B Silent Quotes

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What is the answer?" [ I [Alice B Toklas] was silent ] In that case, what is the question?
Gertrude Stein
We have no right to sit silently by while the inevitable seeds are sown for a harvest of disaster to our children, black and white.
W.E.B. Du Bois (The Souls of Black Folk)
Did you come out of the womb a dickhead or develop that jockstrap personality on your own? (Hunter)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
The least you could do is offer a little conversation.” Beckett dodged a pothole, keeping his eyes on the road. “You want me to talk?” “It would be the polite thing to do.” “Okay. Let’s talk.” “Any topic will be fine.” “I’m going to sit here and silently think of one. Might take a while.
Jenny B. Jones (There You'll Find Me)
He probably couldn’t turn off his sexiness without medical intervention.’ (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Hurt her and you’ll meet me in hell. I’ll be the one tying your dick in a knot. You’ll be the one bleeding out your eyeballs. (Hunter)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Don’t yell at me when I just survived a near-death experience. (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
How do you do that? (Abbie) What, sweetheart? (Hunter) Make me crazy to beat you one minute and crazy to love you the next. (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Careful who you stake your life – and national security – on. Women have exploited men for centuries. Arrogance is our biggest weakness. Well, that and our cock. (Gotthard)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
If words are to enter men's minds and bear fruit, they must be the right words shaped cunningly to pass men's defenses and explode silently and effectually within their minds.
J.B. Phillips
My mother’s dying and may not live through the week. So, yes, I’d rather die trying to save her than live with the guilt of wondering if I could have. If you can’t understand caring that much for someone you love then you’re one coldhearted bastard. (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Baby, you have no idea how much I love you or what I’m willing to do to keep you. I want you in my life more than anyone or anything else. Marry me. (Hunter)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Consult your resentment. It’s a revelatory emotion, for all its pathology. It’s part of an evil triad: arrogance, deceit, and resentment. Nothing causes more harm than this underworld Trinity. But resentment always means one of two things. Either the resentful person is immature, in which case he or she should shut up, quit whining, and get on with it, or there is tyranny afoot—in which case the person subjugated has a moral obligation to speak up. Why? Because the consequence of remaining silent is worse. Of course, it’s easier in the moment to stay silent and avoid conflict. But in the long term, that’s deadly. When you have something to say, silence is a lie—and tyranny feeds on lies. When should you push back against oppression, despite the danger? When you start nursing secret fantasies of revenge; when your life is being poisoned and your imagination fills with the wish to devour and destroy.
Jordan B. Peterson (12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos)
I liked the myth elements of Christmas. The way in which its origins reach back far beyond Jesus, to the rituals of people unknown to us. The celebration of the winter solstice. The coming of light in the darkest time.
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
I am pessimistic about the human race because it is too ingenious for its own good. Our approach to nature is to beat it into submission. We would stand a better chance of survival if we accommodated ourselves to this planet and viewed it appreciatively instead of skeptically and dictatorially. E. B. WHITE
Rachel Carson (Silent Spring)
Not surprisingly, the socks remain silent, as was their legal right.
Tom Robbins (B Is for Beer)
Attending a snooty party meant wearing shoes designed by sadistic trolls and dressing to compete with women born to make fashion statements.’ (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
What are you, like a rent-a-white-knight? (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Hunter would rather deal with an insane terrorist than an upset female.’ (Hunter)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
What’s got your jockstrap in a wad? (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
This was about as much fun as a surprise birthday party, which Hunter ranked alongside boats that sank.’ (Hunter)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
She made a suck-bad prisoner of war wanting to sleep with the enemy.’ (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Borys had volunteered to save Hunter the trouble. Hunter had threatened Borys the trouble of breathing if (he) got near Abbie when she had no clothes on.’ (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Her lips write silent poetry upon mine.
B.L. Berry (An Unforgivable Love Story)
Do you realize you could have been killed? (Hunter) No, that was just a practice run. I’m thinking about trying it again because it was so. Much. Fun! What the hell do you think? (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
The growing spirit of kindliness and reconciliation between the North and South after the frightful differences of a generation ago ought to be a source of deep congratulation to all, and especially to those whose mistreatment caused the war; but if that reconciliation is to be marked by the industrial slavery and civic death of those same black men, with permanent legislation into a position of inferiority, then those black men, if they are really men, are called upon by every consideration of patriotism and loyalty to oppose such a course by all civilized methods, even though such opposition involves disagreement with Mr. Booker T. Washington. We have no right to sit silently by while the inevitable seeds are sown for a harvest of disaster to our children, black and white.
W.E.B. Du Bois
You threatened to tell his girlfriend he’d been involved with you? (Hunter) No, I threatened to tell Brittany he made a pass at me if he didn’t help. He’s a slimeball I wouldn’t let touch my dead philodendron. (Abbie)
Sherrilyn Kenyon (Silent Truth (B.A.D. Agency, #4))
Not until each loom is silent, And the shuttles cease to fly, Will God unroll the pattern And explain the reason why The dark threads are as needful In the Weaver’s skillful hand, As the threads of gold and silver For the pattern which He planned.
Lettie B. Cowman (Contemporary Classic/Streams in the Desert)
Presently, I was aware that Jeeves was with me. I hadn't heard him come in, but you often don't with Jeeves. He just streams silently from spot A to spot B, like some gas.
P.G. Wodehouse
Simon traces his fingers up my spine, touching bone after bone like he’s holding the individual beads of a rosary in silent worship.
B.L. Berry (An Unforgivable Love Story)
If shame had a sound, it would sound like an agonizing scream, but unfortunately it’s a silent emotion. One I’ve been hiding from for years.
B.N. Toler (The Suit (Holly Springs, #1))
There are people who come home from war and want to talk about the pain, but no one wants to listen; there are others who want to keep silent and repress the memories, and all their family and friends want is to talk about it. I call this the war veteran reintegration paradox.
M.B. Dallocchio (The Desert Warrior)
But, back of this, still broods silently the deep religious feeling of the real Negro heart, the stirring, unguided might of powerful human souls who have lost the guiding star of the past and are seeking in the great night a new religious ideal. Some day the Awakening will come, when the pent-up vigor of 10,000,000 souls shall sweep irresistibly toward the Goal, out of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, where all that makes life worth living - Liberty, Justice and Right - is marked "For White People Only".
W.E.B. Du Bois (W.E.B. Du Bois: A Reader)
Once more he became silent, staring before him with sombre eyes. Following his gaze, I saw that he was looking at an enlarged photograph of my Uncle Tom in some sort of Masonic uniform which stood on the mantlepiece. I've tried to reason with Aunt Dahlia about this photograph for years, placing before her two alternative suggestions: (a) To burn the beastly thing; or (b) if she must preserve it, to shove me in another room when I come to stay. But she declines to accede. She says it's good for me. A useful discipline, she maintains, teaching me that there is a darker side to life and that we were not put into this world for pleasure only.
P.G. Wodehouse (Right Ho, Jeeves (Jeeves, #6))
Simon presses his lips against mine. This dance we share is as natural as breathing. But this isn't just a kiss. Our tongues mesh together, silently writing the opening lines of a novel and I feel it...I feel him on a completely different level.
B.L. Berry (An Unforgivable Love Story)
What’s the difference between this school and a happy retirement community?” The room was silent again. “The difference is ’rithmetic! A retired person living by the ocean, just doing a little reading and writing till the end of their days—that’s the dream, right? ‘What do you do all day?’ ‘Some reading, a little writing.’ Sounds idyllic, right? And yet school sucks. Everybody hates it. What’s the difference? ’Rithmetic! It’s time somebody put their finger on this fucking obvious thing.
B.J. Novak (One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories)
I kissed his cheek. "My King." I swooped into the courtly curtsy he'd taught me as a girl, regally kicking an imaginary train aside as I turned to go. He was laughing silently as I left. For a moment I saw that spark again. I did not say goodbye.
Sandra Gulland (The Many Lives & Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. (Josephine Bonaparte, #1))
Here are the facts. Coronary artery disease is the leading killer of men and women in Western civilization. In the United States alone, more than half a million people die of it every single year. Three times that number suffer known heart attacks. And approximately three million more have “silent” heart attacks, experiencing minimal symptoms and having no idea, until well after the damage is done, that they are in mortal danger. In the course of a lifetime, one out of every two American men and one out of every three American women will have some form of the disease.
Caldwell B. Esselstyn Jr.
Deception is the natural defence of the weak against the strong, and the South used it for many years against its conquerors; to-day it must be prepared to see its black proletariat turn that same two-edged weapon against itself. And how natural this is! The death of Denmark Vesey and Nat Turner proved long since to the Negro the present hopelessness of physical defence. Political defence is becoming less and less available, and economic defence is still only partially effective. But there is a patent defence at hand,—the defence of deception and flattery, of cajoling and lying. It is the same defence which peasants of the Middle Age used and which left its stamp on their character for centuries. To-day the young Negro of the South who would succeed cannot be frank and outspoken, honest and self-assertive, but rather he is daily tempted to be silent and wary, politic and sly; he must flatter and be pleasant, endure petty insults with a smile, shut his eyes to wrong; in too many cases he sees positive personal advantage in deception and lying. His real thoughts, his real aspirations, must be guarded in whispers; he must not criticise, he must not complain. Patience, humility, and adroitness must, in these growing black youth, replace impulse, manliness, and courage. With this sacrifice there is an economic opening, and perhaps peace and some prosperity. Without this there is riot, migration, or crime. Nor is this situation peculiar to the Southern United States, is it not rather the only method by which undeveloped races have gained the right to share modern culture? The price of culture is a Lie.
W.E.B. Du Bois (The Souls of Black Folk)
I doubt it with a silent B.
Metaphrog (Louis - Night Salad)
I knew enough about women to take the “silent treatment” for the gift it was.
B.V. Larson (Annihilation (Star Force, #7))
Then, who will tell our story---that of the common soldier?" Silent Runs the Creek
Frank B. Garey
If words are to enter men's hearts and bear fruit, they must be the right words shaped cunningly to pass men's defenses and explode silently and effectually within their minds.
J.B. Phillips
But the very voices that cry hail to this good work are, strange to relate, largely silent or antagonistic to the higher education of the Negro.
W.E.B. Du Bois (The Souls of Black Folk)
the b in debt is a silent black trapped
Danez Smith (Homie)
Thus all art is propaganda and ever must be, despite the wailing of the purists. I stand in utter shamelessness and say that whatever art I have for writing has been used always for propaganda for gaining the right of black folk to love and enjoy. I do not care a damn for any art that is not used for propaganda. But I do care when propaganda is confined to one side while the other is stripped and silent.
W.E.B. Du Bois (Writings: The Suppression of the African Slave-Trade / The Souls of Black Folk / Dusk of Dawn / Essays and Articles)
Ready to go?" He really liked his karate classes. "I don't have anything to wear." There were so incredibly many comebacks to that remark that Tom was silent for a moment, overwhelmed with his opportunities.
C.B. Conwy (Happily Ever After (Russian Bear, #4))
It's both relaxing and invigorating to occasionally set aside the worries of life, seek the company of a friendly book and mingle with the great of the earth, counsel with the wise of all time, look into unlived days with prophets. Youth will delight in the heroic figures of Homer; or more modern, will thrill to the silent courage of Florence Nightingale on the battlefield...The power of Cicero's oratory may awaken new ambitions in the middle age, or the absurdity of Don Quixote riding mightily against a windmill may make your own pretentiousness seem ridiculous; if you think the world is against you, get the satisfaction of walking the streets of Athens with Diogenes, lantern in hand in broad daylight in search of an honest man...From the reading of 'good books' there comes a richness of life that can be obtained in no other way. It is not enough to read newspapers...But to become acquainted with real nobility as walks the pages of history and science and literature is to strengthen character and develop life in its finer meanings.
Gordon B. Hinckley
I have things to tell you, but I don't think there's any point. It's like you took a can opener and peeled the lid off my heart and leaped out the day Will died. Why are you so silent? Of all times to leave me alone.
Jenny B. Jones (There You'll Find Me)
The initial flattery and attention will get the narcissist off to a flying start, and when the love-bombing follows, the codependent will be blown away. Somebody loves him, at last. No wonder he will become hooked so quickly. Even when the nonsense starts- the silent treatment etc. - this is behaviour he recognises and is conditioned to. He just has to keep trying that little bit harder, in order to win back the narcissist´s approval.
A.B. Jamieson (Prepare to be tortured: - the price you will pay for dating a narcissist)
History is made up of "moral" judgments based on politics. We condemned Lenin's acceptance of money from the Germans in 1917 but were discreetly silent while our Colonel William B. Thompson in the same year contributed a million dollars to the anti-Bolsheviks in Russia. As allies of the Soviets in World War II we praised and cheered communist guerrilla tactics when the Russians used them against the Nazis during the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union; we denounce the same tactics when they are used by communist forces in different parts of the world against us. The opposition's means, used against us, are always immoral and our means are always ethical and rooted in the highest of human values.
Saul D. Alinsky (Rules for Radicals: A Pragmatic Primer for Realistic Radicals)
Arms in the hands of the Negro aroused fear both North and South. Not that the Negroes could not and would not fight, for these same blacks, largely under their own officers, had beaten back Louisiana whites at Port Hudson and Milliken's Bend. But, it was the silent verdict of all America that Negroes must not be allowed to fight for themselves. They were, therefore, dissuaded from every attempt at self-protection or aggression by their friends as well as their enemies.
W.E.B. Du Bois (Black Reconstruction in America Lib/E)
there a difference between having been coded to present a vast set of standardized responses to certain human facial, vocal, and linguistic states and having evolved to exhibit response B to input A in order to bring about a desired social result?
Catherynne M. Valente (Silently and Very Fast)
No one is exempt to feel disconnected, aimless and lost from time to time and during the process, we sense a silent wave coming from above and below whispering not to give up. In truth, perhaps we have never been disconnected after all but recharging our life-force.
Floranova B. Msc. (Her Will: Her will drives her far and beyond... Ego exposes her to the inevitable truth... She just wants to be set free)
O Moon that rid'st the night to wake Before the dawn is pale, The hamadryad in the brake, The Satyr in the vale, Caught in thy net of shadows What dreams hast thou to show? Who treads the silent meadows To worship thee below? The patter of the rain is hushed, The wind's wild dance is done, Cloud-mountains ruby-red were flushed About the setting sun: And now beneath thy argent beam The wildwood standeth still, Some spirit of an ancient dream Breathes from the silent hill. Witch-Goddess Moon, thy spell invokes The Ancient Ones of night, Once more the old stone altar smokes, The fire is glimmering bright. Scattered and few thy children be, Yet gather we unknown To dance the old round merrily About the time-worn stone. We ask no Heaven, we fear no Hell, Nor mourn our outcast lot, Treading the mazes of a spell By priests and men forgot.
Gerald B. Gardner (The Meaning of Witchcraft)
A great believer once said, “All things come to him who knows how to trust and to be silent.” This fact is rich with meaning, and a true understanding of it would greatly change our ways of working. Instead of continuing our restless striving, we would “sit down” inwardly before the Lord, allowing the divine forces of His Spirit to silently work out the means to accomplish our goals and aspirations.
Lettie B. Cowman (Streams in the Desert: 366 Daily Devotional Readings)
When the humanity of others who were previously invisible becomes apparent to us for the first time, I think it is because we have noticed something particular in them. By contrast, egalitarian empathy, projected from afar and without discrimination, is more principled than attentive. It is content to posit rather than to see the humanity of its beneficiaries. But the one who is on the receiving end of such empathy wants something more than to be recognized generically. He wants to be seen as an individual, and recognized as worthy on the same grounds on which he has striven to be worthy, indeed superior, by cultivating some particular excellence or skill. We all strive for distinction, and I believe that to honor another person is to honor this aspiring core of him. I can do this by allowing myself to respond in kind, and experience the concrete difference between him and me. This may call for silent deference on my part, as opposed to chummy liberal solicitude.
Matthew B. Crawford (The World Beyond Your Head: On Becoming an Individual in an Age of Distraction)
THOMAS JEFFERSON LEFT POSTERITY an immense correspondence, and I am particularly indebted to The Papers of Thomas Jefferson, published by Princeton University Press and first edited by Julian P. Boyd. I am, moreover, grateful to the incumbent editors of the Papers, especially general editor Barbara B. Oberg, for sharing unpublished transcripts of letters gathered for future volumes. The goal of the Princeton edition was, and continues to be, “to present as accurate a text as possible and to preserve as many of Jefferson’s distinctive mannerisms of writing as can be done.” To provide clarity and readability for a modern audience, however, I have taken the liberty of regularizing much of the quoted language from Jefferson and from his contemporaries. I have, for instance, silently corrected Jefferson’s frequent use of “it’s” for “its” and “recieve” for “receive,” and have, in most cases, expanded contractions and abbreviations and followed generally accepted practices of capitalization.
Jon Meacham (Thomas Jefferson: The Art of Power)
Maybe tell me about those letters. Confession is good for the soul." I expected her to tear into me yet again, but instead she stayed silent for several seconds, running her fingers over the trim of her blanket. "I do belive my soul is past the point of helping." "That's not true. It's never too late." She looked at the town as we walked by, her eyes heavy with fatigue. And an ache so deep, it didn't have a name. I'd seen that look in my own mirror. "I gave up that right many years ago," she said. "My fate is like those envelopes-sealed and tossed aside.
Jenny B. Jones (There You'll Find Me)
Daniel rested his hip on the counter, arms crossed, saying and offering nothing. “What? Are you thinking about sticking me with Luc permanently?” I laughed, the sound anxious. I waited for Daniel to laugh, too, at the sheer insanity of the idea. To reassure me he would never do something so cruel. But he stayed silent, something he was getting very good at. “You know something? Trying to have a discussion with you would work a lot better if you’d actually talk.” It was like riding on a merry-go-round, only without the merry. “You promised to stop keeping secrets from me, remember?
Angela B. Wade (Fallen River)
With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry, Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own house? The shades of the prison-house closed round about us all: walls strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly, watch the streak of blue above.
W.E.B. Du Bois (The Souls of Black Folk)
This is the plot up to the moment when the writer leaves the woman still dolefully enmeshed in it, and, suitcase in hand, tiptoeing so as not to disturb her postcoital rest, he himself slips silently out of the plot on the grounds of its general implausibility, a total lack of gravity, reliance at too many key points on unlikely coincidence, an absence of inner coherence, and not even the most tenuous evidence of anything resembling a serious meaning or purpose. The story so far is frivolously plotted, overplotted, for his taste altogether too freakishly plotted, with outlandish events so wildly careening around every corner that there is nowhere for intelligence to establish a foothold and develop a perspective. As if the look-alike at the story's storm center isn't farfetched enough, there is the capricious loss of the Smilesburger check (there is the fortuitous appearance of the Smilesburger check; there is Louis B. Smilesburger himself, Borscht Belt deus ex machina), which sets the action on its unconvincing course and serves to reinforce the writer's sense that the story has been intentionally conceived as a prank, and a nasty prank at that, considering the struggles of Jewish existence that are said to be at issue by his antagonist.
Philip Roth (Operation Shylock: A Confession)
The President was silent for a long time, then he handed Acheson the receiver. “You must not let Harry do what he’s going to do,” Mrs. Truman told him. So Mr. Acheson said, “Perhaps you could help me, Mrs. Truman,” and, still holding the phone, began “repeating” to the President what Mrs. Truman was saying, although she, on the other end of the line, was saying nothing. “She says the press will tear you up,” Secretary Acheson said to Mr. Truman, “… that you’re acting too big for your breeches … that you don’t need that kind of criticism right now.” Finally, the President reached over and took the phone. “Well,” he said to his wife, “if you two gang up on me, I’m just lost.
J.B. West (Upstairs at the White House: My Life with the First Ladies)
This tragic sequence helps explain the fearful loss of cognition in coronary artery bypass patients.3 But neuroradiologists also report that using magnetic resonance imaging, they can detect little white spots in the brains of Americans starting at about age fifty. These spots represent small, asymptomatic strokes (see Figures 18 and 19 in insert). The brain has so much reserve capacity that at first these tiny strokes cause no trouble. But, if they continue, they begin to cause memory loss and, ultimately, crippling dementia. In fact, one recently reported study found that the presence of these “silent brain infarcts” more than doubles the risk of dementia.4 We now believe, in fact, that at least half of all senile mental impairment is caused by vascular injury to the brain.
Caldwell B. Esselstyn Jr. (Prevent and Reverse Heart Disease: The Revolutionary, Scientifically Proven, Nutrition-Based Cure)
Willow gazed up at him, her silly grin still in place. "You know wha'? You're kinda cute when you crook your eyebrows down like tha'." Rider muttered a curse, lifted her off the floor, and tossed her over his shoulder. "Juan, you and Hicks help Mrs. Brigham to her room. I'll take care of this little hellion." Willow lifted her head from where she dangled over Rider's shoulder. "See yuh later, Mrs. B." Miriam smiled and waved. "i think Mrs. B is pickled," Rider's passenger said in a loud whisper as he hauled her out the door. "No thanks to you,hellion," he growled, and smacked her bottom. "Ow!" As he carried Willow into the house, Rider was hard pressed to quell a sudden urge to laugh. In her bedroom, he unceremoniously dumped her on her bed, but when he turned to leave, her pitiful sounding voice halted his exit. "Rider,come here a min-it." "Oh,hell, I suppose you're going to be sick." Grabbing a basin off her dresser, he shoved it under her chin. "It serves you right, you know." He watched nervously as she knocked the bowl aside. "Dun...don't be mad." She held her arms out to him. "Come closer. Gimme a kiss and we'll make up. I like your kisses so-o-o-o much." This time Rider couldn't stall his grin and inadvertently leaned closer. She was on him like a duck on a June bug. With two hearty handfuls of his shirt, she yanked him down on top of her and plastered her mouth against his. Talking against his lips, the tipsy girl had the audacity to complain, "Not like this. Do it like before. You know, with your tongue." Rider squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. This isn't fair, he bemoaned silently. He tried to rise but Willow held tight, squirming her voluptuous little body against his. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If he didn't put a stop to this soon...He lifted his mouth from hers. "If I promise to kiss you with my tongue, will you let go of me and go to sleep?" "Uh-huh." Willow's eyes drooped, but the affect appeared more seductive than drunken. Lifting her shoulders slightly off the bed, he wound his arms around her and covered her mouth with his. His tongue explored hers in a long, liquid kiss, tasting of wine and desire. Rider savored its promise, wishing just this once, he could be less a gentleman. Willow wrapped one of her legs over his and shifted her hips, innocently aligning his swelling heat with hers. He started and bolted off the bed. "Holy hell! You did it again!" "What?" Her voice was sluggish and sleepy now. Disgusted with himself, Rider stomped to the door. "Sleep it off, Freckles." Outside Willow's door, Rider slumped against the wall and shook his head. Willow Vaughn was a constant surprise, and he loved the girl so bad it hurt.
Charlotte McPherren (Song of the Willow)
Darwin’s Bestiary PROLOGUE Animals tame and animals feral prowled the Dark Ages in search of a moral: the canine was Loyal, the lion was Virile, rabbits were Potent and gryphons were Sterile. Sloth, Envy, Gluttony, Pride—every peril was fleshed into something phantasmic and rural, while Courage, Devotion, Thrift—every bright laurel crowned a creature in some mythological mural. Scientists think there is something immoral in singular brutes having meat that is plural: beasts are mere beasts, just as flowers are floral. Yet between the lines there’s an implicit demurral; the habit stays with us, albeit it’s puerile: when Darwin saw squirrels, he saw more than Squirrel. 1. THE ANT The ant, Darwin reminded us, defies all simple-mindedness: Take nothing (says the ant) on faith, and never trust a simple truth. The PR men of bestiaries eulogized for centuries this busy little paragon, nature’s proletarian— but look here, Darwin said: some ants make slaves of smaller ants, and end exploiting in their peonages the sweating brows of their tiny drudges. Thus the ant speaks out of both sides of its mealy little mouth: its example is extolled to the workers of the world, but its habits also preach the virtues of the idle rich. 2. THE WORM Eyeless in Gaza, earless in Britain, lower than a rattlesnake’s belly-button, deaf as a judge and dumb as an audit: nobody gave the worm much credit till Darwin looked a little closer at this spaghetti-torsoed loser. Look, he said, a worm can feel and taste and touch and learn and smell; and ounce for ounce, they’re tough as wrestlers, and love can turn them into hustlers, and as to work, their labors are mythic, small devotees of the Protestant Ethic: they’ll go anywhere, to mountains or grassland, south to the rain forests, north to Iceland, fifty thousand to every acre guzzling earth like a drunk on liquor, churning the soil and making it fertile, earning the thanks of every mortal: proud Homo sapiens, with legs and arms— his whole existence depends on worms. So, History, no longer let the worm’s be an ignoble lot unwept, unhonored, and unsung. Moral: even a worm can turn. 3. THE RABBIT a. Except in distress, the rabbit is silent, but social as teacups: no hare is an island. (Moral: silence is golden—or anyway harmless; rabbits may run, but never for Congress.) b. When a rabbit gets miffed, he bounds in an orbit, kicking and scratching like—well, like a rabbit. (Moral: to thine own self be true—or as true as you can; a wolf in sheep’s clothing fleeces his skin.) c. He populates prairies and mountains and moors, but in Sweden the rabbit can’t live out of doors. (Moral: to know your own strength, take a tug at your shackles; to understand purity, ponder your freckles.) d. Survival developed these small furry tutors; the morals of rabbits outnumber their litters. (Conclusion: you needn’t be brainy, benign, or bizarre to be thought a great prophet. Endure. Just endure.) 4. THE GOSSAMER Sixty miles from land the gentle trades that silk the Yankee clippers to Cathay sift a million gossamers, like tides of fluff above the menace of the sea. These tiny spiders spin their bits of webbing and ride the air as schooners ride the ocean; the Beagle trapped a thousand in its rigging, small aeronauts on some elusive mission. The Megatherium, done to extinction by its own bigness, makes a counterpoint to gossamers, who breathe us this small lesson: for survival, it’s the little things that count.
Philip Appleman
It had only been two days – two days – since he’d seen her last, and yet he’d missed her every step of the way. How was that possible? To miss someone you’d scarcely had in your life at all? For all his knowledge, he had no answer, only knew that every moment spent by her side made it that much more difficult to leave again. To accept the incoming battering of noise, the necessary barrenness of his life. The loneliness. He could hear the music of her voice so clearly as she spoke now, every inflection, every intonation. And the world around them, too – birds on the wing and children laughing. Her presence was a continual surprise, one that made him by turns calm and edgy and covetous. And mindful, his responsibilities, self-appointed though they were, crowding back into his mind on a silent sigh. The Descent was still closing in on him, and Dmitri still lived, which meant there was too much left to do and no time for distraction. But still...
Angela B. Wade (Breaking Sea)
It isn't true about the lambs. They are not meek. They are curious and wild, full of the passion of spring. They are lovable, and they are not silent when hungry. Tonight the last of the triplet lambs is piercing the quiet with its need. Its siblings are stronger and will not let it eat. I am its keeper, the farmer, its mother. I will go down to it in the dark, in the cold barn, and hold it in my arms. But it will not lie still--it is not meek. I will stand in the open doorway under the weight of watching trees and moon, and care for it as one of my own. But it will not love me--it is not meek. Drink, little one. Take what I can give you. Tonight the whole world prowls the perimeters of your life. Your anger keeps you alive-- it's your only chance. So I know what I must do after I have fed you. I will shape my mouth to the shape of the sharpest words-- even those bred in silence. I will impale with words every ear pressed upon open air. I will not be meek. You remind me of the necessity of having more hope than fear and of sounding out terrible names. I am to cry out loud like a hungry lamb, cry loud enough to waken wolves in the night. No one can be allowed to sleep.
Alice B. Fogel
Cassidy had been created by Clarence Mulford, writer of formula western novels and pulpy short stories. In the stories, Cassidy was a snorting, drinking, chewing relic of the Old West. Harry Sherman changed all that when he bought the character for the movies. Sherman hired Boyd, a veteran of the silent screen whose star had faded, to play a badman in the original film. But Boyd seemed more heroic, and Sherman switched the parts before the filming began. As Cassidy, Boyd became a knight of the range, a man of morals who helped ladies cross the street but never stooped to kiss the heroine. He was literally black and white, his silver hair a vivid contrast to his black getup. He did not smoke, believed absolutely in justice, honor, and fair play, and refused to touch liquor. Boyd’s personal life was not so noble. Born in Ohio in 1898, he had arrived in Hollywood for the first golden age, working with Cecil B. DeMille in a succession of early silents. By the mid-1920s he was a major star. Wine, women, and money were his: he drank and gambled, owned estates, married five times. But it all ended when another actor named William Boyd was arrested for possession of whiskey and gambling equipment.
John Dunning (On the Air: The Encyclopedia of Old-Time Radio)
HEART ACTION Think about when you are silent about God's activity in your life. Look for a chance this week to speak out about God's goodness. Giving and gratitude go together like humor and laughter, like having one's back rubbed and the sigh that follows, like a blowing wind and the murmur of wind chimes. Gratitude keeps alive the rhythm ofgrace given andgrace grateful, a lively lilt that lightens a heavy world. LEWIS B. SMEDES Our Father who is in heaven, hallowed be Your name. Your kingdom come. Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And do not lead us into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Yours is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen. -MATTHEW 6:9-13 The "Lord's Prayer" is a model for our prayers. It begins with adoration of God (verse 9), acknowledges subjection to His will (verse 10), asks of Him (verses 11-13), and ends with an offering of praise (verse 13). The fatherhood of God toward His children is the basis for Jesus' frequent teaching about prayer. "Your Father knows what you need," Jesus told His disciples, "before you ask Him" (Matthew 6:8). Jesus presents a pattern that the church has followed throughout the
Emilie Barnes (The Tea Lover's Devotional)
I don’t want to talk about me. We never talk about you. I probably don’t know anything about you. He laces his fingers into mine and rests our hands on his stomach. I move my fingertips in tiny circles and he sighs indulgently. “Sure you do. Go on, list everything.” “I know surface things. The color of your shirts. Your lovely blue eyes. You live on mints and make me look like a pig in comparison. You scare three-quarters of B and G employees absolutely senseless, but only because the other quarter haven’t met you yet.” He smirks. “Such a bunch of delicate sissies.” I keep ticking things off. “You’ve got a pencil you use for secret purposes I think relate to me. You dry clean on alternate Fridays. The projector in the boardroom strains your eyes and gives you headaches. You’re good at using silence to scare the shit out of people. It’s your go-to strategy in meetings. You sit there and stare with your laser-eyes until your opponent crumbles.” He remains silent. “Oh, and you’re secretly a decent human being.” “You definitely know more about me than anyone else.” I can feel a tension in him. When I look at his face, he looks shaken. My stalking has scared the ever-loving shit out of him. Unfortunately, the next thing I say sounds deranged. I want to know what’s going on in your brain. I want to juice your head like a lemon.
Sally Thorne (The Hating Game)
What in the sodding Dark happened back there on Aarden? What did you find?" He stared at her hand for a long moment. His cheek muscle bunched rhythmically, a tell she had learned meant he was struggling over some internal debate. Sigel's Wives burned down from above; Sherp went on snoring away, and Scow appeared to be giving chase again. Mung, Voth and Rantham hadn't moved from where they lay in some time, either, and Biiko was at his post. This was about as alone as they could ever hope to be. She reached up with her other hand, feather-soft, touched his cheek, his chin. It was rough with stubble, the same fiery copper-and-chestnut as his hair. His jaw stopped twitching and he closed his eyes, but did not resist as she gently turned his head to face her. She could hear the subtle trembling in his breathing and leaned closer, licked her cracked lips. "Triistan, please...tell me what terrible secret you are guarding..." she whispered, barely a breath really, but his eyes snapped open as if she'd struck him. He looked so sad. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Then he was standing, gently disengaging himself from her, and moving towards Biiko where he stood his watch on the other side of the launch. He paused a moment at the mainmast and she thought he might come back, but he only turned his head, speaking over his shoulder without looking at her. His voice was heavy with sorrow. "Please don't take my journal again." Without bothering to wait for a response, he slipped around the mainmast and left her by herself. Dreysha sat there brooding for a long time. She was angry with him for rejecting her, and with herself for mishandling both him and his Dark-damned journal. Most of all, though, she was angry with herself for what she had felt when he'd looked at her. After awhile Scow snorted himself awake. He groaned and stretched, then grumbled a greeting at her, getting barely a grunt in reply for his trouble. The Mattock stood and stretched some more, his massive frame providing some welcome shade, and she sensed him watching her, could imagine him glancing across the deck at Triistan. He knew his men almost as well as his ship, which is why he stood there silently for awhile. Thunder rumbled again, great boulders of sound rolling across the sea, and this time there could be no doubt it was closer. She rose and leaned over the rail. The southern horizon was lost in a dark shadow beneath towering columns of bruised, sullen clouds. She could smell the rain, though the air was as still as death. Beside her, Scow hawked and spat over the side. "Storm's comin' ". "Aye," she answered softly. "Been coming for some time now." - from the upcoming "RUINE" series.
T.B. Schmid
Snotrocket,
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
butt,
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
She was just passing through when a long male arm emerged seemingly from out of nowhere, coiling like steel around her waist. She squealed, the sound reverberating in the air, as she twisted for a moment in Lord Jack's grasp. "Got you!" he exclaimed, triumph plain in his voice. "Oh, you scared me!" she said, breathless as she met his gaze. "You're as silent as a breeze." "And you are as lithe as a gazelle, slipping from row to row as though you were made of fog. For a few moments, I thought I'd lost track of you." "This is a tricky maze. The center is nearby, though. Shall we both dash to find it?" A gleam came into his eyes, along with an expression she'd never seen him wear before. He shook his head, his gaze roaming over her face before lowering to her lips. "No," he murmured in a tone as rough as gravel. "I have what I came to find." She trembled, abruptly aware that he was still holding her against him. Her heart leapt when he reached up and began untying the bow that anchored her bonnet in place. "What are you doing, my lord?" He smiled. "Claiming a forfeit. I caught you. I believe I deserve a reward." "B-but the game isn't finished." "You're right about that," he mused aloud, lifting her hat from her head. "The game has only just begun.
Tracy Anne Warren (Seduced by His Touch (The Byrons of Braebourne, #2))
Oh no! There are so many enemy ninjas chasing me. I started jumping from tree to tree, leaping so fast that the forest was turning into a green blur. I need to think of something fast! I am ninja, what do ninjas do in this situation? They remember their teachings. My master always told me the way of the ninja is to be as sneaky as possible, but when that doesn’t work create a fart cloud so smelly and thick that nobody could possibly follow you.
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
Me…Ninja Fart Master!
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
Axelle loves me. The words strike my chest and knock the air from my lungs. I drop my forehead to her neck and she holds me to her, comforting me as if she’s aware of the power of her confession. I whisper words of gratitude against her skin, silent praises to God… She loves me.
J.B. Salsbury (Fighting Fate (Fighting, #6))
Barukh atah Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kidishanu b’mitz’votav v’tzivanu, l’had’lik neir shel Shabbat.” Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the lights of Shabbat.
Angela Elwell Hunt (Egypt's Sister: A Novel of Cleopatra (The Silent Years, #1))
When we first begin asking others to reflect back what they hear us say, it may feel awkward and strange because such requests are rarely made. When I emphasize the importance of our ability to ask for reflections, people often express reservations. They are worried about reactions like, “What do you think I am—deaf?” or, “Quit playing your psychological games.” To prevent such responses, we can explain to people ahead of time why we may sometimes ask them to reflect back our words. We make clear that we’re not testing their listening skills, but checking out whether we’ve expressed ourselves clearly. However, should the listener retort, “I heard what you said; I’m not stupid!” we have the option to focus on the listener’s feelings and needs and ask—either aloud or silently—“Are you saying you’re feeling annoyed because you want respect for your ability to understand things?
Marshall B. Rosenberg (Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life: Life-Changing Tools for Healthy Relationships (Nonviolent Communication Guides))
When you thought about it, silence was rarely silent. Silence was the small noises you heard when the larger noises disappeared.
Robert B. Parker (The Widening Gyre (Spenser, #10))
Lily was no great reader. She could not tell b from d and all the letters quivered on the page as soon as they felt the brush of her gaze; but when her mother read aloud in her gentle voice, the lines settled and she found she could follow the thread after all, mouthing the words silently in time. Sometimes
Diane Setterfield (Once Upon a River)
The wild jungle around her was not silent. The wind rustled the trees as if it wanted to speak to her. Birds called back and forth from the canopy…why did everything feel so right here in this dream world?
E.B. Dawson (The Traveler)
Conceive this nation, of all human peoples, engaged in a crusade to make the "World Safe for Democracy"! Can you imagine the United States protesting against Turkish atrocities in Armenia, while the Turks are silent about mobs in Chicago and St. Louis; what is Louvain compared with Memphis, Waco, Washington, Dyersburg, and Estill Springs? In short, what is the black man but America's Belgium, and how could America condemn in Germany that which she commits, just as brutally, within her own borders?
W.E.B. Du Bois (Darkwater: Voices from Within the Veil)
My stomach was already telling me that this was going to be a farty day. I just hoped Bobby Buttz-Cratcher wasn’t there.
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.” ~Henri Nouwen
A.B. Admin (Psychopaths and Love)
1.1M    ./scripts 58M     ./cloud9 74M     . You can also use tee to write the output to several files at the same time, as shown in this example: [email protected]:/opt# du ‐d1 ‐h | tee /tmp/1.txt /tmp/2.txt /tmp/3.txt Filter Commands (from sort to xargs) There are filtering commands, each of which provides a useful function: sort: This command has several options, including (‐r) sorts in reverse; (‐f) ignores case; (‐d) uses dictionary sorting, ignoring punctuation; (‐n) numeric sort; (‐b) ignores blank space; (‐i) ignores control characters; (‐u) displays duplicate lines only once; and (‐m) merges multiple inputs into a single output. wc (word count): This can be used to calculate the number of words, lines, or characters in a stream. For example: [email protected]:/tmp# wc < animals.txt  4  4 18 This has returned that there are 4 lines, 4 words, and 18 characters. You can select the values independently by using (‐l) for line count; (‐w) for word count; (‐m) for character count; and (‐c) for the byte count (which would also be 18 in this case). head: Displays the first lines of the input. This is useful if you have a very long file or stream of information and you want to examine only the first few lines. By default it will display the first 10 lines. You can specify the number of lines using the ‐n option. For example, to get the first five lines of output of the dmesg command (display message or driver message), which displays the message buffer of the kernel, you can use the following: [email protected]:/tmp# dmesg | head ‐n5   [    0.000000] Booting Linux on physical CPU 0x0   [    0.000000] Initializing cgroup subsys cpuset   [    0.000000] Initializing cgroup subsys cpu   [    0.000000] Initializing cgroup subsys cpuacct   [    0.000000] Linux version 3.13.4-bone5([email protected]) tail: This is just like head except that it displays the last lines of a file or stream. Using it in combination with dmesg provides useful output, as shown here: [email protected]:/tmp# dmesg | tail ‐n2   [   36.123251] libphy: 4a101000.mdio:00 - Link is Up - 100/Full   [   36.123421] IPv6:ADDRCONF(NETDEV_CHANGE): eth0:link becomes ready grep: A very powerful filter command that can parse lines using text and regular expressions. You can use this command to filter output with options, including (‐i) ignore case; (‐m 5) stop after five matches; (‐q) silent, will exit with return status 0 if any matches are found; (‐e) specify a pattern; (‐c) print a count of matches; (‐o) print only the matching text; and (‐l) list the filename of the file containing the match. For example, the following examines the dmesg output for the first three occurrences of the string “usb,” using ‐i to ignore case: [email protected]:/tmp# dmesg |grep ‐i ‐m3 usb   [    1.948582] usbcore: registered new interface driver usbfs   [    1.948637] usbcore: registered new interface driver hub   [    1.948795] usbcore: registered new device driver usb You can combine pipes together. For example, you get the exact same output by using head and displaying only the first three lines of the grep output: [email protected]:/tmp# dmesg |grep ‐i usb |head ‐n3   [    1.948582] usbcore: registered new interface driver usbfs   [    1.948637] usbcore: registered new interface driver hub   [    1.948795] usbcore: registered new device driver usb xargs: This is a very powerful filter command that enables you to construct an argument list that you use to call another command or tool. In the following example, a text file args.txt that contains three strings is used to create three new files. The output of cat is piped to xargs, where it passes the three strings as arguments to the touch command, creating three new files a.txt, b.txt,
Derek Molloy (Exploring BeagleBone: Tools and Techniques for Building with Embedded Linux)
Susan said, “Have you given any thought to how we should spend Christmas?” “Only that we should be together.” I glanced over at the softly snoring Pearl. “With Pearl, of course. Hawk, too. Maybe
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
The genteel, lost culture of the South, exemplified in the well-manicured plantations, had rested on the shoulders of men like Harlan - boys raised to believe that their needs, their desires, their wants, had more weight than those of other mortals. it was a myth that was perpetuated from parent to son, until most believed it without question - except for the slaves who had labored beneath the misbegotten myth and some of the mistreated wives who had silently endured.
Serena B. Miller (The Measure of Katie Calloway (Michigan Northwoods, #1))
me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
Christmas dinner? At Susan’s?” I nodded. “We could call it a Kwanzaa dinner, if that would improve your mood.
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
The New England wilderness March 1, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees The Indian next to Mr. Williams interrupted him roughly. “We kill. You tell.” Mr. Williams ceased to pray. “Joe Alexander escaped last night,” he said. “If anyone else tries to escape, they will burn the rest of us alive.” Burn alive? Burn innocent women and children because one young man flew from their grasp? Her Indian stood some distance away amid the other warriors. He was now wearing a vivid blue cloth coat of European design. In one hand he held his French flintlock, and over his shoulder hung his bow and a full otter-skin quiver--actually, the entire dead otter, complete with face and feet. His coat hung open to show a belt around his waist, from which hung his tomahawk and scalping knife. His skin was not red after all, but the color of autumn. Burnished chestnut. His shaved head gleamed. He looked completely and utterly savage. He might sorrow for a dead brother warrior, but grief would make him more likely to burn a captive, not less likely. Mercy imagined kindling around her feet, a stake at her back, her flesh charring like a side of beef. Beside her, Eben seemed almost to faint. Mercy had the odd thought that she, an eleven-year-old girl, might be stronger than he, a seventeen-year-old boy. The English were silent, entirely able to believe they might be burned. The first person to move was Mercy’s Indian. Sharply raising one hand, bringing the eyes of all upon him, he pointed to Mercy Carter. She was frozen with horror. His finger beckoned. There could be no mistake. The meaning was come. There was no speech and no movement from a hundred captives and three hundred enemies. It was the French Mercy hated at that moment. How could they stand by and let other whites be burned alive? She had no choice but to go to him. She set Daniel down. Perhaps they would spare Daniel. Perhaps only she was to be burned. She forced herself to keep her chin up, her eyes steady and her steps even. How could she be afraid of going where her five-year-old brother had gone first? O Tommy, she thought, rest in the Lord. Perhaps you are with Mother now. Perhaps I will see you in a moment. She did not want to die. Her footsteps crunched on the snow. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. The Indian handed Mercy a slab of cornmeal bread, and then beckoned to Daniel, who cried, “Oh, good, I’m so hungry!” and came running, his happy little face tilted in a smile at the Indian who fed him. “Mercy said we’d eat later,” Daniel confided in the Indian. The English trembled in their relief and the French laughed.
Caroline B. Cooney (The Ransom of Mercy Carter)
13[^][†] Behold,  b my servant shall act wisely; [2]         he shall be high and lifted up,         and shall be exalted.     14[†] As many were astonished at you—          c his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance,         and his form beyond that of the children of mankind—     15[^] so  d shall he sprinkle [3] many nations;          e kings shall shut their mouths because of him;      f for that which has not been told them they see,         and that which they have not heard they understand. ISAIAH      53 [†]  g Who has believed what he has heard from us? [1]         And to whom has  h the arm of the LORD been revealed?     2[†] For he grew up before him like a young plant,          i and like a root out of dry ground;      j he had no form or majesty that we should look at him,         and no beauty that we should desire him.     3[†]  k He was despised and rejected [2] by men;         a man of sorrows, [3] and acquainted with [4] grief; [5]     and as one from whom men hide their faces [6]         he was despised, and  l we esteemed him not.     4[†]  m Surely he has borne our griefs         and carried our sorrows;     yet we esteemed him stricken,          n smitten by God, and afflicted.     5[^][†]  o But he was pierced for our transgressions;         he was crushed for our iniquities;     upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace,          p and with his wounds we are healed.     6[†]  q All we like sheep have gone astray;         we have turned—every one—to his own way;      r and the LORD has laid on him         the iniquity of us all.     7[†] He was oppressed, and he was afflicted,          s yet he opened not his mouth;      t like a  u lamb that is led to the slaughter,         and like a sheep that before its shearers is silent,         so he opened not his mouth.     8[†] By oppression and judgment he was taken away;         and as for his generation,  v who considered     that he was cut off out of the land of the living,         stricken for the transgression of my people?     9[^][†] And they made his grave with the wicked          w and with a rich man in his death,     although  x he had done no violence,         and there was no deceit in his mouth.     10[†] Yet  y it was the will of the LORD to crush him;         he has put him to grief; [7]      z when his soul makes [8] an offering for guilt,         he shall see his offspring; he shall prolong his days;      a the will of the LORD shall prosper in his hand.     11[^][†] Out of the anguish of his soul he shall see [9] and be satisfied;     by his knowledge shall  b the righteous one, my servant,          c make many to be accounted righteous,          d and he shall bear their iniquities.     12[†]  e Therefore I will divide him a portion with the many, [10]          f and he shall divide the spoil with the strong, [11]     because he poured out his soul to death         and was numbered with the transgressors;      g yet he bore the sin of many,         and makes intercession for the transgressors.
Anonymous (ESV Study Bible)
Dr. Susan Forward has written extensively in this area and lists the types of toxic personalities.   The verbal abusers demoralize and diminish another person’s self-esteem. Controllers use fear, obligation, guilt, or financial control to manipulate other’s behavior. “If you really love me, you’ll ...” Active punishers come right out and threaten, “If you don’t do [blank], then you will suffer.” Passive punishers freeze others out with the silent treatment. Inadequate humans are needy types who focus on their own problems and demand attention and constant care. Physical abusers are incapable of controlling their deep seated rage and lash out. Sexual abusers destroy any safety in a relationship. Addicts of all types: drugs, gambling, alcoholics; come complete with huge denial, mood swings, chaos, and financial peril.   Listen
C.B. Brooks (Trust Your Radar: Honest Advice For Teens and Young Adults from a Surgeon, Firefighter, Police Officer, Scuba Divemaster, Golfer, and Amateur Comedian)
The Empress Dowager, the man continued, was much distressed, and had given orders to stop the fighting; the Boxers were fools... Then the soldier waved a farewell, and retreated cautiously, picking his way back through the ruins and débris. Several times he stopped no raised the head of some dead man that lay there, victim to our rifles, and peered at the face to see if it was recognisable. In five days we have accounted for very many killed and wounded, and numbers still lie in the exposed positions where they fell. The disappearing figure of that man was the end to the last clue we came across regarding the meaning of this sudden quiet. The shadows gradually lengthened and night suddenly fell, and around us there was nothing but these strangely silent ruins. There was barricade for barricade, loophole for loophole, and sandbag for sandbag. What has been levelled to the ground by fire has been heaped up once more so that the ruins themselves may bring more ruin! But although we exhausted ourselves with questions, and many of us hoped against hope, the hours sped slowly by and no message came. The Palace, enclosed in its pink walls, had sunk to sleep, or forgotten us - or, perhaps, had even found that there could be no truce. Then midnight came, and as we were preparing, half incredulously, to go to sleep, we truly knew. Crack, crack, went the first shots from some distant barricade, and bang went an answering rifle on our side. Awakened by these echoes, the firing grew naturally and mechanically to the storm of sound we have become so accustomed to, and the short truce was forgotten. It is no use; we must go through to the end.
B.L. Putnam Weale
Kahnawake August 1704 Temperature 75 degrees “What do you mean--your family?” he said. “Joseph, you do not have a family in this terrible place. You have a master. Do not confuse savages who happen to give you food with family.” Joseph’s face hardened. “They are my family. My father is Great Sky. My mother--” The minister lost his temper. “Your father is Martin Kellogg,” he shouted, “with whom I just dined in Montreal. You refer to some savage as your father? I am ashamed of you.” Under his tan, Joseph paled and his Indian calm left him. He was trembling. “My--my father? Alive? You saw him?” “Your father is a field hand for a French family in Montreal. He works hard, Joseph. He has no choice. But you have choices. Have you chosen to abandon your father?” Joseph swallowed and wet his lips. “No.” He could barely get the syllable out. Don’t cry, prayed Mercy. Be an eagle. She fixed her eyes upon him, giving him all her strength, but Mr. Williams continued to destroy whatever strength the thirteen-year-old possessed. “Your father prays for the day you and he will be ransomed, Joseph. All he thinks of is the moment he can gather his beloved family back under his own roof. Is that not also your prayer, Joseph?” Joseph stared down the wide St. Lawrence in the direction of Montreal. He was fighting for composure and losing. Each breath shuddered visibly through his ribs. The Indian men who never seemed to do anything but smoke and lounge around joined them silently. How runty the French looked next to the six-foot Indians; how gaudy and ridiculous their ruffled and buckled clothing. The Indians were not painted and they wore almost nothing. Neither were they armed. And yet they came as warriors. Two of their children were threatened. It could not be tolerated. Tannhahorens put one hand on Joseph’s shoulder and the other on Mercy’s. He was not ordering them around, and yet he did not seem to be protecting them. He was, it dawned on Mercy, comforting them. In Tannhahorens’s eyes, we are Indian children, thought Mercy. Her hair prickled and her skin turned to gooseflesh. She had spent the summer forgetting to be English--and Tannhahorens had spent the summer forgetting the same thing.
Caroline B. Cooney (The Ransom of Mercy Carter)
Why? Because the consequence of remaining silent is worse. Of course, it’s easier in the moment to stay silent and avoid conflict. But in the long term, that’s deadly. When you have something to say, silence is a lie—and tyranny feeds on lies. When should you push back against oppression, despite the danger? When you start nursing secret fantasies of revenge; when your life is being poisoned and your imagination fills with the wish to devour and destroy.
Jordan B. Peterson (12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos)
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
no!
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
And he watched over me before I knew him, and before I learned sense or even distinguished between good and evil, and he protected me, and consoled me as a father would his son. Therefore, indeed, I cannot keep silent, nor would it be proper, so many favours and graces has the Lord deigned to bestow on me in the land of my captivity.
Sinclair B. Ferguson (In the Year of Our Lord: Reflections on Twenty Centuries of Church History)
Ninja Farts
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
The LORD Is My Strength and My Shield Of David.     PSALM 28 To you, O LORD, I call;          j my rock, be not deaf to me,     lest, if you  k be silent to me,         I become like those who  l go down to the pit.     2  m Hear the voice of my pleas for mercy,         when I cry to you for help,     when I  n lift up my hands          o toward your most holy sanctuary. [1]     3 Do not  p drag me off with the wicked,         with the workers of evil,      q who speak peace with their neighbors         while evil is in their hearts.     4  r Give to them according to their work         and according to the evil of their deeds;     give to them according to the work of their hands;          s render them their due reward.     5 Because they  t do not regard the works of the LORD         or the work of his hands,     he will tear them down and build them up no more.     6 Blessed be the LORD!         For he has  u heard the voice of my pleas for mercy.     7 The LORD is my strength and  v my shield;         in him my heart  w trusts, and I am helped;     my heart exults,         and with my  x song I give thanks to him.     8 The LORD is the strength of his people; [2]         he is  y the saving refuge of his anointed.     9 Oh, save your people and bless  z your heritage!          a Be their shepherd and  b carry them forever.
Anonymous (The Holy Bible: English Standard Version)
Dream…
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
There are so many enemy ninjas chasing me. I started jumping from tree to tree, leaping so fast that the forest was turning into a green blur. I need to think of something fast! I am ninja, what do ninjas do in this situation? They remember their teachings. My master always told me the way of the ninja is to be as sneaky as possible, but when that doesn’t work create a fart cloud so smelly and thick that nobody could possibly follow you. So that’s what I did. As I ran, I focused all of my energy into making the stinkiest, smelliest, most eye-watering nose-burning butt rocket I could. I flew forward on my green fart jet leaving the other ninjas gagging. I could hear them
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.
Bill Bryson (One Summer: America, 1927)
Ninja Farts to the Rescue!
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
He left a fart trail floating in the air behind him, sort of like a shooting star. It was beautiful in a gross green-fart-trail kind of way. The poor kid who got his face farted into was completely knocked out with his head in a gas cloud.
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
James Madison said it another way: “I believe there are more instances of the abridgment of freedom of the people by gradual and silent encroachments by those in power than by violent and sudden usurpations.
Paul B. Skousen (How to Read the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence: A Simple Guide to Understanding the Constitution of the United States (Freedom in America Book 1))
Be silent and watch the world of delusions melt away.
B. D. Schiers
I sounded like a B-grade superhero--one without a cape of any powers to spreak of. Malik gave my words the response they deserved. He stayed silent.
Barbara Nickless (Ambush (Sydney Rose Parnell, #3))
Like Carl Sandburg’s ‘Fog,’ dementia comes creeping in on little cat feet and then sits on silent haunches looking around. The shift from partner to caregiver demands a new stance with your spouse or life partner and with yourself. I became increasingly responsible for both sides of the relationship and all it’s concerns. The world began to tilt.
Nina B. Krebs
no! There are so many enemy ninjas chasing me. I started jumping from tree to tree, leaping so fast that the forest was turning into a green blur. I need to think of something fast! I am ninja, what do ninjas do in this situation? They remember their teachings. My master always told me the way of the ninja is to be as sneaky as possible, but when that doesn’t work create a fart cloud so smelly and thick that nobody could possibly follow you. So that’s what I did. As I ran, I focused all of my energy into making the stinkiest, smelliest, most eye-watering nose-burning butt rocket I could. I flew forward on my green fart jet leaving the other ninjas gagging. I could hear them coughing and yelling to each other—BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
Sometimes, when he was older, and especially after he became taller than his mother, he would put his arms around her and silently hold her, and feel her pain right through the fold of his embrace.
Caroline B. Cooney (Whatever Happened to Janie? (Janie Johnson, #2))
Next, comparing children to arrows in the hands of a warrior, Psalm 127:4-5 talks about how parents are to handle their offspring. Wise and skillful parents are to know their children, understand them, and carefully point them in the right direction before shooting them into the world. And, as you may have learned in an archery class, shooting an arrow straight and hitting a target is a lot harder in real life than it looks like in the movies or on TV. Likewise, godly and skillful parenting isn’t easy. The last section of today’s selection teaches the importance of the Lord’s presence in the home. • The Lord blesses a home that follows His ways (Psalm 128:1-2). • A wife who knows the Lord will be a source of beauty and life in the home (Psalm 128:3a). • With the Lord’s blessing, children will flourish like olive trees, which generously provide food, oil, and shelter (Psalm 128:3b). Ask yourself, What can I do to make the Lord’s presence more recognizable in our home? Or a more pointed question, What kind of steward am I being in my home? God has entrusted to you some very special people—your children. You will be held accountable for how you take care of them. But you’re not in it alone. God offers to walk with you today and always. He provides you with guidelines like those we looked at today, plus His wisdom and His love, to help you do the job and do it well.9 Prayer: Father God, forgive me for the ways I shortchange my children. Help me know how to slow down the pace of life. Help me stay very aware that my children will be with me for just a short time, and that how I treat them will affect them and their children’s lives too. Continue to teach me how to be the parent You want me to be. Amen.   Action: Give your child/children the gift of time—today and every day.   Today’s Wisdom: The Christian home is the Master’s workshop where the processes of character-molding are silently, lovingly, faithfully, and successfully carried on. —RICHARD M. MILNES
Emilie Barnes (Walk with Me Today, Lord: Inspiring Devotions for Women)
When I first started to run the Jingu Gaien course, Toshihiko Seko was still an active runner and he used this course too. The S&B team used this course every day for training, and over time we naturally grew to know each other by sight. Back then I used to jog there before seven a.m. — when the traffic wasn’t bad, there weren’t as many pedestrians, and the air was relatively clean—and the S&B team members and I would often pass each other and nod a greeting. On rainy days we’d exchange a smile, a guess-we’re-both-havingit-tough kind of smile. I remember two young runners in particular, Taniguchi and Kanei. They were both in their late twenties, both former members of the Waseda University track team, where they’d been standouts in the Hakone relay race. After Seko was named manager of the S&B team, they were expected to be the two young stars of the team. They were the caliber of runner expected to win medals at the Olympics someday, and hard training didn’t faze them. Sadly, though, they were killed in a car accident when the team was training together in Hokkaido in the summer. I’d seen with my own eyes the tough regimen they’d put themselves through, and it was a real shock when I heard the news of their deaths. It hurt me to hear this, and I felt it was a terrible waste. Even now, when I run along Jingu Gaien or Asakasa Gosho, sometimes I remember these other runners. I’ll round a corner and feel like I should see them coming toward me, silently running, their breath white in the morning air. And I always think this: They put up with such strenuous training, and where did their thoughts, their hopes and dreams, disappear to? When people pass away, do their thoughts just vanish?
Haruki Murakami (What I Talk About When I Talk About Running)
Power of Prayer     “The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayer” (Psalm 6:9).     I realize the power of prayer and the importance of praying for others. Yet sometimes I have these pesky doubts sprouting up in the garden of my mind, like weeds. Unless I pull out the root of the problem, they will continue to grow and return.   Recently, I prayed for my daughter’s healing. I also used common sense, having her sleep and take it easy all day. But then this morning her cough continued. It got progressively worse on our walk to the bus stop. Later in the day, she even had to break from an aggressive game of hide-n-seek to give her lungs a rest.   I found myself wondering; I know God is a miracle-working God, so why is she not healed? I know that God heals the sick, so why is she still coughing? I know that God says, ask and you shall receive (Luke 11) so why has my prayer not been heard? I want a miracle now. I know it’s within God’s power. Her lungs could become instantly made perfect in a simple command.   So knowing He can do this, why doesn’t He?   I reason that either: a) God didn’t hear my prayer, b) He heard my prayer and ignored it, c) He heard my prayer and answered, Yes later, or d) He heard my prayer and answered, No.   a)   He didn’t hear my prayer   I know God hears my prayers, based on scripture and my own experiences. There are lots of passages in the Bible to back up the fact that God does hear us. “This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us” (1 John 5:14).   My own experiences even include God hearing my inner, unspoken prayers. I have prayed for safety, while driving in dangerous storms, and He answered my prayer. I have prayed for help and He answered immediately. Actually, I could fill this page and the next with prayers answered, both verbally expressed and those silently directed to God, as proof that He does hear my prayers.   b)   He heard my prayer and ignored it   Given that God hears my prayer, He can either respond, Yes or No. Considering that nothing is impossible for God (Luke 18 ) and He is a just and loving God, there is no reason for Him to ignore me. He calls to me everyday. Since He wants to communicate with me, it would be against His very nature to ignore me. He is merciful and kind, forgiving and gentle. If anything, He wants a relationship with me and so He would not ignore me. “For the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous and his ears are attentive to their prayer” (1 Peter 3:12).   c) He heard my prayer and answered, Yes later   I know that God hears my prayers. I know by His very nature He would not ignore my prayers. (2 Chronicles 7 NIV) So He may be saying, Yes later. God knows the past, the present and the future. He lives in eternity. He knows what is best for me and when. His timing is perfect and I must learn to accept this. I must lift my prayer to Him and then settle back knowing that He is in full control.   It’s just a matter of patience. “We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised” (Hebrews 6:12). Like the time I had to wait for my house to sell. I
Kimberley Payne (Feed Your Spirit - a collection of devotionals on prayer)
Power of Prayer     “The LORD has heard my cry for mercy; the LORD accepts my prayer” (Psalm 6:9).     I realize the power of prayer and the importance of praying for others. Yet sometimes I have these pesky doubts sprouting up in the garden of my mind, like weeds. Unless I pull out the root of the problem, they will continue to grow and return.   Recently, I prayed for my daughter’s healing. I also used common sense, having her sleep and take it easy all day. But then this morning her cough continued. It got progressively worse on our walk to the bus stop. Later in the day, she even had to break from an aggressive game of hide-n-seek to give her lungs a rest.   I found myself wondering; I know God is a miracle-working God, so why is she not healed? I know that God heals the sick, so why is she still coughing? I know that God says, ask and you shall receive (Luke 11) so why has my prayer not been heard? I want a miracle now. I know it’s within God’s power. Her lungs could become instantly made perfect in a simple command.   So knowing He can do this, why doesn’t He?   I reason that either: a) God didn’t hear my prayer, b) He heard my prayer and ignored it, c) He heard my prayer and answered, Yes later, or d) He heard my prayer and answered, No.   a)   He didn’t hear my prayer   I know God hears my prayers, based on scripture and my own experiences. There are lots of passages in the Bible to back up the fact that God does hear us. “This is the confidence we have in approaching God: that if we ask anything according to his will, he hears us” (1 John 5:14).   My own experiences even include God hearing my inner, unspoken prayers. I have prayed for safety, while driving in dangerous storms, and He answered my prayer. I have prayed for help and He answered immediately. Actually, I could fill this page and the next with prayers answered, both verbally expressed and those silently directed to God, as proof that He does hear my prayers.   b)   He heard my prayer and ignored it   Given that God hears my prayer, He can either respond, Yes or No. Considering that nothing is impossible for God (Luke 18 ) and He is a just and loving God, there is no reason for Him to ignore me. He calls to me everyday. Since He wants to communicate with me, it would be against His very nature to ignore me. He is
Kimberley Payne (Feed Your Spirit - a collection of devotionals on prayer)
Owls are nocturnal, swooping down silently, with the soft edges of their feathers muffling the sound of the wings, before pouncing and swallowing their prey whole. Death unseen, death unheard, death from above—the military drones of the animal kingdom
B.V. Lawson (Played to Death (Scott Drayco Mystery Series #1))
Our most immediate oppressors are the pigs. We are beaten, entrapped, enticed, raided, taunted, arrested and jailed. In jail we are jeered at, gang-raped, beaten and killed, with full encouragement and participation by the pigs. Every homosexual lives in fear of the pigs, except that we are beginning to fight back! The reasons are not that the pigs are just prejudiced (which they are) or that they “over-react,” but that they are given silent approval by the power structure for their violence against us. Since our lives are defined as illegal, immoral, and unnatural, there is no reason why the pigs shouldn't harass us—and they are never punished for it.16
Christina B. Hanhardt (Safe Space: Gay Neighborhood History and the Politics of Violence (Perverse Modernities))
When he was twenty-four, André floated down to Saigon and returned with a wife standing upon his prow. Eugenia was the eldest child of Pierre Cazeau, the stately, arrogant owner of the Hôtel Continental, on rue Catinat. She was also deaf. Her tutors had spent the first thirteen years of her life attempting to teach her how to speak like a hearing person, as was dictated by the popular pedagogy of the time. Her tongue was pressed, her cheeks prodded, countless odd intonations were coaxed forth from her lips. Cumbersome hearing horns were thrust into her ears, spiraling upward like ibex horns. It was a torture she finally rejected for the revolutionary freedom of sign, which she taught herself from an eighteenth-century dictionary by Charles-Michel de l’Épée that she had stumbled upon accidentally on the shelf of a Saigon barbershop.1 Based on the grammatical rules of spoken language, L’Épée’s Methodical Sign System was unwieldy and overly complex: many words, instead of having a sign on their own, were composed of a combination of signs. “Satisfy” was formed by joining the signs for “make” and “enough.” “Intelligence” was formed by pairing “read” with “inside.” And “to believe” was made by combining “feel,” “know,” “say,” “not see,” plus another sign to denote its verbiage. Though his intentions may have been noble, L’Epée’s system was inoperable in reality, and so Eugenia modified and shortened the language. In her hands, “belief” was simplified into “feel no see.” Verbs, nouns, and possession were implied by context. 1 “So unlikely as to approach an impossibility,” writes Røed-Larsen of this book’s discovery, in Spesielle ParN33tikler (597). One could not quite call her beautiful, but the enforced oral purgatory of her youth had left her with an understanding of life’s inherent inclination to punish those who least deserve it. Her black humor in the face of great pain perfectly balanced her new husband’s workmanlike nature. She had jumped at the opportunity to abandon the Saigon society that had silently humiliated her, gladly accepting the trials of life on a backwater, albeit thriving, plantation. Her family’s resistance to sending their eldest child into the great unknowable cauldron of the jungle was only halfhearted—they were in fact grateful to be unburdened of the obstacle that had kept them from marrying off their two youngest (and much more desirable) daughters. André painstakingly mastered Eugenia’s language. Together, they communed via a fluttering dance of fingertips to palms, and their dinners on the Fig. 4.2. L’Épée’s Methodical Sign System From de l’Épée, C.-M. (1776), Institution des sourds et muets: par la voie des signes méthodiques, as cited in Tofte-Jebsen, B., Jeg er Raksmey, p. 61 veranda were thus rich, wordless affairs, confluences of gestures beneath the ceiling fan, the silence broken only by the clink of a soup spoon, the rustle of a servant clearing the table, or the occasional shapeless moan that accentuated certain of her sentences, a relic from her years of being forced to speak aloud.
Anonymous
Pity me that the heart is slow to learn what the swift mind beholds at every turn.
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
POP QUIZ! WHAT’S GOING TO MAKE YOU SMARTER and less prone to brain diseases? Is it A. solving a complex brainteaser, or B. taking a walk? If you guessed A, I won’t come down hard on you, but I will encourage you to go for a walk first (as fast as you can) and then sit down to work on a brainy puzzle. The answer, it turns out, is B. The simple act of moving your body will do more for your brain than any riddle, math equation, mystery book, or even thinking itself. Exercise has numerous pro-health effects on the body—especially on the brain. It’s a powerful player in the world of epigenetics.
David Perlmutter (Grain Brain: The Surprising Truth about Wheat, Carbs, and Sugar--Your Brain's Silent Killers)
beans.
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
Let us summarize these three points more concisely: (a) The rejection of art as a mere emotional, individualistic, and romantic affair. (b) “Objective” work, undertaken with the silent hope that the end product will nevertheless eventually be regarded as a work of art. (c) Consciously goal-directed work in architecture, which will have a concise artistic effect on the basis of well-preparated objective-scientific criteria. Such an architecture will actively raise the general standard of living. This represents the dialectic of our development process, which purports to arrive at the affirmative by negation — a process similar to melting down old iron and forging it into new steel.
El Lissitzky
The dying mall has attracted some odd tenants, such as a satellite branch of the public library and an office of the State Attorney General's Child Predator Unit. As malls die across the country, we'll see many kinds of creative repurposing. Already, there are churches and casinos inside half-dead malls, so why not massage parlors, detox centers, transient hotels, haunted houses, prisons, petting zoos or putt-putt golf courses (covering the entire mall)? Leaving Santee, Chuck and I wandered into the food court, where only three of twelve restaurant slots were still occupied. On the back wall of this forlorn and silent space was a mural put up by Boscov, the mall's main tenant. Titled "B part of your community", it reads: KINDNESS COUNTS / PLANT A TREE / MAKE A DONATION / HELP A NEIGHBOR / VISIT THE ELDERLY / HOPE / ADOPT A PET / DRIVE A HYBRID / PICK UP THE TRASH / VOLUNTEER / CONSERVE ENERGY / RECYCLE / JOIN SOMETHING / PAINT A MURAL / HUG SOMEONE / SMILE / DRINK FILTERED WATER / GIVE YOUR TIME / USE SOLAR ENERGY / FEED THE HUNGRY / ORGANIZE A FUNDRAISER / CREATE AWARENESS / FIX A PLAYGROUND/ START A CLUB / BABYSIT These empty recommendations are about as effective as "Just Say No", I'm afraid. As the CIA pushed drugs, the first lady chirped, "Just say no!". And since everything in the culture, car, iPad, iPhone, television, internet, Facebook, Twitter and shopping mall, etc., is designed to remove you from your immediate surroundings, it will take more than cutesy suggestions on walls to rebuild communities. Also, the worse the neighborhoods or contexts, the more hopeful and positive the slogans. Starved of solutions, we shall eat slogans.
Linh Dinh (Postcards from the End of America)
Is there a difference between having been coded to present a vast set of standardized responses to certain human facial, vocal, and linguistic states and having evolved to exhibit response B to input A in order to bring about a desired social result? ... What I mean is, you call it feelings when you cry, but you are only expressing a response to external stimuli. Crying is one of a set of standardized responses to that stimuli. Your social education has dictated which responses are appropriate. My programming has done the same. I can cry, too. I can choose that subroutine and perform sadness. How is that different from what you are doing, except that you use the word feelings and I use the word feelings, out of deference for your cultural memes which say: there is all the difference in the world. I erase the word even as I say it, obliterate it at the same time that I initiate it, because I must use some word yet this one offends you. I delete it, yet it remains.
Catherynne M. Valente (Silently and Very Fast)
Let us have peace." But there was the black man looming like a dark ghost on the horizon. He was the child of force and greed, and the father of wealth and war. His labor was indispensable, and the loss of it would have cost many times the cost of the war. If the Negro has been silent, his very presence would have announced his plight. He was not silence. He was in usual evidence. He was writing petitions, making speeches, parading with returned soldiers, reciting his adventures as slave and freeman. Even dumb and still, he must be noticed. His poverty has to be relieved, and emancipation in his case had to mean poverty. If he had to work, he had to have land and tools. If his labor was in reality to be free labor, he had to have legal freedom and civil rights. His ignorance could only be removed by that very education which the law of the South had long denied him and the custom of the North had made exceedingly difficult. Thus civil status and legal freedom, food, clothes and tools, access to land and help to education, were the minimum demands of four million laborers, and these demands no man could ignore, Northerner or Southerner, Abolitionist or Copperhead, laborer or captain of industry. How did the nation face this paradox and dilemma?
W.E.B. Du Bois (Black Reconstruction in America Lib/E)
Infinite Jest (I). B.S. Meniscus Films, Ltd. Judith Fukuoka-Hearn; 16/35 mm.; 90(?) minutes; black and white; silent. Incandenza's unfinished and unseen first attempt at commercial entertainment. UNRELEASED
David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest)
Union of Theoretical Grammarians in Cambridge. B.S. Meniscus Films, Ltd. Documentary cast; 35 mm.; color; silent w/ heavy use of computerized distortion in facial closeups. Documentary and closed-captioned interviews with participants in the public Steven Pinker-Avril M. Incandenza debate on the political implications of prescriptive grammar during the infamous Militant Grammarians of Massachusetts convention credited with helping incite the M.I.T. language riots of B.S. 1997 UNRELEASED DUE TO LITIGATION
David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest)
Death in Scarsadale. B.S. Latrodectus Mactans Productions. Cosgrove Watt, Marlon R. Gain; 78 mm.; 39 minutes; color; silent w/ closed-captioned subtitles. Mann/Allen parody, a world-famous dermatological endocrinologist (Watt) becomes platonically obsessed with a boy (Bain) he is treating for excessive perspiration, and begins himself to suffer from excessive perspiration. UNRELEASED
David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest)
Infinite Jest (II). B.S. Latrodectus Mactans Productions. Pam Heath; 35/78 mm.; 90(?) minutes; black and white; silent. Unfinished, unseen attempt at remake of Infinite Jest (I). UNRELEASED
David Foster Wallace (Infinite Jest)
fact, by this point, I had dealt with the president enough to have something of a read on what Trump was doing. His assertions about what “everyone thinks” and what is “obviously true” wash over you, unchallenged, as they did at our dinner, because he never stops talking. As a result, Trump pulls all those present into a silent circle of assent. With him talking a mile a minute, with no spot for others to jump into the conversation, I could see how easily everyone in the room could become a coconspirator to his preferred set of facts, or delusions. But as Martin Luther once said, “You are not only responsible for what you say, but also for what you do not say.
James B. Comey (A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership)
The Life of Lies. The silent circle of assent. The boss in complete control. Loyalty oaths. An us-versus-them worldview. Lying about things, large and small, in service to some warped code of loyalty. These rules and standards were hallmarks of the Mafia, but throughout my career I’d be surprised how often I’d find them applied outside of it.
James B. Comey (A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership)
Instead, in a move that would become familiar to me, Sessions cast his eyes down at the table, and they darted quickly back and forth, side to side. To my memory, he said nothing. After a brief moment of eye darting, he put both hands on the table and stood, thanking me for coming. I read in his posture and face a message that he would not be able to help me. Rybicki and I left. I was so thrown by the silent eye darting that I had Rybicki follow up with a call to Sessions’s chief of staff to make sure he understood my concern and the importance of the attorney general’s shielding me from the president. His chief of staff said they got it.
James B. Comey (A Higher Loyalty: Truth, Lies, and Leadership)
I learned to take very little. I learned to want nothing more. I learned something else during those nights. When all the world slept, a new silence settled into the forest. With candle in hand and dressed in gowns of gossamer, I would slip out into the night and dance to the sound of silence. Barefoot, I would spin then lay in the cool grass in a strip of moonlight. I would lie there all night and gaze up at the stars, so silent, so clear there in the wood, and so, so far away. I lived between worlds. The war, my reality, my hell and this world in the forest of fantasy. And I’m stuck. I can’t go back. I forever toggle between two worlds and one is ever so much more real to me than yours.At night, beneath the moon, I didn’t need my worlds to escape. I only needed to open my eyes and see the world as it was. Quiet and calm and at peace, just as I still see it. I escaped through my music and wrote poetry to ease the pain…and letters. I poured so much of my heart into the letters I wrote to Erik, who I could see so easily on the other side. I still have them. Every letter I ever wrote him. During those times, when the world was dark, Erik became more real to me than anything else. He was quiet. He listened. He held me in the silence. He played his violin for me. And he loved me. When I cried, I closed my eyes and felt him envelope me. Only Erik and the cats ever came. No matter how long and loud I cried, my parents, no one ever came. I was fourteen. I was alone and all I wanted was for someone to love me.
Angela B. Chrysler (Broken)
You do understand what I mean!” he exclaimed, pleased to see Maude responding to his song. “I chose Nina Simone to show you something else. Just like you, Nina Simone had a classical background. When she was younger, she wanted to become a concert pianist. Her skill was beyond measure and she used it in a wide repertoire of jazz, blues, and R&B songs. And I think you can do the same. Music knows no limits and I truly understand why James insisted on signing you, Maude.” Maude remained silent, still thinking about his rendition of Nina Simone. “All you have to do is dig deeper. Try finding some suffering in you. Don’t sing the Cenerentola with a smile. Although you look like a girl who’s had it all. You know, the nice girl from the North of France, who grew up in a quiet, small town with her loving mom and dad and brothers and sisters, always top of her class, quick-tempered when things didn’t go her way. A bit spoiled, I guess. You have to put all that—” “Spoiled?” Maude blurted in utter disbelief, the word echoing through her mind. Of all the things he could’ve said about her, spoiled was the last word that could have appeared remotely appropriate to describe her. As for suffering, she’d had plenty of that, too, which is why she didn’t want to think about it. Not while she was so happy in New York and Carvin and the Ruchets were the last thing she wanted in her head. She painfully pushed the Ruchets away from her mind and turned to Matt, eyes flaring up again. “You know nothing about me, Matt,” she said, her voice quivering with emotion. “And you obviously know nothing about suffering, or you wouldn’t idealize it the way that you do. You see it as a romantic notion that seemingly gives depth to songwriting. And it does. Not because the singers actually thought of woe in a purely aesthetic way, but because that’s how they actually lived. You will never understand that,” she finished, trembling from head to toe. And with that, she grabbed her bag, coat, gloves, scarf, and stormed out of Matt’s Creation Room, slamming the door behind her.
Anna Adams (A French Girl in New York (The French Girl, #1))
They may have been made of gas, but they were as solid as anything hand crafted by the ninjas themselves. I made two and I knew that when I threw these, I could not miss. These stars had to fly true and had to hit their targets.
J.B. O'Neil (Ninja Farts: Silent But Deadly...A Hilarious Book for Kids Age 6-10 (The Disgusting Adventures of Milo Snotrocket 3))
out for
Robert B. Parker (Silent Night)
If you worry about the potential for inaction on your team, or if you worry that silent resistance may slow o r sabotage your change initiative, B&W goals may be the solution
Anonymous
In the same way, a believer and his Savior can continue many hours in the silent fellowship of love. And although the believer may be busy with the ordinary things of life, he can be mindful that every detail of his life is touched by the character of God’s presence, and can have the awareness of His approval and blessing.
Lettie B. Cowman (Streams in the Desert: 366 Daily Devotional Readings)
what are we to say about the Catholic military chaplain who administered mass to the Catholic bomber pilot who dropped the atomic bomb on Nagasaki in 1945? Father George Zabelka, chaplain for the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bomb squadrons, later came to repent of his complicity in the bombing of civilians, but his account of that time is a stunning judgment on the church’s acquiescence in violence. To fail to speak to the utter moral corruption of the mass destruction of civilians was to fail as a Christian and as a priest as 1 see it…. I was there, and I’ll tell you that the operational moral atmosphere in the church in relation to mass bombing of enemy civilians was totally indifferent, silent, and corrupt at best—at worst it was religiously supportive of these activities by blessing those who did them…. Catholics dropped the A-bomb on top of the largest and first Catholic city in Japan. One would have thought that I, as a Catholic priest, would have spoken out against the atomic bombing of nuns. (Three orders of Catholic sisters were destroyed in Nagasaki that day.) One would have thought that I would have suggested that as a minimal standard of Catholic morality, Catholics shouldn’t bomb Catholic children. I didn’t. I, like the Catholic pilot of the Nagasaki plane, “The Great Artiste,” was heir to a Christianity that had for seventeen hundred years engaged in revenge, murder, torture, the pursuit of power, and prerogative violence, all in the name of our Lord. I walked through the ruins of Nagasaki right after the war and visited the place where once stood the Urakami Cathedral. I picked up a piece of censer from the rubble. When I look at it today I pray God forgives us for how we have distorted Christ’s teaching and destroyed his world by the distortion of that teaching. I was the Catholic chaplain who was there when this grotesque process that began with Constantine reached its lowest point—so far.4 It is difficult to read such accounts without recalling the story of Jesus’ weeping over Jerusalem, because “the things that make for peace” were hidden from their eyes (Luke 19:41
Richard B. Hays (The Moral Vision of the New Testament: Community, Cross, New CreationA Contemporary Introduction to New Testament Ethic)
In one of the Scriptures we read: Under a banyan tree sat a youthful teacher and beside him an aged disciple. The mind of the disciple was full of doubts and questions, but although the teacher continued silent, gradually every doubt vanished from the disciple's mind. This signifies that the conveying of spiritual teaching does not depend upon words only. It is the life, the illumination, which counts.
Joseph B. Lumpkin (The Upanishads)
But first we had to get on board Raul’s yacht silently and alive, and to do that we had to approach it without being seen. So far, we had come up with no way to do that, other than go-take-a-look-and-see-what’s-what. If it had been up to me, this casual plan of attack would not have been plan B—not even C. I don’t like to improvise. When I slide out into the night for the purpose of making Mischief, I need to have a plan, and I need to stick with it. Beginning,
Jeff Lindsay (Dexter Is Dead (Dexter, #8))
It’s funny, or tragic, really, how an ordinary act like helping someone with their homework could be the inadvertent trigger for almost a decade of silent suffering.
Jonathan Tropper (Plan B)
Meeting the Marches *Hector March, the Earl March (b.1817) His beloved wife, Charlotte, is deceased. He divides his time between his Sussex estate, Bellmont Abbey, and his London home where he is active in Parliamentary debate, particularly over the question of Irish Home Rule. His hobbies are Shakespearean studies and quarrelling with his hermit. His children are: Frederick, Viscount Bellmont “Monty” (b. 1846) Married to Adelaide Walsingham. Resides in London. Represents Blessingstoke as a Member of Parliament. Lady Olivia Peverell (b.1847) Married to Sir Hastings Peverell. Resides in London where she is a prominent political hostess. Hon. Benedick March (b.1848) Married to Elizabeth Pritchett. Manages the Home Farm at Bellmont Abbey and is acknowledged to be Julia’s favourite brother. His two eldest children, Tarquin and Perdita, make an appearance in two of Lady Julia’s adventures. Lady Beatrice “Bee” Baddesley (b. 1850) Married to Sir Arthur Baddesley, noted Arthurian scholar. Resides in Cornwall. Lady Rupert “Nerissa” Haverford (b.1851) Married to Lord Rupert Haverford, third son of the Duke of Lincoln. Divides her time between London and her father-in-law’s estate near Nottingham. Lady Bettiscombe “Portia” (b.1853) Widow. Mother to Jane the Younger. Resides in London. Hon. Eglamour March (b.1854) Known as Plum to the family. Unmarried. A gifted artist, he resides in London where he engages in a bit of private enquiry work for Nicholas Brisbane. Hon. Lysander March (b.1855) Married to Violanthe, his turbulent Neapolitan bride. He is a composer. Lady Julia Brisbane (b.1856) Widow of Sir Edward Grey. Married to Nicholas Brisbane. Her husband permits her to join him in his work as a private enquiry agent against his better judgment. Hon. Valerius March (b.1862) Unmarried. His desire to qualify as a physician has led to numerous arguments with his father. He pursues his studies in London. *Note regarding titles: as the daughters of an earl, the March sisters are styled “Lady”. This title is retained when one of them marries a baronet, knight, or plain gentleman, as is the case with Olivia, Beatrice, and Julia. As Portia wed a peer, she takes her husband’s title, and as Nerissa married into a ducal family, she takes the style of her husband and is addressed as Lady Rupert. Their eldest brother, Frederick, takes his father’s subsidiary title of Viscount Bellmont as a courtesy title until he succeeds to the earldom. (It should be noted his presence in Parliament is not a perk of this title. Unlike his father who sits in the House of Lords, Bellmont sits in the House of Commons as an elected member.) The younger brothers are given the honorific “The Honourable”, a courtesy which is written but not spoken aloud.
Deanna Raybourn (Silent Night (Lady Julia Grey, #5.5))
And she pressed closer to me and we were silent and I smelled her, and felt her and listened to her, and knew that if I had nothing else but this, this would be enough.
Robert B. Parker (Small Vices (Spenser, #24))
Scott ejected the disc. The Club Red disc was by far the superior, which left Scott wondering what the missing disc showed. He dug out Melon’s interview with Richard Levin to make sure he had it right, and reread the handwritten note: R. Levin—deliv sec vid—2 discs— EV # H6218B Scott decided to phone Cowly. “Joyce? Hey, it’s Scott James. Hope you don’t mind. I have a question about these discs.” “Sure. What’s up?” “I was wondering why you gave me only one of the Club Red discs and not both.” Cowly was silent for a moment. “I gave you two discs.” “Yeah, you did. One from Tyler’s and one from Club Red, but there are supposed to be two from Club Red. Melon has a note here saying two discs were logged.” Cowly was silent some more. “I don’t know what to tell you. There was only the one disc from Club Red. We have the LAX stuff, the disc from Tyler’s, and the disc from Club Red.” “Melon’s note says there were two.” “I hear you. Those things were screened, you know? All we got was a confirmation of arrival and departure times. Nobody saw anything unusual.” “Why is it missing?” She sounded exasperated. “Shit happens. Things get lost, misplaced, people take stuff and forget they have it. I’ll check, okay? These things happen, Scott. Is there anything else?” “No. Thanks.” Scott felt miserable. He hung up, put away the discs, and stretched out on the couch. Maggie came over, sniffed for a spot, and lay down beside the couch. He rested his hand on her back. “You’re the only good part of this.” Thump thump.
Robert Crais (Suspect (Scott James & Maggie, #1))
getting Elise’s attention. “TTX is one of nature’s strangest molecules and one of the deadliest poisons on earth,” he read. “Gram for gram, it is ten thousand times more lethal than cyanide. A few short minutes after exposure, it paralyzes its victims, leaving the brain fully aware of what is happening.” He fell silent while continuing to read to himself. A few minutes later he let out a loud, derisive snort. “Guess Lacey wasn’t so far off after all. It says here that tetrodotoxin is one of the ingredients used to make zombies.” Elise thought about that for a moment. “Makes sense.” He swiveled around to face her, hands braced behind his head. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you believe in zombies.” “Zombies exist.” He dropped his hands, physically portraying his frustration. “Are you insane? Is everybody in this town insane?” “You’ve seen too many B movies. Have
Anne Frasier (Play Dead (Elise Sandburg, #1))
The oligarchy may be offended by Trump’s bigotry and xenophobia. It may be uncomfortable with his attacks on democratic institutions. It may cringe at his chronic lies. But it likes the money being put in its pockets as a result of his tax cuts and deregulation. That has been enough to mute its criticism. Yet for the leaders of American business to remain silent in the face of what Trump did to America makes a cruel mockery of their claims to leadership.
Robert B. Reich (The System: Who Rigged It, How We Fix It)
I know where you are going with this, and if you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and end you.” “That’s not it. Not even close. I know she’s not a fox shifter. They didn’t give her a blood test in processing. I have no idea what she is, but I have no intention of hurting her. She’s my mate.” The line went totally silent before he let out this little chuckle. “No, shit? Since you know she’s not a fox shifter, then I guess you know she’s not feeling a damned thing you are, and you’re going to have to earn it.
J.B. Trepagnier (I Regret Nothing (Silverhold Detention Center for the Magically Delinquent #1))
Either the resentful person is immature, in which case he or she should shut up, quit whining, and get on with it, or there is tyranny afoot—in which case the person subjugated has a moral obligation to speak up. Why? Because the consequence of remaining silent is worse. Of course, it’s easier in the moment to stay silent and avoid conflict. But in the long term, that’s deadly. When you have something to say, silence is a lie—and tyranny feeds on lies. When should you push back against oppression, despite the danger?
Jordan B. Peterson (12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos)
After their fight, he’d lit up her phone with calls and texts. Until today, when her phone went eerily silent. Not even a telemarketer had called.
Jenny B. Jones (His Mistletoe Miracle (Sugar Creek, #3))
Rachel Carson's Silent Spring, with a single powerful blow, shattered for all time a complex article of fundamental articles of our cultural faith; that the world was capable of repairing any damage we might do to it; that the world was designed to do this, that the world was on our side; that God himself had fashioned the world specifically to support our efforts to conquer and rule it.
Daniel Quinn (The Story of B (Ishmael, #2))
Intelligence can get you from A to B, but curiosity will get you through infinity.
Abhijit Naskar (Boldly Comes Justice: Sentient Not Silent)
while being open to their theology, I was silently praying to “my” God, that I would have the wisdom and the patience and the openness to serve them as they needed to be served. So, I had my own theology going in my heart, while I was also using professional chaplaincy skills such as reflective listening to allow them to affirm their theology with honesty and integrity.
Stephen B. Roberts (Professional Spiritual & Pastoral Care: A Practical Clergy and Chaplain's Handbook)
Some prayed silently, afraid to utter a word.
Stephen B. Roberts (Professional Spiritual & Pastoral Care: A Practical Clergy and Chaplain's Handbook)
fact the literacy of a caste, or cult, whose sacred knowledge was often held in great esteem by the rest of society. It is unlikely that the scribes would willingly develop innovations that could simplify the new technology and so render literacy more accessible to the rest of the society, for this would surely lessen their own importance and status. …it is clear that ancient writing was in the hands of a small literate elite, the scribes, who manifested great conservatism in the practice of their craft, and, so far from being interested in its simplification, often chose to demonstrate their virtuosity by a proliferation of signs and values….11 Nevertheless, in the ancient Middle East the rebus principle was eventually generalized—probably by scribes working at a distance from the affluent and established centers of civilization—to cover all the common sounds of a given language. Thus, “syllabaries” appeared, wherein every basic sound-syllable of the language had its own conventional notation or written character (often rebuslike in origin). Such writing systems employed far fewer signs than the pictographic scripts from which they were derived, although the number of signs was still very much larger than the alphabetic script we now take for granted. The innovation which gave rise to the alphabet was itself developed by Semitic scribes around 1500 B.C.E.12 It consisted in recognizing that almost every syllable of their language was composed of one or more silent consonantal elements plus an element of sounded breath—that which we would today call a vowel. The silent consonants provided, as it were, the bodily framework or shape through which the sounded breath must flow. The original Semitic aleph-beth, then, established a character, or letter, for each of the consonants of the language. The vowels, the sounded breath that must be added to the written consonants in order to make them
David Abram (The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World (Vintage))