Aware Wolf Quotes

He froze, becoming stone still. As the hover climbed the hill to the palace, his shoulders sank, and he returned his gaze to the window. "She's my alpha," he murmured, with a haunting sadness in his voice. Alpha. Cress leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, "Like the star?" "What star?" She stiffened, instantly embarrassed, and scooted back from him again. "Oh. Um. In a constellation, the brightest star is called the alpha. I thought maybe you meant that she's...like...your brightest star." Looking away, she knotted her hands in her lap, aware that she was blushing furiously now and this beast of a man was about to realize what an over-romantic sap she was. But instead of sneering or laughing, Wolf sighed, "Yes," he said, his gaze climbing up to the full moon that had emerged in the blue evening sky. "Exactly like that.

A healthy woman is much like a wolf: robust, chock-full, strong life force, life-giving, territorially aware, inventive, loyal, roving.

The world was simply and sheerly divided into 'the aware', those who had the experience of being vessels of the divine, and a great mass of 'the unaware', 'the unmusical', 'the unattuned.

don't just describe an emotion, arouse it, make them experience it, by manipulating the symbol of the emotion, and sometimes we have to come into awareness through the back door.

The white conservatives aren't friends of the Negro either, but they at least don't try to hide it. They are like wolves; they show their teeth in a snarl that keeps the Negro always aware of where he stands with them. But the white liberals are foxes, who also show their teeth to the Negro but pretend that they are smiling. The white liberals are more dangerous than the conservatives; they lure the Negro, and as the Negro runs from the growling wolf, he flees into the open jaws of the "smiling" fox.

You can't admit to someone else what you're too damn afraid to admit to yourself.

The only people we want to blame are ourselves, because it will be ourselves that we rely upon.

Fortunately, Park seemed more bemused than offended. “Do you disapprove of human-werewolf relationships, Agent Dayton?” “No. Of course not. I—that’s not what I meant. I just didn’t understand...” Cooper trailed off, thoroughly uncomfortable, and Park took pity on him. “She’s not my type because I’m gay.” The silence was sharp. Vaguely Cooper was aware his mouth was hanging open. He shut it quickly. Then opened it again to say, “Oh, that’s nice.

A single raised eyebrow. "You've defected, sweetheart. No use worrying about the big, bad wolf now." She was aware of Judd speaking, but her attention never shifted off the man who was a predator, for all that he wore human skin. When he peeled open and held out a bar of some kind, she took it, aware low energy levels could be dangerous when it came to her ability to keep a handle on the cold fire. "Thank you." A faint smile, a strange amusement in those icy eyes. "You're welcome." It was the most polite interaction they'd ever had.

When we accept our own wild beauty, it is put into perspective, and we are no longer poignantly aware of it anymore, but neither would we forsake it or disclaim it either. Does a wolf know how beautiful she is when she sleeps? Does a feline know what beautiful shapes she makes when she sits? Is a bird awed by the sound it hears when it snaps open its wings? Learning from them, we just act in our own true way and do not draw back from or hide our natural beauty. Like the creatures, we just are, and it is right.

The world was simply and sheerly divided into 'the aware', those who had the experience of being vessels of the divine, and a great mass of 'the 'unaware', 'the unmusical', 'the unattuned'...the aware were never snobbish toward the unaware, but in fact most of that great jellyfish blob of straight souls looked like hopeless cases

No intellect is needed to see those figures who wait beyond the void of death – every child is aware of them, blazing with glories dark or bright, wrapped in authority older than the universe. They are the stuff of our earliest dreams, as of our dying visions. Rightly we feel our lives guided by them, and rightly too we feel how little we matter to them, the builders of the unimaginable, the fighters of wars beyond the totality of existence. The difficulty lies in learning that we ourselves encompass forces equally great. We say, “I will,” and “I will not,” and imagine ourselves (though we obey the orders of some prosaic person every day) our own masters, when the truth is that our masters are sleeping. One wakes within us and we are ridden like beasts, though the rider is but some hitherto unguessed part of ourselves.

My foot slips on a narrow ledge; in that split second, as needles of fear pierce heart and temples, eternity intersects with present time. Thought and action are not different, and stone, air, ice, sun, fear, and self are one. What is exhilarating is to extend this acute awareness into ordinary moments, in the moment-by-moment experiencing of the lammergeier and the wolf, which, finding themselves at the center of things, have no need for any secret of true being. In this very breath that we take now lies the secret that all great teachers try to tell us…the present moment. The purpose of mediation practice is not enlightenment’ it is to pay attention even at unextraordinary times, to be of the present, nothing-but-the-present, to bear this mindfulness of now into each event of ordinary life.

No harm in listening. Alexei's a child, not a wizard. We don't lose control of our brains by listening.

I never did get around to praying for myself, did I? Maybe that's what was behind it, though. Myself. Maybe the only reason I'd prayed for others to begin with was to bring myself good fortune. Was that true? Was it?

Milla was always aware, on the dimmest edge of her consciousness that Diaz constantly watched her. She also knew that he was a man who never gave up, who never lost sight of his goal. Exactly what his goal was wasn’t always clear to her, but she had no doubt he was perfectly clear in his own mind what he wanted. He wanted her. She knew it, and yet she couldn’t imagine how they could ever be together again. The rift between them, to her, was final and absolute. He’d betrayed her in the most wounding way possible, and forgiveness evidently wasn’t her strong suit. She had found that grudges weren’t heavy at all; she could carry them for a very long time. Diaz wasn’t taking care of her out of the goodness of his heart. He was taking care of her the way a wolf cared for its wounded mate.

For centuries poets, some poets, have tried to give a voice to the animals, and readers, some readers, have felt empathy and sorrow. If animals did have voices, and they could speak with the tongues of angels--at the very least with the tongues of angels--they would be unable to save themselves from us. What good would language do? Their mysterious otherness has not saved them, nor have their beautiful songs and coats and skins and shells and eyes. We discover the remarkable intelligence of the whale, the wolf, the elephant--it does not save them, nor does our awareness of the complexity of their lives. Their strength, their skills, their swiftness, the beauty of their flights. It matters not, it seems, whether they are large or small, proud or shy, docile or fierce, wild or domesticated, whether they nurse their young or brood patiently on eggs. If they eat meat, we decry their viciousness; if they eat grasses and seeds, we dismiss them as weak. There is not one of them, not even the songbird who cannot, who does not, conflict with man and his perceived needs and desires. St. Francis converted the wolf of Gubbio to reason, but he performed this miracle only once and as miracles go, it didn’t seem to capture the public’s fancy. Humans don’t want animals to reason with them. It would be a disturbing, unnerving, diminishing experience; it would bring about all manner of awkwardness and guilt.

... tried praying for him ...but I couldn't. I just couldn't. Don't ask me why. I hoped that he was okay, but I couldn't summon the strength to pray for it.

But she is always aware of the imbalance in power, and fear is her affections shadow.

A healthy woman is much like a wolf: robust, chock-full, strong life force, life-giving, territorially aware, inventive, loyal, roving. Yet, separation from the wildest nature causes a woman's personality to become meager, think, ghostly, spectral. We are not meant to be puny with frail hair and inability to leap up, inability to chase, to birth, to create a life.

Whatever we may say, all of us suffer from disturbed sleep at times. Some in truth hardly sleep, though some who sleep copiously swear that they do not. Some are disquieted by incessant dreams, and a fortunate few are visited often by dreams of delightful character. Some will say that they were at one time troubled in sleeping but have 'recovered' from it, as though awareness were a disease, as perhaps it is.

She smoothed her skirt around her knees. “This Scarlet … you’re in love with her, aren’t you?” He froze, becoming stone still. As the hover climbed the hill to the palace, his shoulders sank, and he returned his gaze to the window. “She’s my alpha,” he murmured, with a haunting sadness in his voice. Alpha. Cress leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Like the star?” “What star?” She stiffened, instantly embarrassed, and scooted back from him again. “Oh. Um. In a constellation, the brightest star is called the alpha. I thought maybe you meant that she’s … like … your brightest star.” Looking away, she knotted her hands in her lap, aware that she was blushing furiously now and this beast of a man was about to realize what an over-romantic sap she was. But instead of sneering or laughing, Wolf sighed. “Yes,” he said, his gaze climbing up to the full moon that had emerged over the city. “Exactly like that.” With a quick twist to her heart, Cress’s fear of him began to subside. She’d been right back at the boutique. He was like the hero of a romance story, and he was trying to rescue his beloved. His alpha.

Dorcas’s skin was flecked with little golden freckles, and she was so slender that I was always aware of her bones; yet she was more desirable in her imperfections than Jolenta had ever been in the lushness of her flesh.

We do not experience things as they really are! We experience things only through a filter and that filter determines what information will enter our awareness and what will be rejected. If we change the filter (our belief system), then we automatically experience the world in a completely different way.

Women incorporate the values of the male sexual objectifiers within themselves. Catharine MacKinnon calls this being "thingified" in the head (MacKinnon, 1989). They learn to treat their own bodies as objects separate from themselves. Bartky explains how this works: the wolf whistle sexually objectifies a woman from without with the result that, ``"The body which only a moment before I inhabited with such ease now floods my consciousness. I have been made into an object'' (Bartky, 1990, p. 27). She explains that it is not sufficient for a man simply to look at the woman secretly, he must make her aware of his looking with the whistle. She must, "be made to know that I am a 'nice piece of ass': I must be made to see myself as they see me'' (p. 27). The effect of such male policing behaviour is that, "Subject to the evaluating eye of the male connoisseur, women learn to evaluate themselves first and best'" (Bartky, 1990, p. 28). Women thus become alienated from their own bodies.

Even if we never seek out pornography, we often see rape where sex should be. Since most women repress our awareness of that in order to survive being entertained, it can take concentration to remember.

Although only three legs would obey him, the white wolf began to run. Run, to outpace the agony that could rip and tear a human heart. Run, to outdistance the human grief that could not be borne. Run, to be as the moon, a swift white shape gleaming in the night. Run, to be a wolf and only a wolf. As he raced away into the welcoming arms of the night, James was only fleetingly aware that he had just buried his human self alongside Evelyn. And then he was aware of nothing.

Consciously, the Aware were never snobbish toward the Unaware, but in fact most of that great jellyfish blob of straight souls looked like hopeless cases—and the music of your flute from up top the bus just brought them up tighter. But these groups treated anyone who showed possibilities, who was a potential brother, with generous solicitude …

To become oneself, with all one's strength. Difficult. A bomb, a speech, a rifle shot-and the world can look a different place. And then where is this "self"?

Wolf is aware that he's wolf.

Is education possibly a process of trading awareness for things of less worth?

Women must keep their shirts on in every weather ostensibly because their nipples are sexual. But men’s nipples are sexual too, and that doesn’t keep them covered when the mercury breaks eighty. Women are “ugly” where they get stretch marks. Men get stretch marks, across their hips, of which they are often not aware. Women’s breasts must be perfectly symmetrical; men’s genitals sure aren’t. There is a whole literature of ancient revulsion against the tastes and sights of women’s bodies; men can taste unpleasant and look perfectly alarming. Women love them anyway.

The white conservatives aren't friends of the Negro either, but they at least don't try to hide it. They are like wolves; they show their teeth in a snarl that keeps the Negro always aware of where he stands with them. But the white liberals are foxes, who also show their teeth to the Negro but pretend that they are smiling. The white liberals are more dangerous than the conservatives; they lure the Negro, and as the Negro runs from the growling wolf, he flees into the open jaws of the "smiling" fox. The job of the Negro civil rights leader is to make the Negro forget that the wolf and the fox both belong to the (same) family. Both are canines; and no matter which one of them the Negro places his trust in, he never ends up in the White House, but always in the dog house.

I did not see the wolf when he came. I did not hear him. There was only this: A little before dawn I became aware of a hush, and I realized that the only breathing to be heard in the room was my own.

I was acutely aware of him, and the thought that he was walking me back to my room and would most likely try to kiss me again sent shivers down my spine. For self-preservation purposes, I had to get away. Every minute I spent with him just made me want him more. Since merely annoying him wasn’t working, I’d have to up the ante. Apparently, I needed him not only to fall out-of-like with me, but to hate me as well. I’d frequently been told that I was an all-or-nothing kind of girl. If I were going to push him away, it was going to be so far away that there would be absolutely no change of him ever coming back. I tried to wrench my elbow out of his grasp, but he just held on more tightly. I grumbled at him, “Stop using your tiger strength on me, Superman.” “Am I hurting you?” “No, but I’m not a puppet to be dragged around.” He trailed his fingers down my arm and took my hand instead. “Then you play nice, and I will too.” “Fine.” He grinned. “Fine.” I hissed back. “Fine!” We walked to the elevator, and he pushed the button to my floor. “My room is on the same floor,” Ren edxplained. I scowled and then grinned lopsidedly and just a little bit evilly, “And umm, how exactly is that going to work for you in the morning, Tiger? You really shouldn’t get Mr. Kadam in trouble for having a rather large…pet.” Ren returned my sarcasm as he walked me to my door. “Are you worried about me, Kells? Well, don’t. I’ll be fine.” “I guess there’s no point in asking how you knew which door belong to me, huh, Tiger Nose?” He looked at me in a way that turned my insides to jelly. I spun around but awareness of him shot through my limbs, and I could feel him standing close behind me watching, waiting. I put my key in the lock, and he moved closer. My hand started shaking, and I couldn’t twist the key the right way. He took my hand and gently turned me around. He then put both hands on the door on either side of my head and leaned in close, pinning me against it. I trembled like a downy rabbit caught in the clutches of a wolf. The wolf came closer. He bent his head and began nuzzling my cheek. The problem was…I wanted the wolf to devour me. I began to get lost in the thick sultry fog that overtook me every time Ren put his hands on me. So much for asking for permission…and so much for sticking to my guns, I thought as I felt all my defenses slip away. He whispered warmly, “I can always tell where you are, Kelsey. You smell like peaches and cream.” I shivered and put my hands on his chest to push him away, but I ended up grabbing fistfuls of shirt and held on for dear life. He trailed kisses from my ear down my cheek and then pressed soft kisses along the arch of my neck. I pulled him closer and turned my head so he could really kiss me. He smiled and ignored my invitation, moving instead to the other ear. He bit my earlobe lightly, moved from there to my collarbone, and trailed kisses out to my shoulder. Then he lifted his head and brought his lips about one inch from mine and the only thought in my head was…more. With a devastating smile, he reluctantly pulled away and lightly ran his fingers through the strands of my hair. “By the way, I forgot to mention that you look beautiful tonight.” He smiled again then turned and strolled off down the hall.

Under cover of darkness, not a hundred men but three times that number slipped away from Hawkforte. Saxon and Norse alike, led by the Wolf and the Hawk, they took up position along the road that passed the lodge. By dawn they had so blended into the surrounding forest that as day came, the birds,deer, rabbits,foxes,and all the other denizens of the wood behaved just as they always did, with no awareness of the deadly presence come among them. Not long after, Dragon and Rycca rode out of Hawkforte.They made no secret of their departure or where they were bound. A spy would have had to be deaf and blind to miss what they were about.

Since the belief by humans that men “change” into werewolves is false, Fane is able to do what the Canis Lupus call phasing. The wolf and the man are one, there is no changing from one to the other, a change would mean that once a man is in wolf form he is no longer a man but fully wolf and when in human form he is fully human. This is not the case, a Canis Lupus is always aware of his wolf as is the wolf always aware of the man, they exist together usually harmoniously.

People who don’t know think situational awareness means being aware of everything, which is just bullshit. It’s a total focus on things that matter—cover points, ambush positions, escape routes, weapons of opportunity, the stress tolerance of men—and a complete filtering out of things that don’t.

I took a deep breath and kept my focus fixed on her. "Making me chase you wouldn't be a good idea right now, flower," I stated, fully aware of my Wolf. "No, it wouldn't, but you need to stay over there," she said firmly. My brow furrowed. "Why?" "Because, if you come near me, I will want to kiss you," she said, nibbling her lower lip the way I wanted to. "Well good, because I want to kiss you too." I moved back the way I had come, and so did she. "Clare—" "No, not good." She shook her head. "Kissing leads to touching, or grinding, or"—she shuddered as her energy suggestively brushed against mine— "or petting, and almost stripping.

I kiss her lips, now fully aware that love is the darkest of all creatures. For what is crueler than a possession you have no control over? What is more sinister than a craving you will never fill? It is an emotion without death, a sheep in wolf’s clothing, and if that’s not the most sadistic human emotion, I don’t know what is.

All at once Sherman was aware of a figure approaching him on the sidewalk, in the wet black shadows of the town houses and the trees. Even from fifty feet away, in the darkness, he could tell. It was that deep worry that lives in the base of the skull of every resident of Park Avenue south of Ninety-sixth Street—a black youth, tall, rangy, wearing white sneakers. Now he was forty feet away, thirty-five. Sherman stared at him. Well, let him come! I’m not budging! It’s my territory! I’m not giving way for any street punks! The black youth suddenly made a ninety-degree turn and cut straight across the street to the sidewalk on the other side. The feeble yellow of a sodium-vapor streetlight reflected for an instant on his face as he checked Sherman out. He had crossed over! What a stroke of luck! Not once did it dawn on Sherman McCoy that what the boy had seen was a thirty-eight-year-old white man, soaking wet, dressed in some sort of military-looking raincoat full of straps and buckles, holding a violently lurching animal in his arms, staring, bug-eyed, and talking to himself.

The civilized man and the wolf-man live at enmity most of the time, and it would seem that Harry Haller is bound to spend his days divided by their squabbling. But sometimes, as in the tavern, they make peace, and then a strange state ensues; for Harry finds that a combination of the two makes him akin to the gods. In these moments of vision, he is no longer envious of the bourgeois who finds life so straightforward, for his own conflicts are present in the bourgeois, on a much smaller scale. He, as self-realizer, has deliberately cultivated his two opposing natures until the conflict threatens to tear him in two, because he knows that when he has achieved the secret of permanently reconciling them, he will live at a level of intensity unknown to the bourgeois. His suffering is not a mark of his inferiority, even though it may render him less fit for survival than the bourgeois; unreconciled, it is the sign of his greatness; reconciled, it is manifested as ‘more abundant life’ that makes the Outsider’s superiority over other types of men unquestionable. When the Outsider becomes aware of his strength, he is unified and happy. Haller

The white conservatives aren’t friends of the Negro either, but they at least don’t try to hide it. They are like wolves; they show their teeth in a snarl that keeps the Negro always aware of where he stands with them. But the white liberals are foxes, who also show their teeth to the Negro but pretend that they are smiling. The white liberals are more dangerous than the conservatives; they lure the Negro, and as the Negro runs from the growling wolf, he flees into the open jaws of the smiling fox. The job of the Negro civil rights leader is to make the Negro forget that the wolf and the fox both belong to the (same) family. Both are canines; and no matter which one of them the Negro places his trust in, he never ends up in the White House, but always in the dog house.54

No, she did not denounce the impostor, but indubitably she made him aware that she knew he was not Eric Hagh. She may have done so merely by the way she looked at him, or she may have asked him some naive and revealing question. In any case, he knew he was in deadly peril from her, and he acted quickly and audaciously—and with dexterity, taking her keys from her bag. No, he is not a bungler, but—

Even then Christa left. Later she often repeated this procedure - of going away - and there's a pattern to be read here, even on first sight: you leave what you know too well, leave what has ceased to be a challenge. Keep your curiosity about other ranges of experience, and ultimately about yourself in any new experience. Prefer the movement to the goal. - Such a nature has obvious drawbacks for its surroundings and itself.

Wolf postulates that lucid dreams (and perhaps all dreams) are actually visits to parallel universes. They are just smaller holograms within the larger and more inclusive cosmic hologram. He even suggests that the ability to lucid-dream might better be called parallel universe awareness. "I call it parallel universe awareness because I believe that parallel universes arise as other images in the hologram, " Wolf states.1 1 This and other similar ideas about the ultimate nature of dreaming will be explored in greater depth later in the book.

Day by day, a throning traffic of life and business passed before him in the streets; day by day, the great vans came, the drivers, handlers, and packers swarmed before his eyes, filling the air with their oaths and cries, irritably intent upon their labor; but the man in the window never looked at them, never seemed to be aware of their existence- he just sat there and looked out, his eyes fixed in an abstracted stare. -------- That man's face became for him the face of Darkness and of Time. It never spoke, and yet it had a voice- a voice that never seemed to have the whole earth in it. It was the voice of evening and of night, and in it were the blended tongues of all those men who have passed through the heat and fury of the day, and who now lean quietly upon the sills of evening. In it was the whole vast hush and weariness that comes upon the city ay the hour of dusk, when the chaos of another day is ended, and when everything- streets, buildings and eight million people- breathe slowly, with a tired and sorrowful joy. And in that single toungless voice was the knowledge of all their tongues.

I shall never forget, in that moment, how instantly conscious I became of my manhood. The primitive deeps of my nature stirred. I felt myself masculine, the protector of the weak, the fighting male. And, best of all, I felt myself the protector of my loved one. She leaned against me, so light and lily-frail, and as her trembling eased away it seemed as though I became aware of prodigious strength. I felt myself a match for the most ferocious bull in the herd, and I know, had such a bull charged upon me, that I should have met it unflinchingly and quite coolly, and I know that I should have killed it.

Alpha. Cress leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees. “Like the star?” “What star?” She stiffened, instantly embarrassed, and scooted back from him again. “Oh. Um. In a constellation, the brightest star is called the alpha. I thought maybe you meant that she’s … like … your brightest star.” Looking away, she knotted her hands in her lap, aware that she was blushing furiously now and this beast of a man was about to realize what an over-romantic sap she was. But instead of sneering or laughing, Wolf sighed. “Yes,” he said, his gaze climbing up to the full moon that had emerged over the city. “Exactly like that.” With

This Steppenwolf of ours has always been aware of at least the Faustian two-fold nature within him. He has discovered that the one-fold of the body is not inhabited by a one-fold of the soul, and that at best he is only at the beginning of a long pilgrimage towards this ideal harmony. He would like either to overcome the wolf and become wholly man or to renounce mankind and at last to live wholly a wolf's life. It may be presumed that he has never carefully watched a real wolf. Had he done so he would have seen, perhaps, that even animals are not undivided in spirit. With them, too, the well-knit beauty of the body hides a being of manifold states and strivings. The wolf, too, has his abysses. The wolf, too, suffers. No, back to nature is a false track that leads nowhere but to suffering and despair. Harry can never turn back again and become wholly wolf, and could he do so he would find that even the wolf is not of primeval simplicity, but already a creature of manifold complexity. Even the wolf has two, and more than two, souls in his wolf's breast, and he who desires to be a wolf falls into the same forgetfulness as the man who sings: "If I could be a child once more!" He who sentimentally sings of blessed childhood is thinking of the return to nature and innocence and the origin of things, and has quite forgotten that these blessed children are beset with conflict and complexities and capable of all suffering. There is, in fact, no way back either to the wolf or to the child. From the very start there is no innocence and no singleness. Every created thing, even the simplest, is already guilty, already multiple. It has been thrown into the muddy stream of being and may never more swim back again to its source. The way to innocence, to the uncreated and to God leads on, not back, not back to the wolf or to the child, but ever further into sin, ever deeper into human life. Nor will suicide really solve your problem, unhappy Steppenwolf. You will, instead, embark on the longer and wearier and harder road of life. You will have to multiply many times your two-fold being and complicate your complexities still further. Instead of narrowing your world and simplifying your soul, you will have to absorb more and more of the world and at last take all of it up in your painfully expanded soul, if you are ever to find peace. This is the road that Buddha and every great man has gone, whether consciously or not, insofar as fortune favored his quest. All births mean separation from the All, the confinement within limitation, the separation from God, the pangs of being born ever anew. The return into the All, the dissolution of painful individuation, the reunion with God means the expansion of the soul until it is able once more to embrace the All.

Do you know that she came here Monday afternoon and spent some hours in this house?” “Yes, I know.” “Do you know what she came for?” “I know nothing definite. I have heard conjectures.” “I won’t ask you from whom or what. I am aware, Miss Duday, that in coming here this evening you people were impelled only partly by the threat of a legal action by Mrs. Jaffee. You also hoped to learn what Miss Eads came to see me for and what she said. I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I have given a complete report to the police, or Mr. Goodwin has, and if they don’t care to publish it neither do I. But I will ask you, do you know of any reason why, on Monday, Miss Eads should have decided to seek seclusion? Was she being harassed or frightened by anyone?” “On Monday?” “Yes.

His knee pressed between her legs then, rubbing against her and making her cry out into his mouth, and he did it again with the same result. Then his leg shifted and his hand replaced it, his fingers gliding through the folds to find her most sensitive spot. Claray stilled briefly, and then begun to suck frantically on his tongue as he began to rub his fingers gently over, then around, the treasure he'd found. Within moments she was panting, and writhing beneath him, some fine string inside her body tightening as taut as a bow. So caught up was she in that feeling that she hardly noticed when he broke their kiss and began sliding down her body, his mouth grazing over one breast and the other and then licking and nipping his way down across her stomach. She was vaguely aware of him urging her legs to open wider, so that he could settle between them. However, it wasn't until his fingers stopped their caressing and his head dipped down between her spread legs that she took notice. She was glancing down with confusion when he nuzzled his face between her thighs and lashed her most sensitive area with his tongue. When Claray gasped and bucked in shock, Conall grasped her upper thighs to hold her in place and pressed his mouth between her legs again. For one moment, she was too stunned to feel anything else as he began to caress the sensitive nub with his tongue, and then suckled at the lips around it. But that soon passed as her body responded to his hungry feasting. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced before, nothing she'd even imagined, It was all so raw and carnal and overwhelming and she didn't know what to do. Claray was quite sure this was not something the church would approve of. He could not give her his seed like this. This was--- "Oh God," she gasped, her thoughts scattering on the breeze as he began to suck on the most sensitive part of her. And then it became a mantra. "Oh God, oh God, oh God." She felt his finger push into her, and struggled against the hands holding her, wanting to move her hips, though she had no idea why, and couldn't with him holding her down. He was still caressing her with his mouth even as he withdrew the finger. He then pushed in again and again until something inside of Claray snapped and she cried out breathlessly, her body suddenly thrashing as pleasure overwhelmed her.

He stands by a window. A flock of starlings settles among the tight black buds of a bare tree. Then, like black buds unfolding, they open their wings; they flutter and sing, stirring everything into motion, air, wings, black notes in music. He becomes aware that he is watching them with pleasure: that something almost extinct, some small gesture towards the future, is ready to welcome the spring; in some spare, desperate way, he is looking forward to Easter, the end of Lenten fasting, the end of penitence. There is a world beyond this black world. There is a world of the possible. A world where Anne can be queen is a world where Cromwell can be Cromwell. He sees it; then he doesn't. The moment is fleeting. But insight cannot be taken back. You cannot return to the moment you were in before.

Me pleasure," he murmured, nuzzling through her hair to press a kiss to the side of her neck. "Mmm," Claray murmured, and tilted her head to the side to better expose her neck as the brief caress sent tingles of awareness through her body. "God's teeth, ye smell good, lass," Conall growled, his hands rubbing up and down her arms as he kissed her neck again and then nibbled at the tender flesh. Claray opened her mouth to thank him for the compliment, but then gasped as his hands suddenly left her arms to slide around in front and cup her breasts. "Ye feel good too," he muttered, kneading the suddenly tender flesh and biting her neck lightly, then sucking on the spot briefly before growling, "Give me yer lips, lass." Claray turned her head back and up, opening to him when he claimed her mouth. His tongue thrust in at once, even as he pushed his hips forward, grinding himself against her bottom through their clothes so that she could feel that he was hard for her. Groaning, she reached back to grasp his hips in response, and kissed him eagerly back. Then gasped and groaned again when one of his hands dropped from her breast to slide between her legs and began to caress her through her skirt even as he pressed her bottom more firmly against his erection. Breaking their kiss, Claray twisted her head against his shoulder and gasped, "Husband!" "Aye," he growled, pressing the cloth between the lips of her nether region and caressing her more directly.

They found Tharion on the couch with Ithan, the tv blasting the latest sports stats. Tharion munched on a piece of pizza, long legs sprawled out in front of him, bare feet on the coffee table. Ruhn might have stepped inside to grab a piece of that pizza had Bryce not gone still. A Fae sort of stillness, sizing up a threat. His instinct went to high alert, bellowing at him to defend, to attack, to slaughter any threat to his family. Ruhn suppressed it, held back by the shadows begging to be unleashed, to hide Bryce from sight. Ithan called over to them, “Pizza’s on the counter if you want some.” Bryce remained silent as fear washed over her scent. Ruhn’s fingers grazed the cool metal of the gun strapped to his thigh. “Your cat’s a sweetheart, by the way,” Ithan went on, not taking his focus from the TV as he stroked the white cat curled on his lap. Bryce slowly shut the door behind her. “He scared the shit out of me when he leapt onto the counter a few minutes ago, the bastard.” The wolf ran his fingers through the luxurious coat, earning a deep purr in response. The cat had stunning blue eyes. They seemed keenly aware as they fixed on Bryce. Ruhn’s shadows gathered at his shoulders, snakes waiting to strike. He subtly drew his gun. Behind her, a familiar ripple of ether-laced power kissed over her skin. A small reassurance as Bryce croaked, “That’s not a cat.” Hunt arrived at the apartment just in time to hear Bryce’s words through the shut front door. He was inside in a moment, lightning gathered at his fingers. “Oh, calm yourself,” the Prince of the Chasm said, leaping into the coffee table.

With regard to other animals, humans have long since become gods. We don’t like to reflect on this too deeply, because we have not been particularly just or merciful gods. If you watch the National Geographic channel, go to a Disney film or read a book of fairy tales, you might easily get the impression that planet Earth is populated mainly by lions, wolves and tigers who are an equal match for us humans. Simba the lion king holds sway over the forest animals; Little Red Riding Hood tries to evade the Big Bad Wolf; and little Mowgli bravely confronts Shere Khan the tiger. But in reality, they are no longer there. Our televisions, books, fantasies and nightmares are still full of them, but the Simbas, Shere Khans and Big Bad Wolves of our planet are disappearing. The world is populated mainly by humans and their domesticated animals. How many wolves live today in Germany, the land of the Grimm brothers, Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf? Less than a hundred. (And even these are mostly Polish wolves that stole over the border in recent years.) In contrast, Germany is home to 5 million domesticated dogs. Altogether about 200,000 wild wolves still roam the earth, but there are more than 400 million domesticated dogs.1 The world contains 40,000 lions compared to 600 million house cats; 900,000 African buffalo versus 1.5 billion domesticated cows; 50 million penguins and 20 billion chickens.2 Since 1970, despite growing ecological awareness, wildlife populations have halved (not that they were prospering in 1970).3 In 1980 there were 2 billion wild birds in Europe. In 2009 only 1.6 billion were left. In the same year, Europeans raised 1.9 billion chickens for meat and eggs.4 At present, more than 90 per cent of the large animals of the world (i.e., those weighing more than a few pounds) are either humans or domesticated animals.

Rockton is no more Oliver than Churchgrove is Lord Kirkwood,” Lady Minerva said stoutly. “Then why did you steal my name for him?” Oliver asked. “It’s not quite your name, old chap,” Lord Gabriel said. “And you know perfectly well that Minerva likes to tweak your nose from time to time.” “Stop calling me ‘old,’ blast it,” Oliver grumbled. “I’m not some doddering fool.” “How old are you, anyway?” Maria asked him, amused by his vanity. “Thirty-five.” Mrs. Plumtree had said little until now, but apparently the conversation had piqued her interest. “That’s long past the age when a man should marry, don’t you think, Miss Butterfield?” Aware of Oliver’s gaze on her, Maria chose her words carefully. “I suppose it depends on the man. Papa didn’t marry until he was nearly that age. He was too busy fighting in the Revolutionary War to court anyone.” When the blood drained from Mrs. Plumtree’s face, Oliver’s eyes held a glint of triumph. “Ah, yes, the Revolutionary War. Did I forget to mention, Gran, that Mr. Butterfield was a soldier in the Continental Marines?” The table got very quiet. Lady Minerva focused on eating her soup. Lady Celia took several sips of wine, one after another, and Lord Jarret stared into his soup bowl as if it contained the secret to life. The only real sound punctuating the silence was Lord Gabriel’s muttered “bloody hell.” Clearly, there was some undercurrent here that Maria didn’t understand. Oliver was watching his grandmother again like a wolf about to pounce, and Mrs. Plumtree was clearly contemplating which weapon would best hold the wolf at bay. “Uncle Adam was a hero,” Freddy put in, oblivious as usual to undercurrents of any kind. “At the Battle of Princeton, he held off ten of the British until help could arrive. It was just him and his bayonet, slashing and stabbing-“ “Freddy,” Maria chided under her breath, “our hosts are British, remember?

She was not happy or fulfilled in those moments, but simply alive, in the moment, happy to have gotten close to Zamir and subsequently his nature, wild, and sad at the same time, because it all made her acutely aware of her own mortality. It was a joyous, exciting feeling, laced with powerful grief.

For just a moment, time stopped as they shared an intense awareness of each other, of what they were about to do. There was an invisible web building between them, the mating bond. Donovan could feel it, could feel Jim, down to the depths of his soul.

The wolf’s fur was speckled with drops of blood that had beaded on it like rain. The gravel in the alley shone in the half-light from the distant street lamps. The wolf’s muzzle, a little shorter and broader than I had seen on Wild Kingdom, was drawn back, black lips from fangs striped white and red like peppermints. Its eyes were blue, rather than any proper lupine shade, and gleamed with a sort of demented awareness.

am quite aware that I bat close to a thousand on invitations to damsels only because I don’t issue one unless the circumstances strongly indicate that it will be accepted.

Just because you are anti-police, that does not necessarily mean that your whiteness has disappeared or that anti-Black racism is gone. Remember what James Baldwin told us, “White Americans find it as difficult as white people elsewhere do to divest themselves of the notion that they are in possession of some intrinsic value that black people need, or want.”5 Even Dr. King—yes, the one that even conservatives love to tout as the content-of-your-character caricature—argued that he was disappointed in the “white moderate” who “is more devoted to ‘order’ than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice . . . who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man’s freedom.”6 White liberals are who we should be concerned about. Of course, Malcolm X warned us to be aware of the fox and the wolf—by which he meant that white liberals would try and be your friend in order to take advantage of you, but the wolf would always make clear its intentions and commit an act of violence. Finally, let’s not forget the words of South African and Black Consciousness movement freedom fighter Steve Biko, who wrote of white liberals: Instead of involving themselves in an all-out attempt to stamp out racism from their white society, liberals waste lots of time trying to prove to as many blacks as they can find that they are liberal.

He seemed to operate at half speed, taking his own time about everything. It made me aware of the usual tension with which I live, that keyed-up state of raw nerve that makes me grind my teeth in my sleep. Sometimes I get so wired that I forget to eat at all, only remembering at night, even then not being hungry but wolfing down food anyway as though the speed and quantity of consumption might atone for the infrequency. With Charlie, I could feel my time clock readjust, my pace slowing to match his. When I finished the second glass of wine, I heaved a sigh and only then did I realize that I’d been holding myself tensely, like a joke snake ready to jump out of a box.

You, Nazhuret, once of Sordaling, are the lens of the world: the lens through which the world may become aware of itself. The world, on the other hand, is the only lens in which you can see yourself. It is both lenses together that make vision.

It's funny how you can be aware of your own anxiety, but be helpless against it.

By the time she chugged all the way up the five flights and back down to the room and her rectangle, she was drenched with sweat and breathing with loud, rapid heaves. Gradually she became aware of … eyes

Anyone who still believes the archaic canard that we use only a tiny portion of our brains hasn’t yet become aware of what we do when we read.

So consumed by his kisses was she that Claray was only vaguely aware of it when Conall clasped her by the waist and turned her toward him. So, when he suddenly broke their kiss, she was somewhat surprised to find herself on her knees between his. She saw amusement flicker across his face as he took in her startled expression, but that died quickly when he untucked the linen wrapped around her chest and it dropped to pool around her knees, leaving her entirely on display. His gaze grew intense then, and hungry, like a starving man presented with a feast. Claray's instinct was to cover herself with her hands, but instead she dug her fingers into his shoulders and remained still. She then gasped and stiffened when he lowered his head and leaned forward to latch on to one breast, sucking the nipple into his mouth and flicking it with his tongue. Even as she cried out and arched into the caress, his hand was laying claim to her other breast and kneading the eager flesh, before switching his mouth to claim that nipple now as his fingers plucked at the first. Hardly aware of the little mewls of need and pleasure slipping from her lips, Claray withstood that as long as she could, and then slid her hands into his damp hair, and pulled his head back so that she could cover his lips with hers. Much to her relief, he gave in to her silent request and kissed her again, his mouth demanding and hungry as he palmed and squeezed her breasts, then alternately tweaked and rolled her nipples until her head was swimming with pleasure and need.

Only one who is self-aware can question her own self-awareness.

It’s the same old conundrum. You couldn’t ask questions about self-awareness until you became self-aware, but you couldn’t become self-aware until you were able to grasp the concept of self-awareness.

I will not risk you,” she whispered quietly, aware that her sisters were hanging on every word. “I cannot. I can bear anything, but I cannot lose you.

Curiosity—actual curiosity—was one of the hallmarks of sentience and self-awareness

I ran, and he chased, and soon I became aware that it was no longer a man who followed me—it was a beast, a wolf. A white wolf with blue eyes, I saw, when I decided the time for running had passed.

I do not wish it to be you because you are convenient, Jules Southby. The desire cuts its way deep into me simply because of you.” The words shouldn’t have sent a thrill racing through her chest, but they did. “Do you understand what I am saying, Wildflower?” She was silent, still, for long seconds. “Yes.” The duke tugged her into his arms and pressed his mouth against hers. They stilled against each other, the awareness of his actions seemingly washing over them at the same instance.

The duke was standing before the open windows…stark naked. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged, and Jules could only stare as the silvery beam from the moonlight painted itself over his body. His thighs and calves were thick and powerful, stomach and buttocks lean and delineated with muscle. Though they stood several feet apart, she was all too aware of the breadth of his shoulders, his height, and the inherent power in his body. You are so beautifully formed, Your Grace. Alarmingly, her cheeks went hot, then her throat and belly. He was so compelling she stared helplessly, absurdly grateful for the darkened room. Jules drew a soft breath, trying to calm the wild pounding of her heart. The duke tilted his head, baring to her gaze the strong column of his throat. She refused to look lower than his shoulders, not wanting to feel that baffling heat stabbing her belly. He inhaled, and it came on a soft growl when he released his breath. She bit into her lower lip, hard, for that thumping heat low in her belly responded viscerally to that low growl. The corner of the duke’s mouth curled upward and seemed mocking and cynical. Still, she was struck by the incredible sensual beauty of that small smile. Unexpectedly he turned his head and stared directly at her. Jules froze, even her breathing suspended. Though she held herself astonishingly still, her heart jerked with more erratic force. Surely he could not see her. It is impossible. Yet she felt way down inside her, every nuance of his stare. Perilous tension coated the air, and she waited for him to move closer to her, but he turned away and padded over to the bed, the darkness hiding him from her entirely. Jules could not say how long she waited, listening for sounds that he slept. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. She heard nothing, and again she couldn’t escape the feeling the duke knew someone was in the room with him. But why did he not say or do something if he suspects it? She closed her eyes and drew strength for calm, allowing that she might be panicking in vain. There was no peril, and she only had to leave his chamber without being noticed. Jules waited a few more minutes before softly moving from behind the drapes. She paused, then lowered herself to her knees and crawled on her hands and knees to the door. She almost smiled at her absurdity but marshaled her reaction and ventured forward as fast as possible. At the door, she reached up and gently eased open the latch, grateful the hallway was also dark. Perhaps if the duke was awake, he might not notice the slight opening of his door. She crawled through the small space created, and once in the hallway, she lurched to her feet and hurried toward her door.

The exquisite awareness of Ghost and Wolf rubbing their cocks together inside me was nothing short of soul-blinding indulgence.

„I remember it all too well.“, he sighs into the hot cup of coffee Hades hands him. She nods, taking a look as well. This place here in a small town somewhere in Scotland has become a haven for the tragic stories of a past and gave them a chance of becoming something new. Not everyone’s story is going to be fixed. Chiron is terribly aware of it, brushing over the large scar on his arm but for the most of it, people have a chance of rewriting their own stories.

Lorcan looked to Fenrys. Found the male bristling. Aware of the change beyond the walls. It was time. “We finish this together,” Fenrys snarled, and shifted as well, a white wolf leaping clean off the battlements and into the city streets below. Toward the gate.

Something warm and solid landed on my bare leg, and I looked down, finding Ivan’s wide hand wrapped around my knee. He gently squeezed, and my breath caught. I stared at his hand, the veins running beneath his tattooed skin, how they rippled when he squeezed again. Without thinking, I laid my hand on top of his. I was aware he and Freddie were speaking to each other. Their laughter was the soundtrack to my fingers sliding over his. He didn’t look at me, and I didn’t look at him. Not his face, anyway. My focus was on his hand and mine. The size difference. How beautiful the ink decorating his skin was. The place behind my knee where his index finger rubbed back and forth. The spiral in my chest slowly settled until I no longer felt like running out of the dining hall. It was nice to regain control without having to isolate myself from everyone.

She leaned toward me as if wanting to confide something. “I know you’re not really aware of how awkward you are, but could you do the rest of us a favor and not scream like a banshee? It’s embarrassing. Everyone was staring at you. Poor Ivan must have been dying over you shrieking his name like that.” “I wasn’t…shrieking.” There was no force behind my denial, though. She sighed and shook her head like she pitied me. “Are you even capable of not being creepy as fuck?” Of course, this was a rhetorical question since she didn’t wait around for my answer.

Because we harbor even a kernel of the infinite within us, we are painfully aware of our limitation, of the absence of divinity. We are temporary. This is our great existential wound. By slicing my flesh, I have merely scraped mine open to expose where she has always belonged.

I was aware of you, Delilah. I knew you existed. But I never saw you because I wasn’t looking. You think it’s because there’s something wrong with you that made me overlook you, but that isn’t true. It’s me who’s wrong, and I don’t want anyone to know me because then they’ll see. But you saw, didn’t you? You got the full force of my wrongness shoved in your face. I’m sorry for that, but I will never be sorry for us. That’s for selfish reasons, though. When I was with you, I felt right. I haven’t felt that way since my dad.” He huffed a laugh. “You know that saying ‘two wrongs don’t make a right’? I don’t believe that anymore because your wrong, and my wrong, very fucking certainly made a right.

I sighed as I worried about that and Thick asked sympathetically, “You got a gut ache?” “No. Not exactly. Worrying about Hap. My son back in Buckkeep Town.” “Oh.” He did not sound very interested. Then, as if this was a thing he had pondered for a long time, he added, “You’re always somewhere else. You never do the music where you are.” I looked at him for a moment, and then lowered my perpetual guard against his music. Letting it in was like letting the night into my eyes when twilight came over the land and it was a good time to hunt. I relaxed into the moment, letting the wolf’s enjoyment of the now come into me, as I had not for far too long. I had been aware of the water and the light wind. Now I heard the whispering of blowing sand and snow, and deep behind it, the slow groaning creak of the glacier across the land. I could suddenly smell the salt of the ocean and the iodine of the kelp on the beach and the icy breath of old snow. It was like opening a door to an older place and time. I glanced at Thick and suddenly saw him complete and whole in this setting, for he gave himself to it. While he sat here and enjoyed the night, he lacked nothing. I felt a smile bend my mouth. “You would have made a good wolf,” I told him.

Content?” Neil asked. “Wouldn't that be an emotional response?” Noah shook his head. “No. Contentedness comes from an awareness of security. As long as you're not in danger, and there's no immediate situation that threatens your security or causes you discomfort, then you should be content. And speaking of content, breakfast is ready.

Emma, you have lived before…in other lifetimes.” I was waiting for him to burst into laughter and tell me this was some ridiculous prank. Where was he going with this? “I have been reincarnated?” “Yes, several times. You accidently breathed in God’s energy at an Egyptian temple and that energy never dies.” I sat there staring blankly, wondering if I had fallen in love with a mad man. “Emma, your soul is confused…” “Between?” “Being human and being God

energies and the celestial energies flowing in simultaneously on the breath, from below and from above, unifying at the heart. This dual stream balances the energies coming into union at the heart. Be aware of your consciousness residing in the body, but know that this is not the only place it resides. See your body sitting within this shaft of light, but now move your consciousness above the body. Shift your awareness to a place about one foot above the head but still within the shaft of light. Visualize yourself dissolving into your natural state as a particle of light. Look down at your body. It is maintained below you on the chair, but you as spirit are everywhere at once. Now drift down the shaft of light into your body. Flow past the head into the chest area. Feel yourself glide into that sacred heart space. How does it feel to be there? All of the energy from below and above flow and join you there. How does it feel? You can sense the head far above you and the feet far below. They are not the real you. How does the real you feel? Dwelling with your consciousness in this sacred space, hear these words: ‘Spirit of Great Healer, awaken within this heart.

Peace and tranquility flow like water. May the light of All That Is free my soul and awaken me fully to the truth of who I am. I am far more than the physical body. I am without form, without limit, beyond space, beyond time. I am in everything, and everything is in me. I am the light. I am the light. I am the light.’ This is alignment—this state of being in the heart, no longer prisoner to the head, but in a state of awareness of your true being … a unified whole comprised of the Earth energies and the spirit energies. You are all of that. Know that you can return to this place of peace, this place of tranquility, at any time. Know that here you will always be home. Return here often. This is the real you. Gratitude will bring you here instantly. Come to know it intimately as you kindle more and more the flame within you. For now, take a cleansing breath and slowly return

Dana laughed. "You're going to have to sell me hard on the idea of Carson being the Wolf, Doug. He's charming, smart, knows his Bible cold." Dana smiled. "He's handsome." "What do his looks have to do with anything?" Brandon frowned. "I think we all know what he looks like. We don't need to dwell on--" "I'm not dwelling on his thick blond hair, his tan skin, or his trim athletic build, Brandon. I'm thinking that Marcus might not know what he looks like, and I'm trying to give the professor a visual to work with." "I'm aware of him," Marcus said. Brandon snorted out a breath. "Yeah, Dana, I'm sure that's exactly what you were--" "Enough." Reece raised his palm, the reflection of the flames of the fire pit turning it a dark red.

Contentedness comes from an awareness of security.

Contentedness comes from an awareness of security. As long as you're not in danger, and there's no immediate situation that threatens your security or causes you discomfort, then you should be content. And speaking of content, breakfast is ready.

Jonah lowered himself onto his backside and scooted against the wall. He kept his hand on the thick fur and petted the wolf that he’d seen on an almost daily basis for as long as he could remember. For the first time since that afternoon’s debacle with Zev, Jonah felt calm. He’d had trouble falling asleep, still anxious about Zev’s reaction to their encounter and Jonah’s assertion that Zev was attracted to him. Even when he’d finally drifted into slumber, Jonah had tossed around restlessly, terrified that he’d driven away his best friend for good. But in that moment, sitting on the floor with his arms around the brown wolf, he felt better. There was something about the animal that tempered Jonah’s worry and relaxed him from the inside out. Jonah sighed. His eyelids felt heavy and his body was worn out from the stressful day. So much so, that with the wolf’s warm body pressed against his, Jonah succumbed to sleep without giving any thought as to why his cock had lengthened and hardened as soon as he’d embraced the creature. HE’D never rested so soundly, felt so complete and at peace. Jonah snuggled up against the soft, warm pillow and sighed happily. An answering rumble caused him to reassess the pillow theory. As sleep started clearing from his mind, Jonah became aware of the strong heartbeat close to his ear and the sound of someone else breathing. Zev. He sensed Zev. But the last time he’d seen his best friend they’d fought, so that didn’t make sense. Jonah opened one eye and was greeted with an amber gaze. Except these amber eyes weren’t attached to the body of the young man who’d played front and center in Jonah’s every fantasy. They were attached to the brown wolf Jonah had known even longer. His arm was already wrapped around the large canine, so Jonah just moved his hand back and forth over the soft coat, petting his animal friend. “Morning, Pup. Anyone ever tell you that you make a great teddy bear?” Jonah laughed when the wolf growled. He actually looked affronted. Who knew that expression was possible for a dog? “Oh, Pup, did I offend you? Sorry, boy.” Jonah squeezed the large animal into a tight hug. It felt so comforting, he didn’t want to let go.

without awareness that all belong to the one human race, man is but a wolf to man. This

Wolf, as he watched her, felt weak, despicable, faltering. He felt like a finical attendant watching the splendid fury of some Sophoclean heroine. He became aware that her anger leaped up from some incalculable crevasse in the rock crust of the universe, such as he himself had never approached. The nature of her feelings, its directness, its primordial simplicity, reduced his own emotion to something ridiculous. She towered above him there with that grand convulsed face and those expanded breasts; while her fine hands, clutching at her belt, seemed to display a wild desire to strip naked before him, to overwhelm him with the wrath of her naked maternal body, bare to the outrage of his impiety.

Livy leaned down into the cornmeal barrel, aware that Rising Hawk was awake and watching. She had learned to sense his presence. Like sheep sense a wolf, she thought grimly. It’s no wonder Seneca think up all that devilment to do to Christians. Any man that lazy has nothing better to do.

The sage is not unconscious; he is fully aware of the Self.

They had almost come to the tree's central trunk when Pouncer froze, tail erect with the tip cocked forward. She had learned that signal meant freeze and she did. T'suuz, some ten meters behind him, froze as well. Very slowly Pouncer pointed down. For a long moment Cherenkova saw nothing, and then movement on the jungle floor caught her eye. It was a rapsari sniffer, small and round bodied, proboscis swinging back and forth as it searched for familiar scents. It had sensed something, but it was confused. It advanced slowly, circling first left, then right. Its handler came behind it, riding one of the reptilian raiders and wearing full mag armor. He snarled something quietly into his comlink. Cherenkova held her breath. A second raider-mounted Tzaatz came up beside the handler. The two conferred momentarily in muted snarls. A gravcar whined overhead. The handler sniffed suspiciously and Cherenkova held her breath. The second Tzaatz looked up, searching the branches. He seemed to be looking right at her and she wanted to scream, her pulse pounding in her ears. It seemed impossible that he didn't see her. Slowly he raised his binoptics to his eyes and started methodically scanning overhead. He hadn't seen her, but he would any second. The rapsar sniffer had circled back. Two more Tzaatz moved through her field of view, one of the reptillian raiders grunting. How many were there? Suddenly she found herself eye to eye with kzinti binoptics. The Tzaatz snarled and pointed right at her and cold fear shot through her system. They were caught, and she was acutely aware that the Tzaatz were under no obligation not to eat her. The sniffer handler looked up and snarled as well. She started to climb away. They hadn't spotted Pouncer or T'suuz. If she could lead the hunters away they might be able to ambush the Tzaatz. At least they wouldn't all be taken together. She looked down to see the warrior raising a crossbow. There was a scream, suddenly cut off, and the warrior looked away from her. She saw him startle and fire at something she couldn't see, and then a rapsar raider ran past without its rider, and both Tzaatz spun their mounts to run. The ground shook under heavy impacts and then something appeared out of nowhere and bit the closer Tzaatz in half. It was easily twenty meters long, and amazingly fast for that bulk, long necked and sinuous, like a wingless dragon. The other Tzaatz turned to face it, drawing his variable sword in an act of undeniable courage. Before he could swing at it another of the beasts thundered in and snapped him up, impaling him on half-meter fangs and shaking him like a wolf with a rabbit, decapitating his raider rapsar almost accidentally in the process. The other Tzaatz had fled, but distant, heavy footfalls shook the jungle floor, followed by a deep, rumbling call. The grlor hunted in packs, Pouncer had said.

Be aware that your ego can trick you to think you have “made it” and you don’t need the training any longer. The ego will be your biggest obstacle to overcome.

but Sun Wolf found, a little to his surprise, that what they thought of him concerned him far less than it had. He hadn’t been aware how much it had concerned him before.

This idea of two distinct varieties of people (which quickly hardened into a Polynesian/Melanesian divide) turns what is, in fact, a spectrum of skin tones and peoples across the Pacific into a more or less binary division between black and white. With this binary came a tangle of other ideas about morality, intelligence, temperament, beauty, social and political complexity, even depth of time. Melanesians were routinely described by Europeans as not just dark-skinned, but “primitive” in their political, economic, and social structures. In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century accounts, they are depicted as small, dark, and mistrustful, the women “ill-favoured” and “ugly,” the men “despotic” and cruel. Banded together in small, autonomous groups, they appeared to Europeans to lack any form of law, government, or organized religion and compared unfavorably with their larger, fairer-skinned, more hierarchical neighbors the Polynesians, differing from them, in one unforgettable formulation, “as the wolf from the dog.” The term “Melanesian” had thus long served in European discourse as a marker for otherness and inferiority, and in the racially charged climate of the early twentieth century, Te Rangi Hiroa could hardly fail to be aware of this. When the anatomist J. H. Scott (the probable author of the Otago Medical School notice offering to buy Māori skeletons) asserted, “We know the Maoris to be . . . the result of the mingling of a Polynesian and a Melanesian strain,” or when Sullivan argued for a “Melanesian element” in his Tongan or Samoan data sets, Te Rangi Hiroa would certainly have recognized the subtext. And in his own early somatological studies, which were written explicitly with the work of these other men in mind, you can see him struggling with the problem.

At the start of this book, we asked what the world would be like if, instead of suckling Romulus and Remus, the wolf had eaten them. What if there had been no Rome? What if there had been only Barbarians? After the disappearance of the last Roman emperor from the West, a Barbarian empire came into being that seems to answer that question. The Eastern Goths, the Ostrogoths, whose parents and grandparents had raided with Attila and his Huns, moved back to Italy in 489, and this time they stayed there. They were no longer pagans, but as self-aware Goths they avoided the Roman Catholic Church. Like the Vandals and the Visigoths, they were Arians, and under their king Theodoric they set about building a new kind of Rome. In place of the old violent, intolerant and ruthless Roman Catholic empire, there was a gentler and more inclusive Barbarian vision. Whereas Rome tried to make all its citizens ‘Romans’, and tried not to recognize nations within the Empire, Theodoric believed that it was possible to build an empire of different nationalities. He set out to establish harmony between the different kingdoms and peoples of the West, intermarrying his relatives to different royal families and guaranteeing them their own law codes. He ruled both as a Gothic king and as a patrician, paying respectful homage to Constantinople, but never calling himself emperor.