Awful Mother In Law Quotes

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

When the victor, in a fight of the cities, according to the law of warfare, executes the whole male population and sells all the women and children into slavery, we see, in the sanction of such a law, that the Greek deemed it a positive necessity to allow his hatred to break forth unimpeded; in such moments the compressed and swollen feeling relieved itself; the tiger bounded forth, a voluptuous cruelty shone out of his fearful eye. Why had the Greek sculptor to represent again and again war and fights in innumerable repetitions, extended human bodies whose sinews are tightened through hatred or through the recklessness of triumph, fighters wounded and writhing with pain, or the dying with the last rattle in their throat? Why did the whole Greek world exult in the fighting scenes of the "Iliad"? I am afraid, we do not understand them enough in "Greek fashion," and that we should even shudder, if for once we did understand them thus. But what lies, as the mother-womb of the Hellenic, behind the Homeric world? In the latter, by the extremely artistic definiteness, and the calm and purity of the lines we are already lifted far above the purely material amalgamation: its colours, by an artistic deception, appear lighter, milder, warmer; its men, in this coloured, warm illumination, appear better and more sympathetic — but where do we look, if, no longer guided and protected by Homer's hand, we step backwards into the pre-Homeric world? Only into night and horror, into the products of a fancy accustomed to the horrible. What earthly existence is reflected in the loathsome-awful theogonian lore: a life swayed only by the children of the night, strife, amorous desires, deception, age and death. Let us imagine the suffocating atmosphere of Hesiod's poem, still thickened and darkened and without all the mitigations and purifications, which poured over Hellas from Delphi and the numerous seats of the gods! If we mix this thickened Boeotian air with the grim voluptuousness of the Etruscans, then such a reality would extort from us a world of myths within which Uranos, Kronos and Zeus and the struggles of the Titans would appear as a relief. Combat in this brooding atmosphere is salvation and safety; the cruelty of victory is the summit of life's glories. And just as in truth the idea of Greek law has developed from murder and expiation of murder, so also nobler Civilisation takes her first wreath of victory from the altar of the expiation of murder. Behind that bloody age stretches a wave-furrow deep into Hellenic history. The names of Orpheus, of Musaeus, and their cults indicate to what consequences the uninterrupted sight of a world of warfare and cruelty led — to the loathing of existence, to the conception of this existence as a punishment to be borne to the end, to the belief in the identity of existence and indebtedness. But these particular conclusions are not specifically Hellenic; through them Greece comes into contact with India and the Orient generally. The Hellenic genius had ready yet another answer to the question: what does a life of fighting and of victory mean? and gives this answer in the whole breadth of Greek history.

I can’t remember a specific time when the comments and the name-calling started, but one evening in November it all got much worse,’ she said. ‘My brother Tobias and me were doing our homework at the dining room table like we always did.’ ‘You’ve got a brother?’ She hesitated before nodding. ‘Papa was working late at the clinic in a friend’s back room – it was against the law for Jews to work as doctors. Mama was making supper in the kitchen, and I remember her cursing because she’d just burned her hand on the griddle. Tobias and me couldn’t stop laughing because Mama never swore.’ The memory of it made her mouth twitch in an almost-smile. Then someone banged on our front door. It was late – too late for social calling. Mama told us not to answer it. Everyone knew someone who’d had a knock on the door like that.’ ‘Who was it?’ ‘The police, usually. Sometimes Hitler’s soldiers. It was never for a good reason, and it never ended happily. We all dreaded it happening to us. So, Mama turned the lights out and put her hand over the dog’s nose.’ Esther, glancing sideways at me, explained: ‘We had a sausage dog called Gerta who barked at everything. ‘The knocking went on and they started shouting through the letter box, saying they’d burn the house down if we didn’t answer the door. Mama told us to hide under the table and went to speak to them. They wanted Papa. They said he’d been treating non-Jewish patients at the clinic and it had to stop. Mama told them he wasn’t here but they didn’t believe her and came in anyway. There were four of them in Nazi uniform, stomping through our house in their filthy great boots. Finding us hiding under the table, they decided to take Tobias as a substitute for Papa. ‘When your husband hands himself in, we’ll release the boy,’ was what they said. ‘It was cold outside – a freezing Austrian winter’s night – but they wouldn’t let Tobias fetch his coat. As soon as they laid hands on him, Mama started screaming. She let go of Gerta and grabbed Tobias – we both did – pulling on his arms, yelling that they couldn’t take him, that he’d done nothing wrong. Gerta was barking. I saw one of the men swing his boot at ther. She went flying across the room, hitting the mantelpiece. It was awful. She didn’t bark after that.’ It took a moment for the horror of what she was saying to sink in. ‘Don’t tell me any more if you don’t want to,’ I said gently. She stared straight ahead like she hadn’t heard me. ‘They took my brother anyway. He was ten years old. ‘We ran into the street after them, and it was chaos – like the end of the world or something. The whole town was fully of Nazi uniforms. There were broken windows, burning houses, people sobbing in the gutter. The synagogue at the end of our street was on fire. I was terrified. So terrified I couldn’t move. But Mum kept running. Shouting and yelling and running after my brother. I didn’t see what happened but I heard the gunshot.’ She stopped. Rubbed her face in her hands. ‘Afterwards they gave it a very pretty name: Kristallnacht – meaning “the night of broken glass”. But it was the night I lost my mother and my brother. I was sent away soon after as part of the Kindertransport, though Papa never got used to losing us all at once. Nor did I. That’s why he came to find me. He always promised he’d try.’ Anything I might’ve said stayed stuck in my throat. There weren’t words for it, not really. So I put my arm through Esther’s and we sat, gazing out to sea, two old enemies who were, at last, friends. She was right – it was her story to tell. And I could think of plenty who might benefit from hearing it.

I remember Amelia and Jeffrey. Amelia was nice enough, but Jeffrey, a colleague of Tom’s, was awful. All of the ists: sexist, racist, classist.

I was born to an unwed female in a settlement that makes Windhaven look like a tolerant, welcoming paradise. She was shunned for bearing a child out of wedlock, and forced to give birth to me alone in a tent in the dead of winter.' Horror lurched through her. She'd known Cassian was low-born, but that level of cruelty because of it... 'What of your father?' 'You mean the piece of shit who forced himself on her and then went back to his wife and family?' Cassian let out a cold laugh that she rarely heard. 'There were no consequences for him.' 'There never are,' Nesta said coolly. She blocked out the image of Tomas's face. 'There are here,' Cassian growled, as if he sensed the direction of her thoughts. Cassian gestured to the city below, hidden by the mountain and the House blocking the view. 'Rhys changed the laws here in the Night Court, and in Illyria.' His face hardened further. 'But it still requires the survivor to come forward. And in places like Illyria, they make life a living hell for any female who does. They seem it a betrayal.' 'That's outrageous.' 'We're all Fae. Forget the High Fae or Lesser Fae bullshit. We're all immortal or close to it. Change comes slowly for us. What humans accomplish in decades takes us centuries. Longer, if you live in Illyria.' 'Then why do you bother with the Illyrians?' 'Because I fought like hell to prove my worth to them.' His eyes glittered. 'To prove that my mother brought some good into this world.' 'Where is she now?' He'd never spoken of her. His eyes shuttered in a way she had not witnessed before. 'I was taken away from her when I was three. Thrown out into the snow. And in her so-called disgraced state, she became prey to other monsters.' Nesta's stomach twisted with each word. 'She did their backbreaking labour until she died, alone and...' His throat worked. 'I was at Windhaven by then. I wasn't strong enough to return to help her. To bring her somewhere safe. Rhys wasn't yet High Lord, and none of us could do anything.' ... 'It's a story for another time. But what I meant to try to explain is that through it all, through every awful thing, the training centred me. Guided me. When I had a shit day, when I was spat on or pummelled or shunned, when I led armies and lost good warriors, when Rhys was taken by Amarantha- through all of that, the training remained. You said the other day the breathing helped you. It helps me, too. It helped Feyre.' She watched the wall rise in his eyes, word after word. As if he waited for her to rip it down. Rip him down. 'Make of that what you will, but it's true.' Oily shame slithered through her. She'd done that- brought this level of defensiveness in him. Heaviness weighed on her. Started gnawing on her insides. So Nesta said, 'Show me another set of movements.' Cassian scanned her face for a heartbeat, his gaze still shuttered, and began his next demonstration.

admit, and explained about Scott taking his wife and mother-in-law back to Yorkshire. “So you see I wasn’t expecting him to necessarily be here on the doorstep, but the house hasn’t been properly locked up at all. And I know I don’t know Mr Hawkesmoor well, but he came across as the kind of professional who wouldn’t be that careless. “And there’s another thing. I wasn’t quite sure whether to contact the police, because to be honest I have no evidence of what’s happened, but the way Mrs Hawkesmoor and Mrs Underhill left seems, well …just odd. Like they stepped out of the door and vanished. Maybe they were just sloppy people, but stuff like the milk has been left out on the side – as if they were either expecting to come back before they left, or were expecting somebody else to come and tidy up after them straight away.” “Show me, would you?” the man who she now knew was Sergeant Miles asked, and so Kat took him around to the cottage and unlocked the door. “I locked it up simply for security,” she explained, letting him go in alone. When he reappeared it was with a frown on his face. “I agree it doesn’t look like they were planning on going and never coming back. Have you looked upstairs?” Kat felt a touch foolish confessing. “I didn’t like to, beyond calling for Mr Hawkesmoor. Mrs Hawkesmoor is an odd sort of woman. Takes offence very easily and where none was intended, if you get my drift. Mr Hawkesmoor told me they lost their two sons in an accident last year, so I guess she’s every right to be a bit of a mess, but I was very glad I wasn’t going to be working for her, if that doesn’t sound callous. And her mother, Mrs Underhill! Lord, there was a woman who must make enemies wherever she goes! Very abrasive, very aggressive, and used to ruling the roost unless I’m much mistaken.” Sergeant Miles gave her an odd look but vanished upstairs, coming back down looking even more perplexed. “Well there’s no women’s clothing up there, but there are men’s clothes. Did you say that Mr Hawkesmoor had every intention of coming back here?” “Oh yes. This weekend if at all possible. But that’s why I’m concerned that his mobile seems to be off. I heard from him on Tuesday by text, but then didn’t think anything of him not being in touch until now, if only because I thought he’d probably got his hands full with his family. Not now, though. I would’ve expected something from him by now, even if not a long chatty conversation.” The odd looks Sergeant Miles kept giving her were now starting to seriously spook her. “Look, what’s going on? Why are you here? Has something awful happened?” He gave a grunt. “We were contacted by our colleagues up in Yorkshire. They’re looking for Mr Hawkesmoor.” “Scott Hawkesmoor? Why? Whatever for? He didn’t strike me as some master criminal.” “Well whether he’s responsible or not, we need to speak to him because both his wife and his mother-in-law are dead.” Kat felt herself sway and heard Sergeant Miles say, “Are you alright?” as he caught hold of her arm. Why did that feel as though she had known it was going to happen? Why had that feeling of someone having a violent death been all over her ever since she’d come back? The news felt almost physical in its

Don’t follow my mother-in-law’s bad example. And don’t listen to me if you enjoy offending people. If you don’t enjoy offending people, a less rude word for “you” is あなた (anata), where the middle character is な (na) instead of ん (n). But you hardly ever need to be saying that, either. Call people by their names in Japanese whenever possible.