Bates Quotes

O beautiful for spacious skies for amber waves of grain

To those waiting with bated breath for that favorite media catchphrase, the U-turn, I have only this to say, ‘You turn if you want; the lady’s not for turning.

Psychopaths don't act like Hannibal Lecter or Norman Bates. They come off like Hugh Grant, in his most adorable role.

There are no negatives in life, only challenges to overcome that will make you stronger.

Women who lead, read

My mom said the moon landing was faked,” said Eddie. “But she also said she saw Jackie Kennedy, Jimmy Hoffa, Elvis and Bigfoot at the IHOP out by the interstate. Elvis picked up the check.

The greatest minds are like film, they take the negatives and develop themselves in darkness...

Glorious Leader, we are approaching the galaxy known as the Milky Way,” reported the navigator. “The one named after a candy bar. How silly those Earthlings are.

It is such a happiness when good people get together -- and they always do.

I'm waiting with bated breath to hear what you'll say next." "Ah, sarcasm, how refreshing," he said pleasantly.

Speaking psycho-analytically, it may be laid down that any "great ideal" which people mention with awe is really an excuse for inflicting pain on their enemies. Good wine needs no bush, and good morals need no bated breath.

Norman Bates will never die...

He didn’t save us ; haven’t you been listening?” Elizabeth held an icepack to her chin where she’d been hit by an meaty elbow . “Fiona stabbed one of them with a Susan Bates needle, Marie was wielding a tequila bottle, Sandra pistol-whipped the other, and I shot the third.” “Where were Janie and Kat?” Ashley looked from me to Kat. “Hiding behind the couch like sane people!” Kat said before anyone else could speak.

No man or woman who tries to pursue an ideal in his or her own way is without enemies.

Fuck," Ranger said. Ranger didn't often curse and he rarely raised his voice. The fuck has been entirely conversational. Like he was now midly inconvenienced. He put his Bates boot to the door and the door popped open..

You don't have to be anyone but yourself.

All those other girls are cake...I'm Crème brûlée...Tiramisu, if you will. Just a few notches above.

I have discovered that mortality is a boon as well as a curse. Knowing that you will die makes you appreciate each day that you are alive.

Norman Bates heard the noise and a shock went through him.

Love planted a rose, and the world turned sweet.

I open my eyes. I want to know: what is in the abyss of a kiss? Are stars born in these black caves that house bated breaths and unspoken words? Do our souls crawl on these tender cheeks to greet one another by ivory gates? What happens when we kiss? Where do you go? Don’t tell me. For I have lost my desire to know. Kiss me so that I forget myself. I close my eyes and fall in the abyss.

Wrote my way out of the hood...thought my way out of poverty! Don't tell me that knowledge isn't power. Education changes everything.

What’s wrong with nature shows?” “You can’t believe anything the narrators say. One claimed that some animals mate for life. Come on, they need time off to eat and sleep, don’t they?

I was thinking of that old expression: Those who fail to repeat history are doomed to learn it.

Your typical Six-year-old is a paradoxical little person, and bipolarity is the name of his game.

There really will be seventeen world wars?” asked Wade. “No, only sixteen that we know of. Everyone got together and agreed to skip number thirteen, because it would be unlucky.

Então, que seja doce. Repito todas as manhãs, ao abrir as janelas para deixar entrar o sol ou o cinza dos dias, bem assim, que seja doce. Quando há sol, e esse sol bate na minha cara amassada do sono ou da insônia, contemplando as partículas de poeira soltas no ar, feito um pequeno universo; repito sete vezes para dar sorte: que seja doce que seja doce que seja doce e assim por diante. Mas, se alguém me perguntasse o que deverá ser doce, talvez não saiba responder. Tudo é tão vago como se fosse nada.

That's always the worst: the not knowing. Because then you're stuck with a hundred questions no one can answer.

Aren’t there limits to your powers? Can you do things like read my mind?” “I knew you were going to ask that.

I wasn’t born yesterday. Or was I? All this time travel gets me so confused.

This is a battle that we will win. Because women are wittier, brighter, stronger and braver than a misogynistic and patriarchal world has given us credit for.

Pressure is a privilege, Miller. Expectations are high because you’re successful. If you were average, no one would be waiting on bated breath for you. I think about that every night I take the mound. You just have to decide if your dreams and goals are worth the pressure. If you want to live up to the expectations set for you.

Sir, what’s wrong?” “I just lost my wife.” “Bummer. I’ve got a couple of minutes. I’ll be glad to help you look for her.

You have to be out of your mind. What kind of clinic lets people operate on themselves?” “Well, Suture Self.”  

There had been that battle over the awful sign the city put up near his house when he was about seven years old, the one that read “Slow Children Playing”. He was so proud of his mom when she called the city government to complain about it and then appealed to the city council. “Why don’t you put up signs saying ‘Smart Children Playing’ on other streets instead of picking on kids like mine?

In order to grow, I promise you'll have to let go of some habits. 10 times out of 10, they'll be the habits you're most in love with.

Unapologetically smitten with thunderstorms...the thought of rough sex beneath an acid washed moon and hydrated stars...

This is not a men vs women issue. It’s about people vs prejudice.

Drama does not just walk into our lives. Either we create it, invite it, or associate with it.

You settle for less, you get less.

Women are silenced by both the invisibility and the acceptability of the problem.

I was creeped out, though and dragged a chair into the bathroom and wedged it against the door so no one could come in without me knowing. That was the very reason why I had a see-through vinyl shower curtain. Norman Bates was never going to get the best of me. -Jory

Give me Pablo Neruda, picnic beneath a full moon & iridescent stars, black olives, cherries, dark things, canoe on a river...that's romance.

I disguised the time machine as a 1974 Pinto because that’s the model with the exploding gas tank. No one will come near it.

Be selective in your battles...

But now, Mr. Bates didn't scream or try to get the truck's license plate, nor did Mrs. Bates, who had once wept when we set off firecrackers in her state-fair tulips - they said nothing, and our parents said nothing, so that we sensed how ancient they were, how accustomed to trauma, depressions, and wars. We realized that the version of the world that they rendered for us was not the world they really believed in, and that for all their caretaking and bitching about crabgrass they didn't give a damn about lawns.

Successful people replace the words “wish”, “should” and “try” with “I will”.

What if I told thou that I come from the future. A future beyond thy imagination, where the colonies rebel against the British and gain their independence, where slavery be outlawed, where immigrants stream into the land and manufacture refrigerator magnets by the millions?

Do little things every day that no one else seems to want to do, be patient, and success will find you.

I will Basquiat the canvas of your body like a Broadway Junction wall…and Gordon Parks you for those dark midnights when your scent fades.

A vida é cruel por ter inventado a memória. Como os velhos que recobram em matizes suas lembranças mais antigas, à beira da morte minha memória gravita em torno do sol, e como ele clareia tudo! Tudo é presente, nada está perdido. É como uma força oculta que nos impele para nos estimular de novo: diante da evidência de que não mais haverá futuro, o passado se amplifica, suas raízes engrossam, tudo em mim é rizosfera, as cores se cristalizam sobre cada estrato, a mais insignificante imagem toca o seu absoluto, o coração bate em crescendo.

We use time machines to learn from the past,” Chris continued. “But there are still a few things that have been puzzling some of us, and maybe you can help clear up one of them. There’s a person called Kim Kardashian—someone born in your time, I believe. She has had thousands of regeneration and cybernetic enhancement procedures. But no one can seem to recall her purpose. Does she have any special talent or reason for being kept alive all these centuries?” Heads shook in bafflement. “Anyway,” said Chris, “you’ll be glad to know that Tom Brady is still slinging footballs as far as ever. And Brett Favre is considering another comeback.

He opened the door wearing an oversized wife-beater and dirty trunks to match. Funny, but he recognized me withouta struggle. Immediately, I assumed he was sober, which was a good thing. Yet, seeing me wasn’t expected or desired. For sure, I was the last person on his list of surprises. Jerry adjusted his head and sharpened his bloodshot eyes. It wasthen his booze-bated breath greeted me well before he did. Ok, he was in a stupor or maybe on the rebound. Next, soiled diapers stole the little oxygen I had left—and I was still OUTDOORS. Yet somehow, I mustered enough wind to greet my brother. I tried to beat him to the punch and said, “What’s up bruh?” What happened next stomped my soul me for years to come! He never bothered to truly acknowledge me. Yet, heresponded without hesitation, “You know I can’t have any company!” Then he violently slammed the door shut! Jerry was gone! I couldn’t differentiate from being stupid or dumbstruck. I just stood silent on his porch all alone for about five minutes. I’d dealt with Jerry’s nastiness many times before. But he would initially warm up before dropping his hammer. Without a doubt, l was lost, confused, and bewildered like a teen-age boy losing a prom date. Foolishly, I used logic to dissect my embarrassment. First, the guy scolded me as if I should’ve known better! To be fair, Jerry was the breadwinner. His wife left him years ago. That part I understood. Only a fool would have hung around his crazy ass. It was amazing they got together, let alone stayed that way long enough to create those children. Yet, all his kids were pushing the ages of twenty andabove. What the hell did he mean, “I can’t receive any company!” Of course, I heard those crying babies which madehim a granddaddy. That was strangely obvious to his existence. Yes, the cycle continues! Second, I really didn’t care to go inside. I didn’t want to be in his business. I just wanted his input on Aunt Kathy’s memorial.

As long as we as a society continue to belittle and dismiss women's accounts, disbelieve and question their stories, and blame them for their own assaults, we are playing right into the hands of those who silence victims by asking: "who would believe you anyways?".

miras como yo: con los ojos y con las manos y con el sexo y con el alma mientras la memoria hecha de piel de tambor bate ritmos cada vez más urgentes, que en verdad son llamadas, que en verdad son plegarias tácitas hechas de un silencio alborotado en donde las cosas corren y mi amor corre y todo en mí es un agua precipitada, absolutamente loca y ardiente.

Some roses grow through concrete. Remember that.

Quando é que isto começou? Isto, o quê? Isto. O amor? Talvez. O amor? Sim, pode ser isso. Quando é que o amor começou? Começou antes de ter começado. E depois? E depois não acabou quando devia acabar. Durou mais tempo. O coração bate mais tempo. Não há maneira de parar o coração.

There's no need for a piece of sculpture in a home that has a cat.

A heart can only discover what it really wants with experience.

Wind as old as Rome outside my window, inky fleece clouds against charcoal crushed velvet skies, fall feels soulful, like a LaBelle octave.

Research is the process of going up alleys to see if they are blind.

You see, in my time, no one eats real meat anymore. Much of the food tastes like quinoa that’s been pummeled by days of acid rain, because that’s what it is.

Pretty much the strongest, most badass, and rebellious thing that you can do is to love your body in this world that screams at you that you shouldn't.

-Vai, ce tare-ţi bate inima! Ar fi putut scutura un mănuchi de bujori cu bătăile inimii.

Gee, I'm sorry I didn't hear you in all this rain. Go ahead in, please." Anthony Perkin's Norman Bates Talking To Janet Leigh's Marion Crane.

We all go a little mad sometimes" Norman Bates

Why do we assume that educating a criminal is merely helping him commit more sophisticated crimes? Why can’t we assume that an education can give this person the tools to make more acceptable choices?

When we suggest victims can stop rape, we also (however unintentionally) imply that rape is an inevitable aspect of life rather than an action deliberately carried out by a perpetrator.

I’m fifteen and I feel like girl my age are under a lot of pressure that boys are not under. I know I am smart, I know I am kind and funny, and I know that everyone around me keeps telling me that I can be whatever I want to be. I know all this but I just don’t feel that way. I always feel like if I don’t look a certain way, if boys don’t think I’m ‘sexy’ or ‘hot’ then I’ve failed and it doesn’t even matter if I am a doctor or writer, I’ll still feel like nothing. I hate that I feel like that because it makes me seem shallow, but I know all of my friends feel like that, and even my little sister. I feel like successful women are only considered a success if they are successful AND hot, and I worry constantly that I won’t be. What if my boobs don’t grow, what if I don’t have the perfect body, what if my hips don’t widen and give me a little waist, if none of that happens I feel like what’s the point of doing anything because I’ll just be the ‘fat ugly girl’ regardless of whether I do become a doctor or not. I wish people would think about what pressure they are putting on everyone, not just teenage girls, but even older people – I watch my mum tear herself apart every day because her boobs are sagging and her skin is wrinkling, she feels like she is ugly even though she is amazing, but then I feel like I can’t judge because I do the same to myself. I wish the people who had real power and control the images and messages we get fed all day actually thought about what they did for once. I know the girls on page 3 are probably starving themselves. I know the girls in adverts are airbrushed. I know beauty is on the inside. But I still feel like I’m not good enough.

in a society in which misogyny and violence against women are so widespread and so normalized, it is difficult for us to consider these things “extreme” or “radical,” because they are simply not out of the ordinary. We do not leap to tackle a terrorist threat to women, because the reality of women being terrorized, violated, and murdered by men is already part of the wallpaper.

...everyone would wonder, 'What's he doing with her?' And then you'd say, 'Hmm, good question,' and you'd dump me. That wouldn't be nice.

Stupid patriarchal culture with stupid ideas of beauty—stupid me for going along with it.

Lick my finger so I can scan your table of contents- fuck the index- I yearn to ride your story line.

If a guy is put off by you being a feminist, you need to ask yourself how put off you are by someone who doesn't believe in equality for women.

A man in the UK is 230 times more likely to be raped himself than be falsely accused of rape, so low is the number of false allegations.15 In the meantime, 85,000 women each year in the UK experience rape or attempted rape.16

No matter what the industry you choose to ultimately invest all your time and energy in, be sure you're the owner, founder, and CEO. Remember, if you don't own it, you can't control it nor can you depend on it.

The idea that girls are somehow responsible for 'provoking' harassment from boys is shamefully exacerbated by an epidemic of increasingly sexist school dress codes. Across the United States, stories have recently emerged about girls being hauled out of class, publicly humiliated, sent home, and even threatened with expulsion for such transgressions as wearing tops with 'spaghetti straps,' wearing leggings or (brace yourself) revealing their shoulders. The reasoning behind such dress codes, which almost always focus on the girls' clothing to a far greater extent than the boys', is often euphemistically described as the preservation of an effective 'learning environment.' Often schools go all out and explain that girls wearing certain clothing might 'distract' their male peers, or even their male teachers....in reality these messages privilege boys' apparent 'needs' over those of the girls, sending the insidious message that girls' bodies are dangerous and provoke harassment, and boys can't be expected to control their behavior, so girls are responsible for covering up....his education is being prioritized over hers.

Nu-i acoperiţi pieptul – Aş vrea să văd dacă inima lui mai bate Acest trup trecător Păstrează în el sănătatea Nemuritoare a unui întreg indestructibil Ce cântă şi merge Pe o melodie imposibilă. Încă mai ascult cântecele sale Pe care nicio armă nu le poate străpunge Şi nici focul nu le poate arde. Îl voi vedea încă o dată Dincolo de marea de lacrimi.

How can I believe the people that say women have equal rights? When the worst insult a man can be called is a woman, girly, a twat, a cunt, that he needs to 'man up' and the list goes on. My gender is not an insult. I'm tired of all this shit.

All I could feel was love leaking in my soul and my heart seeping bits of heaven.

Women have always been the canaries in the coal mines, quietly singing.

Everyone's life changes when they meet their Obi-Wan & their Yoda, or their Morpheus & their Oracle; those who help remove the veil.

I had no idea what I was getting into with Brayelle Bates. I didn’t know about such things when I was nine. I didn’t know. But I would never regret a moment with her. Never.

I fought the urge to flee by reminding myself that I couldn't run away every time I felt uncomfortable, embarrassed or hurt.

I wike your big muscles,” Stella whispers as she stares at Bates’ bulging bicep in awe. Jesus, I like his big muscles, too. In fact, I’d like to trace them with my tongue.

Em algum lugar teu coração bate por mim Em algum lugar teus olhos se fecham à idéia dos meus.

Myers was not a neighborhood to visit on a lark. Hi reached over and hit the door locks. “Next right,” Shelton said. Then, “There, on the left. Bates Pawn-and-Trade.” “Are we one hundred percent sure about exiting the vehicle?” Hi’s voice was a bit high. “It might not be here when we get back.” “I’ll park right in front.” Ben also sounded tense. “We’ll be fine,” I said. “In and out.” “That’s what she said,” Hi mumbled, hauling himself from the car.

The very fact that it is necessary in the twenty-first century to explain why it's not okay to publicly debate whether or not women are "asking" for sexual assault is mind-boggling.

Jane Austen, who is said to be Shakespearian, never reminds us of Shakespeare, I think, in her full-dress portraits, but she does so in characters such as Miss Bates and Mrs. Allen.

The impact of articles like this is to create a false equivalence between the violently misogynistic men’s rights community and the feminist movement, suggesting that disagreements between the two are a matter of balanced debate.

The editorial director of the Hysteria Channel needs to be tough. This is a highly competitive business. We thrive on conflict. Do you have any experience with the kind of human misery that drives our ratings?” “If you look at the second page of my resume, you’ll see that I have destroyed at least 114 civilizations, have threatened three dozen galaxies and have haunted dimensions you’ve never even heard of. Twice, I was named Demon of the Month. That earned me a premium parking spot.”  

If you don’t mind my asking, why would a demon be concerned about appearances? Aren’t you all about killing, maiming, and torturing?” “That’s the kind of stereotyping that has afflicted demons for billions of years. Don’t you think some of us want to branch out, to explore other options?” “It never occurred to me.” “Yes, we obtain great satisfaction from killing and maiming and torturing. But there’s a lot of competition these days for the torturing thing. So many physical therapists around.”  

Miss Bates…had never boasted either beauty or cleverness. Her youth had passed without distinction, and her middle of life was devoted to the care of a failing mother, and the endeavour to make a small income go as far as possible. And yet she was a happy woman, and a woman whom no one named without good-will. It was her own universal goodwill and contented temper which worked such wonders. She loved every body, was interested in every body’s happiness and quick-sighted to every body’s merits; thought herself a most fortunate creature, and surrounded with blessings in such an excellent mother and so many good neighbours and friends, and a home that wanted for nothing. The simplicity and cheerfulness of her nature, her contented and grateful spirit, were a recommendation to every body and a mine of felicity to herself.

Another [change] affects Chip and Joanna Gaines. This couple, who had reached unfathomable heights of popularity with their ‘Fixer Upper’ TV program in the 21st century, are instead homeless and living in a large cardboard box behind the Waco, Texas, bus station.” “That’s harsh,” said Eddie. “What did they do to deserve that?” “Nothing. It’s just one of those undesirable consequences that we could not avoid. It was either that or lose Australia.

On Slavery: The saddest slap in the face is we have NO monument, no real statues or memorials, no special day of Atonement or Remembrance (NOT ONE), no thanks for 400+ years of free labor, forced servitude across the Trans-Atlantic, ass beatings, buying ourselves and families out of slavery, rape and plunder...but everyone else has monuments, special museums, and even movies. This is what America thinks of black people, so-called black president and all, who has been largely silent on this subject...we'll even celebrate Leprechauns, Easter Bunnies, and Secretary's Day before we acknowledge our history.

Rape is not a sexual act; it is not the result of a sudden, uncontrollable attraction to a woman in a skimpy dress. It is an act of power and violence. To suggest otherwise is deeply insulting to the vast majority of men, who are perfectly able to control their sexual desires. The

Theo felt a lump in his throat, what the hell was all this emotion about? Gods did women feel like this all of the time, how the hell did they get anything done?

Magic waited for me in the morning dew of this brand new day. And silence sang, so soft and low. It touched my sun dappled skin and kissed my parted lips.

God will try our faith before he satisfies our sight.

Grăuntele de speranţă care nu părăseşte pe om până nu-şi dă ultima suflare, care mai licăreşte în ochii muribundului chiar când inima a încetat de-a mai bate şi când trupul a îngheţat pentru totdeauna ― îi dădea şi ei puterea să mai aştepte şi să stăruiască...

All the books were beginning to turn against me. Indeed, I must have been blind as a bat not to have seen it long before, the ludicrous contradiction between my theory of life and my actual experiences as a reader. George MacDonald had done more to me than any other writer; of course it was a pity that he had that bee in his bonnet about Christianity. He was good in spite of it. Chesterton has more sense than all the other moderns put together; bating, of course, his Christianity. Johnson was one of the few authors whom I felt I could trust utterly; curiously enough, he had the same kink. Spenser and Milton by a strange coincidence had it too. Even among ancient authors the same paradox was to be found. The most religious (Plato, Aeschylus, Virgil) were clearly those on whom I could really feed. On the other hand, those writers who did not suffer from religion and with whom in theory my sympathy ought to have been complete -- Shaw and Wells and Mill and Gibbon and Voltaire -- all seemed a little thin; what as boys we called "tinny". It wasn't that I didn't like them. They were all (especially Gibbon) entertaining; but hardly more. There seemed to be no depth in them. They were too simple. The roughness and density of life did not appear in their books.

...I never would have seen Chelsea reach up, take Logan's face in her hands, and kiss him. So the off again was definitely on again. And I knew then that Patrick was very wrong about my heart, because if it had actually been an encyclopedia I could have watched it all with perfect composure.

Norman Bates: ... No one really runs away from anything. It's like a private trap that holds us in like a prison. You know what I think? I think that we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch. Marion Crane: Sometimes... we deliberately step into those traps. Norman Bates: I was born into mine. I don't mind it anymore. Marion Crane: Oh, but you should. You should mind it. Norman Bates: Oh, I do... [laughs] Norman Bates: But I say I don't.

We've developed algorithms for orgasms, broken it down to a science, I spell out equations on the small of your back, your kisses, the most beautiful calculus I've ever studied. You do fractions and long handed division up my thighs, balance equations between my legs...even my sharp clefts and C-notes can't match our depths...

You think he is marrying her for money?' 'Yes, I do. Don't you think so?' 'I should say quite certainly,' said Miss Marple. 'Like young Ellis who married Marion Bates, the rich ironmonger's daughter. She was a very plain girl and absolutely besotted about him. However, it turned out quite well. People like young Ellis and this Gerald Wright are only really disagreeable when they've married a poor girl for love. They are so annoyed with themselves for doing it that they take it out of the girl. But if they marry a rich girl they continue to respect her.

Women have always been the canaries in the coal mines, quietly singing. But we are so used to seeing them die at men’s hands, so used to justifying and excusing it as normal or “understandable,” that it wouldn’t occur to us to consider this enough of an aberration to raise alarm.

Driven by a concern with institutions, we re-enter the world of the behavioralists. But we do so not in protest against the notion of rational choice, but rather in an effort to understand how rationality on the part of individuals leads to coherence at the level of society. (Bates 1988, p. 399)

A writer needs to be read. I want to move people's hearts. I want my books in stores all over the world. I couldn't stand to be like Mom or Rory, living their little and self-contained lives with no great projects or prospects to propel them from one chapter to the next. I want the world to wait with bated breath for what I will say next. I want my words to last forever. I want to be eternal, permanent; when I'm gone, I want to leave behind a mountain of pages that scream, Juniper Song was here, and she told us what was on her mind.

Fruit falls when you shake the tree. You have to keep making things happen.

Lowkey punchdrunk off this Sangria-sweet love and all it’s prodigious trappings…

But you're mine, Violet Bates. And I'm going to fight for you, beside you, and probably with you, and it will be worth it every single time.

Cu cel care-ți e camarad de arme, împarți bune și rele. Împarți căldura sufocantă a verii și soarele arzător ce-ți bate-n cap în timp ce mărșăluiești. Împarți ploile toamnei, ce transformă în noroi drumurile, tranșeele și gropile individuale. Împarți frigul și asprimea iernii, iar atunci când totul e înghețat în jurul tău, orice sursă de căldură fizică sau sufletească, o împarți cu el. Primăvara, când natura revine la viață, împarți dorul de cei dragi, de casă, de viața de dinainte de război. Cu cel ce îți este camarad, împarți bucurii și suferințe, posibil chiar și groapa comună de la sfârșit, dar mai ales viața în cele mai improprii și vrăjmașe condiții.

SMART My dad gave me one dollar bill 'Cause I'm his smartest son, And I swapped it for two shiny quarters 'Cause two is more than one! And then I took the quarters And traded them to Lou For three dimes - I guess he don't know That three is more than two! Just then, along came old blind Bates And just 'cause he can't see He gave me four nickels for my three dimes, And four is more than three! And I took the nickels to Hiram Coombs Down at the seed-feed store, And the fool gave me five pennies for them, And five is more than four! And then I went and showed my dad, And he got red in the cheeks And closed his eyes and shook his head - Too proud of me to speak!

The window flew open all the way. The stack of papers in Lincoln’s hand was sucked out. “Oh man,” said Eddie. “I’m so sorry.” “Do not be disconsolate,” said Lincoln. “Perhaps we have just witnessed the hand of Providence.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a broad envelope and a pen. “I have some thoughts.” He stared into the distance. “How about, ‘Four score and seven years ago—” “That’s, um, thirty-five, right?” said Eddie. “Four scores is twenty-eight points. Unless they went for two-point conversions.

Over a third of all women worldwide have experienced physical and/or sexual violence (not including sexual harassment) at some point in their lives. One hundred and thirty-seven women across the world are killed by a member of their own family every day.

Tired of feeling tired? Take Liftoff, the new energy pill. Liftoff is made entirely from chemicals, with no naturally occurring ingredients. Designed to shock the nervous system into involuntary spasms, Liftoff can energize your day. Or, it can kill you. Sometimes, death comes slowly and painfully. Other times, it comes rapidly and painfully. Side effects include, but are not limited to, swelling of the throat, gagging, asphyxiation, abnormal bleeding, normal bleeding, uncontrollable laughter, uncontrollable sobbing, the desire to poke someone with a foreign object, the desire to poke oneself with a foreign object, and bed-wetting.

His toes wriggle in his socks and my first thought is, I want to snip them off with hedge trimmers. Not only does he not deserve to wriggle his toes, he does not deserve to have toes. He deserves to gave stumps. He cannot be trusted with toes because they enable him to walk and thus seek out the company of crack dealers. Kathy Bates's character completed understood this concept in Misery.

I put it to the great man [Hitchcock], the key to fictitious terror is partition or containment: so long as the Bates Motel is sealed off from our world, we want to peer in, like at a scorpion enclosure. But a film that shows the world is a Bates Motel, well, that's... the stuff of Buchloe, dystopia, depression. We'll dip our toes in a predatory, amoral, godless unive3rse, but only our toes.

Numai moartea e o forță la fel de absolută, dar în lupta de veacuri dintre aceste două puteri, dragostea este cea care ia moartea de gât, îi pune genunchiul în piept, o bate ziua și noaptea, o învinge în fiecare primăvară, o urmărește pas cu pas și-n fiecare groapă pe care aceasta o sapă, dragostea aruncă sămânța unei vieți noi.

Your skin reminds me of everything beautiful I've ever loved... how the moon gets jealous at how you mock her crescent figure with the shape of your mouth... echo of unborn galaxies bounce forth through your vocal chords...

You can't worry about what other people think you should do. The only way you'll ever be happy or make a real difference is by pursuing the things that motivate you and make you excited to be alive. Life is too short to waste years of it being miserable or asking 'What if?

Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling began to affect the netting under which the three children lay. It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries. The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead, and chilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder brother had already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered. Then the little one, who could no longer control his terror, questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone, and with bated breath:-- "Sir?" "Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes. "What is that?" "It's the rats," replied Gavroche. And he laid his head down on the mat again. The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the elephant, and who were the living black spots which we have already mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle, so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern, which was the same as their city, had returned to darkness, scenting what the good story-teller Perrault calls "fresh meat," they had hurled themselves in throngs on Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap. Still the little one could not sleep. "Sir?" he began again. "Hey?" said Gavroche. "What are rats?" "They are mice." This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them. Nevertheless, he lifted up his voice once more. "Sir?" "Hey?" said Gavroche again. "Why don't you have a cat?" "I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, but they ate her." This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little fellow began to tremble again. The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:-- "Monsieur?" "Hey?" "Who was it that was eaten?" "The cat." "And who ate the cat?" "The rats." "The mice?" "Yes, the rats." The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice which ate cats, pursued:-- "Sir, would those mice eat us?" "Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche. The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:-- "Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here! Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!

Unhappiness in one place doesn't breed happiness elsewhere. It just breeds more unhappiness.

The light of an early Summer afternoon as it slips toward dusk has so many good things wrapped up in it..

How stupid would that sound? It was high school, not the Hindu cast system, where the Untouchables have to avoid 'polluting' the upper classes.

A fundamental part of the problem is that those whose lives are deeply, endlessly affected by it are not, by and large, those with the power to stop it.

That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I?

No one is asking, let alone demanding, that you write. The world is not waiting with bated breath for your article or book. Whether or not you get a single word on paper, the sun will rise, the earth will spin, the universe will expand. Writing is forever and always a choice - your choice.

Cînd mă gîndesc la faptul că mizeria este strîns legată de existenţa omenească, nu mai pot adera la nici o teorie şi la nici o doctrină de reformă socială. Toate îmi par egal de stupide şi de inutile. Chiar şi tăcerea îmi pare un urlet. Animalele, care trăiesc fiecare din silinţa lor, nu cunosc mizeria, fiindcă nu cunosc ierarhia şi dependenţa unora de alţii. Fenomenul mizeriei apare numai la om, fiindcă numai el a putut să-şi creeze din semen un supus. Nici un animal nu-şi bate joc de altul, asemănător pînă la identitate cu el. Numai omul este capabil de atît autodispreţ. Toată caritatea din lume nu face decît să evidenţieze şi mai mult mizeria, arătînd-o mai îngrozitoare şi mai ininteligibilă decît în părăsirea absolută. Ca şi în faţa ruinelor, în mizerie te doare vidul de umanitate, regretul că oamenii nu schimbă esenţial ceea ce este în putinţa lor de a schimba. De altă parte, acest sentiment se combină cu unul al imanenţei şi eternităţii mizeriei, al caracterului ei ineluctabil şi fatal, acolo unde există viaţă omenească. Deşi ştii că oamenii ar putea înlătura mizeria, îţi dai totuşi seama de veşnicia ei, dînd astfel naştere la un sentiment neobişnuit de nelinişte amară, la o stare sufletească paradoxală şi tulbure, în care omul apare în toată inconsistenţa şi mizeria lui. Căci mizeria obiectivă din viaţa socială nu este decît un reflex palid al infinitei lui mizerii lăuntrice. Nu admit o revoltă relativă în faţa nedreptăţilor, ci numai o revoltă eternă, fiindcă eternă este mizeria în umanitate.

One of the cleverest and most insidious twists in the whole sorry tale is the way women are double bound by a gender-biased definition of professionalism and the threat of being labeled "whining.

People who shout at women in the street don’t do it because they think there’s a chance the woman will drop her shopping, willy-nilly, and leap into their arms! It isn’t a compliment – and to call it that disparages the vast majority of lovely men who are perfectly able to pay a real compliment. It is an exertion of power, dominance and control. And it’s utterly horrifying that we’ve become so used to it that it’s considered the norm. ▶

God speed fair Helena! whither away? HELENA Call you me fair? that fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching: O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go; My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart. HERMIA I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

It is not women, or even feminists, who have limited, frustrated, diminished, hurt, and damaged men but masculinity itself or, rather, our society’s constricting, toxic, self-defeating version of what it means to perform being a man. Yet every time anybody tries to make progress in tackling this particular version of masculinity, the MRM rises up as a united voice to condemn and undermine the attempt.

Ruby Bates, one of the young white girls, was a remarkable person. She told me she had been driven into prostitution when she was thirteen. She had been working in a textile mill for a pittance. When she asked for a raise, the boss told her to make it up by going with the workers. She told me there was nothing else she could do...Ruby Bates was a remarkable woman. Underneath it all—the poverty, the degradation—she was decent, pure. Here was an illiterate white girl, all of whose training had been clouded by the myths of white supremacy, who, in the struggle for the lives of these nine innocent boys, had come to see the role she was being forced to play. As a murderer. She turned against her oppressors. . .. I shall never forget her.

A slut isn’t a person, it’s in the eye of the beholder. Like beauty, or an annoying eyelash. We decide who a girl is based on something she’s done (or even just rumoured to have done) and then brand her with it as if it’s a permanent part of her identity. Guys, on the other hand, get to wear their relationships and ‘conquests’ like medals or badges of honour, which are much easier to take off, and hurt a lot less.

But believe it or not, I really do like to read. I don't think anyone can ever pull the wool over your eyes if you stay prayed up and read. Frederick Douglass said that no man can be a slave if he has knowledge.

Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances; Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe; You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come to me, and you say ‘Shylock, we would have moneys.’ You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say ‘Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?’ Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this:— ‘Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last; You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys?

Every morning Mrs Eglantine sat at the round bamboo bar of the New Pacific Hotel and drank her breakfast. This consisted of two quick large brandies, followed by several slower ones. By noon breakfast had become lunch and by two o'clock the pouches under and above Mrs Eglantine's bleared blue eyes began to look like large puffed pink prawns.

Psychopaths are distinguished by two characteristics. The first is a ruthless disregard for others: they will defraud, maim, or kill for the most trivial personal gain. The second is an astonishing gift for disguising the first. It’s the deception that makes them so dangerous. You never see him coming. (It’s usually a him—more than 80 percent are male.) Don’t look for the oddball creeping you out. Psychopaths don’t act like Hannibal Lecter or Norman Bates. They come off like Hugh Grant, in his most adorable role.

Thoughts are like raindrops,’ he persisted, introducing yet another of his interminable images. ‘They fall, make a splash and then dry up. But the world of wyrd is like the mighty oceans from which raindrops arise and to which they return in rivers and streams.

He stopped, resting his forehead on mine. “Kalista…” He sighed, cupping one side of my face. We remained like that, close to each other, waiting for our bated breaths to steady for countless minutes. Our lips warm and puffy from our kiss. He looked at me. “Your lips taste better than I imagined, like cherry,” he said, brushing his thumb over my bottom lip. He’d imagined our kiss. “That’s because of my cherry chapstick,” I smiled. He pulled me closer, looking down at my lips. “I doubt it,” he whispered in a low voice.

Raw Living: Picking blackberries, beneath late afternoon sun; a sunset reminiscent of watermelon sangria, as the scent of honeysuckle accosts me and the ducks waddle into the lake. Thanking Mama Nature for her abundance. Loving this candied-sweet southern life.

When my son speaks of playing sports, I've always told him: playing on the team is great, but aspire to be the guy who owns the team. I've always told my son: most of the guys on the team will end up bankrupt with bum knees, but not the guy who owns that franchise.

I am not particularly interested in a “redemption” narrative for incels. That is a question for those individuals to ponder. We do not implore the victims of other forms of terrorism to absolve and educate their tormentors. Nor do we require that other extremists be acknowledged as some kind of wounded, misunderstood victims. It is ironic that so much pressure is brought to bear on women to allow for the humanity and individuality of fallible men when it is precisely this courtesy that incels unfailingly refuse to pay to women.

Jeez,’ another boy calls, ‘it was a compliment.’ ‘Compliments are like jokes,’ Cat says drily. ‘If you have to explain what they are, they haven’t worked.

Too late to point out that he would be better off with someone smart and sweet and—okay—awkward than with Chelsea. Someone who could make him laugh. Someone like, oh, I dunno, me!

If this is the start of a better day, I haven't bought nearly enough vodka.

Prison is being entrapped by those self-destructive ways of thinking.

When the door to my writing chamber gasps shut and the almost imperceptible sigh of a rose petal falls on my desk, I know that my muse is present.

Meanwhile London Mayor Boris Johnson ‘joked’ that women only go to university because ‘they’ve got to find men to marry’ (hilarious, no?) and

Some books must be sipped slowly like a strong bourbon. Most books must be devoured more than once because as you age you distill more.

Were any other crisis to cost the lives of more than two people every week in the UK – or to threaten one third of the entire world’s population – it would be considered an international emergency. But the rape, assault and murder of women by men is enshrined in our international history. It is so common that it has become an accepted part of the wallpaper. Women are

I stared at him, baffled. But at that moment Gideon began to play, and I entirely forgot what I had been going to ask the count. Oh, my god! Maybe it was the punch—but wow! That violin was really sexy! Even the way Gideon raised it and tucked it under his chin! He didn’t have to do more than that to carry me away with him. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and a lock of hair fell over his face as he began passing the bow over the strings. The first notes filling the room almost took my breath away, they made such tender, melting music, and suddenly I was close to tears. Until now, violins had been way down on my list of favorite instruments, and I really liked them only for accompanying certain moments in films. But this was just incredibly wonderful—well, all of it was: the bittersweet melody and boy enticing it out of the instrument. All the people in the room listened with bated breath, and Gideon played on, immersed in the music as if there were no one else there. I didn’t notice that I was crying until the count touched my cheek and caught a tear gently with his finger. Then I jumped in alarm. He was smiling down at me, and I saw a warm glow in his dark brown eyes. “Nothing to be ashamed of,” he said quietly. “If it were otherwise, I’d have been very disappointed.

It baffles me when I see people saying, ‘I don’t focus on racism. I focus on sexism.’ It leaves me saddened when I hear people saying, ‘You’re OK, but you’re not.’ It makes people, in my opinion, guilty of the same crimes of thoughtlessness that lead to these problems […] Because that person on the bus being harassed is still being harassed whether she’s being harassed for being religious or for being an atheist or being black or being a woman or because of her clothing or because of her body-language or because of her appearance or because of her handbag or because of her accent. That’s all the same problem. It’s not recognizing the basic humanity of a person […] That’s the problem.

It is one of the oddest and sometimes one of the most charming characteristics of English weather that at times one season borrows complete days from another, spring from summer, winter from spring. And it may be that these milky days of winter, which seem borrowed from April, are automatically filled with the sadness of things out of their time.

The tea-master, Kobori-Enshiu, himself a daimyo, has left to us these memorable words: "Approach a great painting as thou wouldst approach a great prince." In order to understand a masterpiece, you must lay yourself low before it and await with bated breath its least utterance. An eminent Sung critic once made a charming confession. Said he: "In my young days I praised the master whose pictures I liked, but as my judgement matured I praised myself for liking what the masters had chosen to have me like.

After the class, I went up to the teacher and said that I admired her pedagogy in advising the students that she was not there to tell them what to think, but to teach them how. On the other hand, I thought that assigning an ideological marxist tome as the course's only text worked at cross-purposes with that goal. At once the smile disappeared from her face. She said: "Well, they get the other side from the newspapers." Education like this costs Bates parents thirty thousand dollars each year in tuition alone.

- Pontellier, rosti doctorul după o clipă de gândire, las-o în pace pe soția dumitale o bucată de vreme. N-o bate la cap și nu te preocupa de ea. Femeile, dragul meu prieten, sunt făpturi foarte ciudate și delicate. Iar o femeie sensibilă și cu capul pe umeri precum știu că este doamna Pontellier este încă și mai ciudată. E nevoie de un psiholog genial ca să știe cum să le trateze. Când oameni obișnuiți ca dumneata și ca mine încercăm să facem față idiosincraziilor lor, rezultatul este dezastruos. Cele mai multe femei sunt schimbătoare și capricioase.

Our experiences of all forms of gender prejudice - from daily sexism to distressing harassment to sexual violence - are part of a continuum that impacts all of us, all the time, shaping ourselves, and our ideas about the world. To include stories of assault and rape within a project documenting everyday experiences of gender imbalance is simply to extend its boundaries to the most extreme manifestations of that prejudice. To see how great the damage can become when the minor, "unimportant" issues are allowed to pass without comment. To prove how the steady drip-drip-drip of sexism and sexualization and objectification is connected to the assumption of ownership and control over women's bodies, and how the background noise of harassment and disrespect connects to the assertion of power that is violence and rape.

We are so uncomfortable with confronting the fact that some men are extreme misogynists and therefore unappealing to women as sexual partners that our public discourse engages at face value with the ridiculous notion that a woman choosing not to have sex with a man puts him in a state of victimhood that is legitimate enough to be granted its own title.

Amazing what a man thought of, looking at a fully clothed woman who did nothing more provocative than sipping her tea while gazing thoughtfully into the distance. For the thousandth time he wished he’d just met her. That they were but two strangers traveling together, that such lovely, filthy thoughts did not break him in two, but were only a pleasant pastime as he slowly fell under the spell of her aloof beauty and her hidden intensity. There were so many stories he could tell her, so many ways to draw her out of her shell. He would have waited with bated breath for her first smile, for the sound of her first laughter. He would be endlessly curious about her, eager to undress her metaphorically as well as physically. The first holding of hands. The first kiss. The first time he saw her unclothed. The first time they became one. The first time they finished each other’s sentences. But no, they’d met long ago, in the furthest years of his childhood. Their chances had come and gone. All they had ahead of them were a tedious road and a final good-bye.

So how do we fix it? The short answer is that we don't. We have wasted decades telling women and girls how to fix things. How to fix themselves. How to stay safe. It hasn't worked. Because women were never the problem in the first place.

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner As Phaethon would whip you to the west, And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway's eyes may wink and Romeo Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods: Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow on a raven's back. Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night, Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

Sexism is often an invisible problem. This is partly because it's so frequently manifest in situations where the only witnesses present are victim and perpetrator.

The purpose of the gospel proclamation is to cultivate obedient allegiance to Jesus the king among the nations (cf. Rom. 15:18).

the gospel is the power-releasing story of how Jesus became king and the only adequate response is allegiance alone.

There is something in a tropical forest akin to the ocean in its effect on the mind. Man feels so completely his insignificance there and the vastness of nature.

Like the Bermuda triangle, she swallowed her victims whole.

Sometimes transitional periods in life leave you feeling like a great big jumble of loose, split ends.

A writer will divine a metaphor from a pattern on a dress, or a gesture, because sunsets have been done before.

Most people don't have real friends. You have people in your life waiting for opportunities to see what YOU can do for them.

Understand: I don't ever want to be equal to any other being. I always want to be greater...in all things, in all circumstances.

No one is born with equality. We all come here with varying degrees of opportunities, qualities, strengths, weaknesses, IQ, etc.

Hard Times Music is silenced, the dark descending slowly Has stripped unending skies of all companions. Weariness grips your limbs and within the locked horizons Dumbly ring the bells of hugely gathering fears. Still, O bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. It's not melodious woodlands but the leaps and falls Of an ocean's drowsy booming, Not a grove bedecked with flowers but a tumult flecked with foam. Where is the shore that stored your buds and leaves? Where the nest and the branch's hold? Still, O bird, my sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. Stretching in front of you the night's immensity Hides the western hill where sleeps the distant sun; Still with bated breath the world is counting time and swimming Across the shoreless dark a crescent moon Has thinly just appeared upon the dim horizon. -But O my bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. From upper skies the stars with pointing fingers Intently watch your course and death's impatience Lashes at you from the deeps in swirling waves; And sad entreaties line the farthest shore With hands outstretched and crooning 'Come, O come!' Still, O bird, O sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings. All that is past: your fears and loves and hopes; All that is lost: your words and lamentation; No longer yours a home nor a bed composed of flowers. For wings are all you have, and the sky's broadening countryard, And the dawn steeped in darkness, lacking all direction. Dear bird, my sightless bird, Not yet, not yet the time to furl your wings!

But if schools pull girls out of lessons and publicly shame them for exposing too much of their bodies, they are only preparing them for a sexist and unfair working world in which women are constantly judged and berated on their appearance. Men, by comparison, get a free pass.

It’s futile to attempt to prevent young people from accessing porn on the internet. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t offset its impact with clear, targeted education to provide them, at least, with an alternative narrative and to prevent what they have seen from crystallizing into unquestioned, accepted assumptions. We might not be able to protect young women from the barrage of Photoshopped images and objectifying adverts regularly bombarding them, but we can at least arm them with the tools to analyse and rationalize the manipulation – and in so doing offset at least some part of the impact. There

At its simplest, the argument goes like this: if women’s sexual autonomy has given them wicked and tyrannical control over men’s lives, then women’s liberation is at the root of all male suffering. Therefore, the obvious remedy is to remove women’s freedom and independence and to use specifically sexual means (like rape and sexual slavery) to do so. In other words, the problem is not women having sex but women having the choice of whom to have sex with.

What we mean to say, but what Ms Spider is not equipped to understand, is that Iago is gay in the way that all the best fictional murderers are gay. Norman Bates, Tom Ripely, The titular Third Man, and he was the original. Iago is gay like a black leather whip. Like Paris in the 1920s. Like calling non-food things “delicious.” Iago is gay like cold eyes and bony hips. Like a pearl-handled pistol tucked in one’s suit pocket. Like delicate fingers that could play a Chopin prelude or crush a throat with equal grace. Iago is gay in the way that we, the F&M unit, aspired to be gay. But it’s harder for girls.

Asa-zisa „psihologie pentru mase” bate intr-una moneda pe „asumarea responsabilitatii”, dar nu sunt decat vorbe goale: este extraordinar de greu, ba chiar terifiant, sa accepti ideea ca tu si numai tu esti acela care iti construiesti viata, felul in care o traiesti. Ca urmare, problema in psihoterapie consta intotdeauna in a sti cum sa treci de la o apreciere in plan intelectual, care se dovedeste ineficace, a unui adevar despre tine insuti la un mod saul altul de a-l simti in plan emotional. Abia din clipa in care terapia mobilizeaza emotii profunde, incepe sa devina o forta redutabila in favoarea schimbarii.

Am crezut că înțelesesem și învățasem să controlez legile dure ale vieții, dar chiar dacă reușești să le eviți o perioadă, viața îți întoarce cartea cea mare și te bate cu propriile arme. Nu există Zeu care să controleze legile Vieții. Viața în sine este o eternitate aparte, independentă, atotputernică, care toate le vede și le schimbă. Nu există stabilitate, siguranță, predictibilitate în viață. Odată învățată o lege, viața o schimbă, iar cine nu se supune, pierde.

The incidents that go unwitnessed definitely help to keep sexism off the radar, and unacknowledged problem we don't discuss. But so too do the regular occurrences that hide in plain sight, within a society that has normalized sexism and allowed it to become so ingrained that we no longer notice or object to it. Sexism is a socially acceptable prejudice and everybody is getting in on the act.

Credinţa zugrăveşte icoanele-n biserici - Şi-n sufletu-mi pusese poveştile-i feerici, Dar de-ale vieţii valuri, de al furtunii pas Abia conture triste şi umbre-au mai rămas. În van mai caut lumea-mi în obositul creier, Căci răguşit, tomnatec, vrăjeşte trist un greier; Pe inima-mi pustie zadarnic mâna-mi ţiu, Ea bate ca şi cariul încet într-un sicriu. Şi când gândesc la viaţa-mi, îmi pare că ea cură Încet repovestită de o străină gură, Ca şi când n-ar fi viaţa-mi, ca şi când n-aş fi fost. Cine-i acel ce-mi spune povestea pe de rost De-mi ţin la el urechea - şi râd de câte-ascult Ca de dureri străine?... Parc-am murit de mult.

Ajung sa-l parafrazez pe Ambrose Bierce si sa-l cred. Casa devine un edificiu gol, impersonal, ridicat pentru a fi locuit de om, sobolan, gandac... cand tu traiesti inafara acelui edificiu totul devine fad, ca o camera de hotel. Eu capat insusirile sobolanului ce se retrage in galeriile lui subterane, iese doar pentru o gura de aer proaspat, purificator, cauta printre resturi o bucatica de cascaval din care sa se hraneasca. Arhitectura de care ma ocup nu-i decat un aranjament din beton si sticla astfel dispus incat sa capteze inauntru tot mai multa lumina. Tu esti fereastra casei mele prin care patrund razele de soare. In edificiile proiectate de mine incerc sa trasez traiectorii, sa descifrez calea inafara. Esti totodata ploaia de primavara ce imi bate la uşa, imi potoleste dogoarea...

Both boys and girls are seeing mainstream porn that suggests a woman's role during sex is to be subjugated or humiliated, to please a man, and often even to be hurt or punished. And without receiving any counterinformation to offset these norms, or mitigate them with ideas about consent, relationships , respect and boundaries, they are simply, inevitably, accepting these things as the 'reality' of sex.

Decât cu ruşinea, mai bine cu durerea, Lastocika, să trăieşti. Să ţii minte asta de la mine. Durerea când vine, când îţi bate la uşă, îi deschizi şi gata. Se aşază cu tine la masă, beţi dintr-o cană, îţi înfoaie perna pentru noapte. Ca de o mie de ani începe a trăi cu tine durerea. Ca o fată bătrână te vrea doar pentru ea. Crezi că eu nu m-am zbătut, crezi că n-am plâns? Scoate-ţi un dinte, aruncă-l, şi o să mă înţelegi. Mai straşnic te doare golul decât plinul. Picior mi-a cerut şi i-am dat. Mână mi-a cerut şi i-am dat. Şi, iată, trăiesc. Împreună ieşim din iarnă, împreună coborâm în iad. Fără durere, îmi pare, m-aş risipi ca varul acela de pe perete. Dar cu ruşinea, Lastocika, treaba e groasă. Ruşinea nu-ţi ia nimic, ea îţi adaugă. Intră în tine ca o aşchie şi te umple de puroaie. Pe-o secundă să o primeşti şi nu te mai uită în vecii vecilor. Îţi sare la gât, te încarcă, iar de sub talpa ei drăcească nici moartea nu te scoate. Nici chiar moartea. Să ţii minte asta de la mine.

Sunt un om viu. Nimic din ce-i omenesc nu mi-e străin. Abia am timp să mă mir că exist, dar mă bucur totdeauna că sunt. Nu mă realizez deplin niciodată, pentru că am o idee din ce în ce mai bună despre viaţă. Mă cutremură diferenţa dintre mine şi firul ierbii, dintre mine şi lei, dintre mine şi insulele de lumină ale stelelor. Dintre mine şi numere, bunăoară între mine şi 2, între mine şi 3. Am şi-un defect un păcat: iau în serios iarba, iau în serios leii, mişcările aproape perfecte ale cerului. Şi-o rană întâmplătoare la mână mă face să văd prin ea, ca printr-un ochean, durerile lumii, războaiele. Dintr-o astfel de întâmplare mi s-a tras marea înţelegere pe care-o am pentru Ulise - şi bărbatului cu chip ursuz, Dante Alighieri. Cu greu mi-aş putea imagina un pământ pustiu, rotindu-se în jurul soarelui... (Poate şi fiindcă există pe lume astfel de versuri.) Îmi olace să râd, deşi râd rar, având mereu câte o treabă, ori călătorind cu o plută, la nesfârşit, pe oceanul oval al fantaziei. E un spectacol de neuitat acela de-a şti, de-a descoperi harta universului în expansiune, în timp ce-ţi priveşti o fotografie din copilărie! E un trup al tău vechi, pe care l-ai rătăcit şi nici măcar un anunţ, dat cu litere groase, nu-ţi pferă vreo şansă să-l mai regăseşti. Îmi desfac papirusul vieţii plin de hieroglife, şi ceea ce pot comunica acum, aici, după o descifrare anevoioasă, dar nu lipăsită de satisfacţii, e un poem închinat păcii, ce are, pe scurt, următorul cuprins: Nu vreau, când îmi ridic tâmpla din perne, să se lungească-n urma mea pe paturi moartea, şi-n fiece cuvânt ţâşnind spre mine, peşti putrezi să-mi arunce, ca-ntr-un râu oprit. Nici după fiecare pas, în golul dinapoia mea rămas, nu vreau să urce moartea-n sus, asemeni unei coloane de mercur, bolţi de infern proptind deasupra-mi... Dar curcubeul negru-al ei, de alge, de-ar bate-n tinereţia mea s-ar sparge. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării, magnetic, timpul, clipită cu clipită, gândurile mi le-nalţă ca pe nişte trupuri vii. E o fertilitate nemaipomenită în pământ şi-n pietre şi în schelării. Umbra de mi-aş ţine-o doar o clipă pironită, s-ar şi umple de ferigi, de bălării! Doar chipul tău prelung iubito, lasă-l aşa cum este, răzimat între două bătăi ale inimii mele, ca între Tigru şi Eufrat.

Because it isn’t just about the individual incidents; it’s about the collective impact on everything else – the way you think about yourself, the way you approach public spaces and human interaction, the limits you place on your own aspirations and the things you stop yourself from doing before you even try because of bitter learned experience.

Cu cel care îți este camarad de arme, împarți și bune și rele. Împarți căldura sufocantă a verii și soarele arzător ce-ți bate-n cap în timp ce mărșăluiești. Împarți ploile toamnei, ce transformă în noroi drumurile, tranșeele și gropile individuale. Împarți frigul și asprimea iernii, iar atunci când totul e înghețat în jurul tău, orice sursă de căldură fizică sau sufletească, o împarți cu el. Primăvara, când natura revine la viață, împarți dorul de cei dragi, de casă, de viața de dinainte de război. Cu cel ce îți este camarad, împarți bucurii și suferințe, posibil chiar și groapa comună de la sfârșit, dar mai ales viața în cele mai improprii și vrăjmașe condiții. Simion adresându-i-se lui Paul

The first and most obvious politician whose success has emboldened the manosphere and alt-right alike is Trump. From his description of women as “fat pigs” and “dogs” to his assertion that putting a wife to work is “dangerous”; from his own admissions of grabbing women “by the pussy” to his implication that women on their periods are unstable; from his description of Mexican immigrants as rapists to his tweets telling four ethnic minority U.S. congresswomen to “go back and help fix the totally broken and crime-infested places from which they came”—the president repeatedly voiced ideas and deeply misogynistic, racist statements that fit neatly within the worldview of male supremacists and the alt-right.11

Ilie e fratele meu nu fiindcă ne tragem din acelaşi tată, ci pentru că trăim în aceleaşi păduri. Şi tu, tu ai să fii fiul şi fratele nostru, pentru că eşti vrednic să fii: ca şi nouă, ţi-e drag vîntul care-ţi biciuie obrajii; calul care zboară spre mîntuire; flinta care seamănă moarte în duşmanul nemernic; vinul bun, friptura în sînge, o lulea bună şi mîna omului răzvrătit. Mai tîrziu ai să mai dai peste o bucurie, pe care ţi-o dă femeia şi care face cît toate la un loc. În ziua aceea sîngele ţi se va tulbura, şi mult rău vei face în jurul tău. Dar răul, ca şi binele sînt două forţe ale aceleiaşi vieţi, şi viaţa prea puţin se sinchiseşte de ce gîndim noi sau de ce ne place. Pentru ea, durerea şi bucuria sînt două părţi din care poate bate acelaşi vînt orb. Mînă-ţi barca aşa cum poţi, trăieşte şi mori.

I don't want to be around people who accept me as is, in my unrefined state of becoming. I consistently want people around me who push and encourage me to be my ultimate best, who bring out the inner diamonds. I want to be around those intellectual giants who extract the gold within me, those who force me to read, to attend classes, seminars, conferences, and who steep me in an environment of perpetual growth and upward mobility. Not trying to be funny, but I've learned that I simply cannot afford to invest too much time around mediocrity. It's contagious.

The world around us sends us messages about ourselves as women - about our guilt, and our difference, our accountability and our flaws. It gives us endless reminders of the vulnerability and victimization of women. It lets us know that it is normal and common for women to experience assault and harassment and rape. And it tells us that we deserve it. And all the while we are conditioned to be passive and pleasant, not to make a fuss - to be ladylike and compliant and socially acceptable. Before we experience violence we are conditioned to expect it - and to accept it.

Because street harassment is perhaps the clearest manifestation of the spectrum of sexism, sexual harassment and sexual assault that exists within our society. Yes, it starts out small; but allowing those ‘minor’ transgressions gives licence to the more serious ones, and eventually to all-out abuse. We’ve heard the same words and phrases crossing over and echoing and repeating, from women who are shouted at in the street to women who are assaulted and women who are victims of domestic violence in their own homes. The language is the same. And if we say it’s acceptable for men to assume power and ownership over women they don’t know verbally in public, then, like it or not, we’re also saying something much wider about gender relations – something that carries over into our personal relationships and our sexual exchanges. Because this is a line that doesn’t need to be blurred. It should be clear and simple. Take it from the women whose experiences started out with just a little ‘harmless’ street harassment – a sexual ‘compliment’ or a wolf whistle, or a ‘Hey baby’ – but then turned nasty, became full-blown attacks. Ask them what the problem is with a harmless bit of fun.

I don't force women to my bed, Danica." I shivered. Something about going back to the use of my full name had my skin tight, my breath bated at the sight of his feral grin. "They come willingly, and begging." "And is that something you want?" I was playing a dangerous game, egging on an actual dragon. A lesser shifter would have pounced on the teasing, the taunting between us, long ago. Not Ryker; he had all the time and patience in the world to play the games I'd been playing with him. "I can unveil the mark tonight if you want, but we both know it's already there between us. Everything after that can come as slowly as you need it to; in the end I already know you'll find your way to me as it was intended. I offer you my everything, Dani. My wings, my strength, my soul." He leaned down, his lips pulled into an amused curve as he rumbled in my ear. "My cock, if you think you're ready to cross that line and have me fuck you until you forget your own name.

The late Alan Gregg pointed out that human population growth within the ecosystem was closely analogous to the growth of malignant tumor cells within an organism: that man was acting like a cancer on the biosphere. The multiplication of human numbers certainly seems wild and uncontrolled… Four million a month—the equivalent of the population of Chicago… We seem to be doing all right at the moment; but if you could ask cancer cells, I suspect they would think they were doing fine. But when the organism dies, so do they; and for our own, selfish, practical... reasons, I think we should be careful about how we influence the rest of the ecosystem.

Nothing has emerged more clearly from the Everyday Sexism Project than the urgent need for far more comprehensive mandatory sex-and-relationships education in schools, to include issues such as consent and respect, domestic violence and rape. It’s not just girls who need it so desperately. For boys porn provides some very scary, dictatorial lessons about what it means to be a man and how they are apparently expected to exert their male dominance over women. It is as unrealistic to expect them, unaided, to instinctively work out the difference between online porn and real, caring intimacy, as it is to demand the same intuition of young women. According

People also often face prejudice as a result of other characteristics, such as age, class and religious belief. The principle of intersectionality is actually pretty simple: if all these different kinds of prejudice stem from the same root, then it is arbitrary and ineffective to attempt to eradicate one of them without acknowledging its intersection with others and trying to work together to tackle all forms of inequality. Or, from a feminist perspective, if we are to tackle the fact that women have been historically oppressed because of characteristics that are seen to be ‘different’ from the male norm, how can we protest such treatment while simultaneously excluding from our own movement the needs and agendas of those with other stigmatized characteristics? (This is particularly true in the case of our trans sisters, who some feminists believe should be excluded from some areas of the movement by virtue of not fulfilling required ‘characteristics’ of womanhood – a deep irony for a group fighting for equality regardless of sex.) And on

You can trace an entire childhood in sexism through the entries sent in to the Everyday Sexism Project. The flashes of realization and first, painful moments of learning a woman’s place. Often the memories are so vivid women carry and are shaped by them for the rest of their lives. I’ve been asked in countless interviews what has shocked me the most since starting the project. I think journalists expect me to tell them that it’s the stories of rape, or the most appalling accounts of violence. Those stories have certainly angered and devastated me, of course, but nothing has shocked me more than the thousands and thousands of entries from young girls under the age of eighteen. When I started the project, I thought adult women would share their stories. The torrent of harassment, abuse, violence and assault being faced by children was a horribly unexpected surprise. People

This fusion of wood and water is an entrancing thing. Without the wood the stream would be nothing: a mere thin watercourse winding through its flat meadows. Without the water the wood, on its slope and with its air of quietness and mystery and of being a world within itself, could not help being a constantly delightful thing. But water and wood, together, shading and watering and bounding each other, each give to the other something which the other does not possess, the wood giving to the stream something solid and shadowy and immemorial, the stream giving to the wood all the incomparable movement and twinkling transience of moving water, the tree shadows standing deep in the stream, the reflection of sunlight flickering a kind of waterlight up into the shadowy branches of pine and alder. The wood and the water are here, in fact, one, for each other and with each other. It is a fusion that is almost perfect.

Can you drive it?" "No. I can't drive a stick at all. It's why I took Andy's car and not one of yours." "Oh people, for goodness' sake...move over." Choo Co La Tah pushed past Jess to take the driver's seat. Curious about that, she slid over to make room for the ancient. Jess hesitated. "Do you know what you're doing?" Choo Co La Tah gave him a withering glare. "Not at all. But I figured smoeone needed to learn and no on else was volunteering. Step in and get situated. Time is of the essence." Abigail's heart pounded. "I hope he's joking about that." If not, it would be a very short trip. Ren changed into his crow form before he took flight. Jess and Sasha climbed in, then moved to the compartment behind the seat. A pall hung over all of them while Choo Co La Tah adjusted the seat and mirrors. By all means, please take your time. Not like they were all about to die or anything... She couldn't speak as she watched their enemies rapidly closing the distance between them. This was by far the scariest thing she'd seen. Unlike the wasps and scorpions, this horde could think and adapt. They even had opposable thumbs. Whole different ball game. Choo Co La Tah shifted into gear. Or at least he tried. The truck made a fierce grinding sound that caused jess to screw his face up as it lurched violently and shook like a dog coming in from the rain. "You sure you odn't want me to try?" Jess offered. Choo Co La Tah waved him away. "I'm a little rusty. Just give me a second to get used to it again." Abigail swallowed hard. "How long has it been?" Choo Co La Tah eashed off the clutch and they shuddred forward at the most impressive speed of two whole miles an hour. About the same speed as a limping turtle. "Hmm, probably sometime around nineteen hundred and..." They all waited with bated breath while he ground his way through more gears. With every shift, the engine audibly protested his skills. Silently, so did she. The truck was really moving along now. They reached a staggering fifteen miles an hour. At this rate, they might be able to overtake a loaded school bus... by tomorrow. Or at the very least, the day after that. "...must have been the summer of...hmm...let me think a moment. Fifty-three. Yes, that was it. 1953. The year they came out with color teles. It was a good year as I recall. Same year Bill Gates was born." The look on Jess's and Sasha's faces would have made her laugh if she wasn't every bit as horrified. Oh my God, who put him behind the wheel? Sasha visibly cringed as he saw how close their pursuers were to their bumper. "Should I get out and push?" Jess cursed under his breath as he saw them, too. "I'd get out and run at this point. I think you'd go faster." Choo Co La Tah took their comments in stride. "Now, now, gentlemen. All is well. See, I'm getting better." He finally made a gear without the truck spazzing or the gears grinding.