyone scared? What didn’t I know? I walked into the kitchen “Hi Brenda, what should I do now I’m late for tea?” I asked her honestly. “You can do whatever you choose Tracie” she said staring through the kitchen window. It kind of reminded me of my first memory of mum. I was shocked she sounded like she really didn’t care. She wasn’t even fake caring any more she just plain didn’t give a shit. “Thanks” I said and walked towards the living room where Caroline and Rita were sat. Rita got up and walked past me to go to bed. “What’s going on?” I said to Caroline. “We didn’t know where you were” she said shaking her head at me. Did nobody get it?

We agree to spend “Sunday dinner” in hygge. We all promise to help one another as a team in creating a cozy atmosphere where everyone feels safe and no one needs to have their guard up. We agree to try to . . . Turn off the phones and the iPads. Leave our drama at the door. There are other times to focus on our problems. Hygge is about creating a safe place to relax with others and leave the everyday stressors outside. Not complain unnecessarily. Look for ways to help out so that no one person gets stuck doing all the work. Light candles if we are inside. Make a conscious effort to enjoy the food and the drinks. Not bring up controversial topics like politics. Anything that creates a fight or an argument is not hyggeligt. We can have those discussions at other times. Tell and retell funny, lovely, and uplifting stories about one another from the past. Not brag too much. Bragging can be subtly divisive. Not compete (think “we” not “me”). Not talk badly about others or focus on negativity. Play games that the whole group can participate in. Make a conscious effort to feel gratitude for the people around us who love us.

“All my life,” she said, “I have been told ‘go’ and ‘come.’ I am told how I will live, and I am told how I must die. I must be a man’s servant and a mare for his pleasure, or I must hide myself behind walls and surrender my flesh to a cold, silent god. I would walk into the jaws of hell itself, if it were a path of my own choosing. I would rather die tomorrow in the forest than live a hundred years of the life appointed me.” — 4.85 ★ Whimsical, enchanting, magical. I don’t know how else to describe this masterpiece, I absolutely loved every page of this book with my whole heart. The beautiful writing and delightful atmosphere made me fall in love with the story, full of Russian folklore. I mean, I’m a sucker for myths and fairy tales, but god, this book made an amazing work retelling them. Really recommend it. I will definitely be picking the sequel next month, when cold finally settles in and I can read it with my blanket and my hot cup of coffee on a windy evening. “In Russian, Frost was called Morozko, the demon of winter. But long ago, the people called him Karachun, the death-god. Under that name, he was king of black midwinter who came for bad children and froze them in the night.”

We didn’t have to insist too much. No amount of exhaustion could have prevented him from sharing his passion on the subject. He loved sharing his memories with us. “Do you know where the easiest place to find a meteorite is?” he asked, turning his head to look towards the backseat. “In a meteorite museum?” Oscar replied with his usual wit. My brother’s words amused the professor, who burst out laughing. “Okay! That’s the best place. Then what would be the second-best place?” The professor insisted. We shrugged, waiting for the answer. “The best place to find meteorites is a desert. Especially, a flat desert with light-colored sand, because it is much easier to spot them. The dryness of the atmosphere keeps them well preserved,” he explained. “But a desert is enormous. You could walk for months without running into anything,” I said. “How can you find a stone in such a huge area?” “Well, sometimes it’s a matter of luck, but if the meteorite is large enough, NASA reports the estimated landing coordinates, so you can go directly to the area you’re interested in,” Sergy replied. “A couple of years ago I spent a month in the Atacama Desert in Chile, with a Chilean friend who has a meteorite museum in San Pedro de Atacama. We found five new specimens. One of them weighed over four pounds.” “A four-pound meteorite is quite the trophy, boys,” our father pointed out. “When you walk towards it, pick it up and hold it in your hand, the sensation is indescribable,” Sergy said, remembering his trip. “If you close your eyes, you can feel the primitive energy beating inside it.” We all listened, mesmerized by his stories and imagining his adventures. Even Flash sat still on Oscar’s lap, paying full attention to the professor who went on talking from the passenger’s seat. Suddenly, Oscar’s voice interrupted my fantasies, “When I grow up, I’m also going to be a meteorite hunter.” I turned to look at him. But he wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t even looking at the professor or at Dad. He was looking out the window, deep in thought, looking as if he hadn’t said a word. Flash, who had settled between the two of us, looked at him as if she’d

Review of Haunted by Obsession Overall Impression Haunted by Obsession is a gripping and intense story that skillfully blends elements of suspense, romance, and psychological intrigue. The narrative is immersive, drawing readers into a world where obsession, passion, and fear intertwine. The author does a commendable job of maintaining a tense atmosphere while developing complex and multi-layered characters. Strengths Engaging Plot – The storyline is compelling, keeping readers hooked with its mystery and emotional depth. The pacing is well-balanced, allowing tension to build gradually while delivering impactful revelations at the right moments. Character Development – The characters are well-crafted with distinct motivations and backstories. The protagonist's struggles feel real and evoke empathy, making them relatable despite the dark themes. Atmospheric Writing – The descriptions and settings contribute to the eerie and unsettling tone of the novel. The use of sensory details enhances the haunting ambiance, immersing the reader fully. Emotional Depth – The themes of obsession, love, and trauma are explored with sensitivity. The psychological elements add layers to the narrative, making it more than just a suspense story. Areas for Improvement Pacing in Certain Sections – While the overall pacing is strong, some sections could benefit from tighter editing to maintain tension and avoid unnecessary slowdowns. Character Motivations – Some characters' actions could be clarified further to deepen understanding of their psychological states and enhance believability. Dialogue Authenticity – While generally well-written, some dialogues could be more natural, reflecting how people speak in high-stakes situations. Ending Resolution – If the novel leans heavily on suspense, ensuring a satisfying resolution that ties up major plot points is crucial. Depending on the intended ending, more clarity might be needed to ensure reader satisfaction. Final Thoughts Haunted by Obsession is a compelling novel that masterfully explores dark emotions and intense relationships. With some fine-tuning in pacing and character depth, it has the potential to be even more impactful. Fans of psychological thrillers and dark romance will likely find it an engaging and thought-provoking read.

Your life is your work of art, it's an expression of your uniqueness. Sensuality enables artists to explore the depths of human experience, translating their internal landscapes into creative expressions that resonate with others. Each form of art captures the essence of emotion in unique ways, inviting audiences to engage with the artist's vision. In painting, colors and textures evoke feelings that can range from joy to despair. The choice of hues can create warmth or coldness, while the brushstrokes convey movement and energy, allowing viewers to feel the artist's heartbeat on the canvas. Each artwork becomes a window into the artist’s soul, reflecting their innermost thoughts and feelings. Music, too, is a deeply emotional medium. A melody can evoke nostalgia, while a rhythm can ignite a sense of urgency or joy. The interplay of notes and silence creates a dynamic landscape where emotions can flow freely. Lyrics can tell stories of love, loss, and hope, forging a connection that often feels personal and intimate. Writing gives voice to the complexities of emotion. Through prose and poetry, writers can articulate thoughts and feelings that may be difficult to express otherwise. Each word is carefully chosen to resonate with the reader, drawing them into a world where they can empathize with the characters and situations presented. The written word has the power to heal, inspire, and provoke thought, making it a vital form of artistic expression. Photography captures fleeting moments, freezing them in time while conveying emotions that may otherwise be lost. A single image can tell a powerful story, eliciting joy, sadness, or contemplation. The photographer's perspective shapes how we see the world, inviting us to experience beauty, vulnerability, and the raw essence of life through their lens. Dance is perhaps the most physical manifestation of sensuality in art. It encompasses a language of movement that transcends spoken words, allowing dancers to express emotions through their bodies. Each movement tells a story, whether it’s a graceful ballet or an energetic street dance, and the connection between performers and audience can be electric, creating an atmosphere of shared emotion and energy. In all these forms, the artist's sensuality serves as a conduit for emotional exploration and expression. It is through their vulnerability and authenticity that they invite others to feel, reflect, and connect, reminding us of the richness of the human experience. Art becomes a celebration of life, an exploration of emotions that binds us together in our shared humanity. Being an artist is immersing oneself completely in the experience of life...