Beck Oliver Quotes

I can't face losin' ya, Riley. Yer all I got left in this world.” That brutal honesty again. He'd peeled away more armor, and this time he'd exposed his heart.

What did ya learn from this dumbass stunt?” Here's where she was supposed to apologize, promise to be a good little girl and never do anything like this again. Screw that. Riley locked eyes with him. “I learned that the Holy Water better be fresh, that I need practice throwing the spheres, and that someone has to watch my back so asshats don't steal my demons.

Were ya really tryin' to stab that demon in the ass?” Riley groaned. “No, I was aiming for its leg, and it moved. I looked like a total dork.” Not to me.

As Beck drove out of the garage, he gave the parking attendants a big toothy smile and a wave. “There's some snow on the fifth level. Thought ya might like to know. Y'all have a nice day, now!” he called out. No wonder Dad liked working with you.

Don't start,” he warned. “What?” she said, grinning. “I'm sure all the big, bad trappers have a bun-bun in their houses.

Ya hafta be there for Beck. He only has you." Riley sighed. "I'll get the car.

I'll be there for ya, girl. No matter what. Beck took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had to stay strong for her, make the tough decisions. It was best that Paul's daughter never know how he felt about her. There'd be less hurt that way, for both of them. Just keep her safe, God. I can settle for that.

That's Denver Beck, isn't it? Paul mentioned him. What's he like?" Ori asked. "Oh, where do I start? Beck's mouthy and he lives to tell me what to do." In short, he's so not you. "Why do you want to know?" A glimmer appeared in Ori's dark eyes. "Just scoping out the competition.

I’m not going to faint at the sight of your butt,’ she said. ‘Ya might, and I don’t want that on my conscience,’ he said, tossing the jeans aside.

I’m home. Ya happy now?’ Beck’s gravelly voice demanded. ‘Yes, I am.’ ‘Yer’ treatin’ me like i’m some idiot kid,’ he complained. ‘Gee, I wonder where I learned that?’ He hung up on her.

It was the kiss of a man who had waited years for the moment, and feared that it would never come again.

Yes!’ Beck crowed, pumping his fist into the air. ‘That rocks!’ Then he charged off in search of another Three to decapitate. Riley sighed to herself. ‘I’ve created a monster.

Beck must have seen how frightened she was because his expression softened. He leaned close, and whispered, “Do ya trust me, Riley?” Tears built in her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered, trembling in fear. Always. “Then it'll be all right,” he replied. Beck gently placed a kiss on her forehead.

Kiss my ass, demon!’ Beck whooped, and shot a first in the air.

She was a journeyman trapper and caretaker of Denver Beck's heart. Even Hell knew her name. Blackthorne's daughter would never settle for "okay" ever again. From now on, it's awesome or nothing.

Paul sold his soul for you, didn’t he?’ Riley turned towards him, astonished, ‘How did you know?’ Beck adjusted the blanket again. ‘I just figured it out. That’s what a man should do for his daughter. Or his woman.’ He looked her straight in the eyes. ‘I’d do it for you if it kept ya safe,’ he said tenderly. He’d go to Hell for me. In that instant, Riley knew she’d do the same for him.

What about Beck?" "Backwoods Boy? Are you crazy? It'd be a threesome - me, him and his overbearing ego. Definitely doomed to failure.

Beck finished his call. Once he was paying attention again, she pointed downward with the pipe. Peering over the edge of the building, he blinked at the sight, then grinned. “Good job. Remind me not to piss ya off. Ya might think of usin' that on me sometime.” “So tempting,” she said. Except I'd aim for your knees. Your head's too hard.

I love you Denver Beck," she whispered. "I have for a long time." Then she stepped back. "Now it's your turn to decide if you love me.

Can you dance?" she asked before she could stop herself. "I can," he said, affronted. "I'm really good with the slow songs.

Do not get yourself arrested, you hear?” she urged. “I am not going to bail your butt out of jail, mister.” “Now who's goin' all old geezer, huh?” He snorted. “I'm gonna get drunk and pass out on my bed at home. Haven't done that for so long I can't remember.” “Probably a reason for that, Beck. You're killing brain cells, and you don't have that many to spare.

I should go. Stewart’s waitin’ for me. Says he wants to teach me how to use a sword properly.’ Riley hooted. ‘Can I watch? This should be totally hilarious.’ ‘Ya’ve got no respect woman.’ Beck retorted. After the door closed behind him she realized what he’d said. ‘Woman?’ He wasn’t calling her girl any longer.

Will you wear my ring so all the world knows yer mine?" Beck wasn't asking for her hand in marriage, but it was so close he might as well be. Riley was deeply touched and she struggled to find the right words. "Yes," she began. "I'd be proud to.

She knew what he had in mind. He'll propose in Scotland on my birthday. There was no doubt as to what her answer would be.

Ya've got no respect, woman," Beck retorted. After the door closed behind him she realized what he'd said. "Woman?" He wasn't calling her girl any longer. If that wasn't a sign the world was ending, what other proof did she need?

When he turned back toward her, he kissed her deeply. "Don't ever doubt that I love you," he said, cupping her chin in his strong hands. "That will never change." Beck's taught body covered hers, alive and vital, charged with desire. And then they became one.

Simon had been all lined up and he’d managed to throw away the best girl he’d ever meet. “What a dumbass,” Beck muttered. “No way I’d have done that.

He slid his hand onto Riley's bare abdomen. "I got to thinkin' that a few years down the line, when yer older, what if that was our baby and I could feel it right here under my hand. Feel the life we'd created." Riley's eyes moistened. "Girl or boy?" "Doesn't matter. If it's a girl, we can name her after my gran. Her name was Emily Rose." "Hmm...I like that. Maybe the boy could be Paul Arthur, like my dad." "Yeah, that works. But that's all the way down the line, isn't it?" It might never come to pass.

Beck behaved himself, though it was really difficult, especially during the slow dances when they were so tantalizingly close. He savoured the feel of her against his body, the light scent of her perfume, the in her eyes that told him he was the center of her universe. It was a new and totally overwhelming experience.

When I'm near you, the air around you vibrates with life, Beck Ryker.

Peter pushed off from the roof and stalked a few feet away, his back to her. “Please tell me this is all some kind of a sick joke.” “It’s the truth. All of it. That’s why hunters are after me.” “How did they find out?” Peter asked, swiveling toward her now. “I think Beck ratted me out. I went to his house this morning and told him what had happened. He was furious, Peter. I’ve never seen anyone that angry.” “Duh! Now there’s a surprise,” her friend replied sarcastically. “I saw the way he looked at you at your dad’s funeral. Of course he’d be mad. You’re about the only one on the planet who doesn’t realize how he feels about you.” “He never said anything,” she retorted. “Hey, we guys don’t blurt out that kind of stuff,” he replied. “It’s against the man code. Beck may never have said how he felt, but everything he did for you should have been a big clue. I mean, come on, how slow are you?” She glowered at her friend. “I figured he was doing it because of my father.” “Maybe, but the guy is really into you, Riley.” “No way. If he’d liked me, he wouldn’t have blown me off and—” “Ancient history, girl!” he countered. “You were, what, fifteen? Your dad would have torn him apart if he’d touched you. Beck had no other choice.” “He didn’t have to be so mean.” “God, will you listen to yourself?” Peter retorted. “You have no idea how much he hurt me,” she shot back. “Give it up, will you? You’re my best friend, but you can be a real self-centered asshat sometimes.

The poet Mary Oliver did this in one of her poems, brazenly asking, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” If you’re afraid you’ve come to this question too late, you are wrong. Ask your Stargazer self. It will tell you what my fallen-noble friend Marianna told me in one of my darker hours: that the world is re-created in every instant of time, and this moment is always your life’s beginning. No matter how many years have been stolen from you by your own ignorance, by cruel fate, or by the acts of others, you have a clean, broad slate before you. In this instant—this one now—you can begin steering by starlight, and if you do, the rest of creation will conspire to guide, teach, and help you.

When she reached the last step, Beck glowered at her like a constipated gargoyle. The

The Sun King had dinner each night alone. He chose from forty dishes, served on gold and silver plate. It took a staggering 498 people to prepare each meal. He was rich because he consumed the work of other people, mainly in the form of their services. He was rich because other people did things for him. At that time, the average French family would have prepared and consumed its own meals as well as paid tax to support his servants in the palace. So it is not hard to conclude that Louis XIV was rich because others were poor. But what about today? Consider that you are an average person, say a woman of 35, living in, for the sake of argument, Paris and earning the median wage, with a working husband and two children. You are far from poor, but in relative terms, you are immeasurably poorer than Louis was. Where he was the richest of the rich in the world’s richest city, you have no servants, no palace, no carriage, no kingdom. As you toil home from work on the crowded Metro, stopping at the shop on the way to buy a ready meal for four, you might be thinking that Louis XIV’s dining arrangements were way beyond your reach. And yet consider this. The cornucopia that greets you as you enter the supermarket dwarfs anything that Louis XIV ever experienced (and it is probably less likely to contain salmonella). You can buy a fresh, frozen, tinned, smoked or pre-prepared meal made with beef, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, prawns, scallops, eggs, potatoes, beans, carrots, cabbage, aubergine, kumquats, celeriac, okra, seven kinds of lettuce, cooked in olive, walnut, sunflower or peanut oil and flavoured with cilantro, turmeric, basil or rosemary … You may have no chefs, but you can decide on a whim to choose between scores of nearby bistros, or Italian, Chinese, Japanese or Indian restaurants, in each of which a team of skilled chefs is waiting to serve your family at less than an hour’s notice. Think of this: never before this generation has the average person been able to afford to have somebody else prepare his meals. You employ no tailor, but you can browse the internet and instantly order from an almost infinite range of excellent, affordable clothes of cotton, silk, linen, wool and nylon made up for you in factories all over Asia. You have no carriage, but you can buy a ticket which will summon the services of a skilled pilot of a budget airline to fly you to one of hundreds of destinations that Louis never dreamed of seeing. You have no woodcutters to bring you logs for the fire, but the operators of gas rigs in Russia are clamouring to bring you clean central heating. You have no wick-trimming footman, but your light switch gives you the instant and brilliant produce of hardworking people at a grid of distant nuclear power stations. You have no runner to send messages, but even now a repairman is climbing a mobile-phone mast somewhere in the world to make sure it is working properly just in case you need to call that cell. You have no private apothecary, but your local pharmacy supplies you with the handiwork of many thousands of chemists, engineers and logistics experts. You have no government ministers, but diligent reporters are even now standing ready to tell you about a film star’s divorce if you will only switch to their channel or log on to their blogs. My point is that you have far, far more than 498 servants at your immediate beck and call. Of course, unlike the Sun King’s servants, these people work for many other people too, but from your perspective what is the difference? That is the magic that exchange and specialisation have wrought for the human species.

The Sun King had dinner each night alone. He chose from forty dishes, served on gold and silver plate. It took a staggering 498 people to prepare each meal. He was rich because he consumed the work of other people, mainly in the form of their services. He was rich because other people did things for him. At that time, the average French family would have prepared and consumed its own meals as well as paid tax to support his servants in the palace. So it is not hard to conclude that Louis XIV was rich because others were poor. But what about today? Consider that you are an average person, say a woman of 35, living in, for the sake of argument, Paris and earning the median wage, with a working husband and two children. You are far from poor, but in relative terms, you are immeasurably poorer than Louis was. Where he was the richest of the rich in the world’s richest city, you have no servants, no palace, no carriage, no kingdom. As you toil home from work on the crowded Metro, stopping at the shop on the way to buy a ready meal for four, you might be thinking that Louis XIV’s dining arrangements were way beyond your reach. And yet consider this. The cornucopia that greets you as you enter the supermarket dwarfs anything that Louis XIV ever experienced (and it is probably less likely to contain salmonella). You can buy a fresh, frozen, tinned, smoked or pre-prepared meal made with beef, chicken, pork, lamb, fish, prawns, scallops, eggs, potatoes, beans, carrots, cabbage, aubergine, kumquats, celeriac, okra, seven kinds of lettuce, cooked in olive, walnut, sunflower or peanut oil and flavoured with cilantro, turmeric, basil or rosemary ... You may have no chefs, but you can decide on a whim to choose between scores of nearby bistros, or Italian, Chinese, Japanese or Indian restaurants, in each of which a team of skilled chefs is waiting to serve your family at less than an hour’s notice. Think of this: never before this generation has the average person been able to afford to have somebody else prepare his meals. You employ no tailor, but you can browse the internet and instantly order from an almost infinite range of excellent, affordable clothes of cotton, silk, linen, wool and nylon made up for you in factories all over Asia. You have no carriage, but you can buy a ticket which will summon the services of a skilled pilot of a budget airline to fly you to one of hundreds of destinations that Louis never dreamed of seeing. You have no woodcutters to bring you logs for the fire, but the operators of gas rigs in Russia are clamouring to bring you clean central heating. You have no wick-trimming footman, but your light switch gives you the instant and brilliant produce of hardworking people at a grid of distant nuclear power stations. You have no runner to send messages, but even now a repairman is climbing a mobile-phone mast somewhere in the world to make sure it is working properly just in case you need to call that cell. You have no private apothecary, but your local pharmacy supplies you with the handiwork of many thousands of chemists, engineers and logistics experts. You have no government ministers, but diligent reporters are even now standing ready to tell you about a film star’s divorce if you will only switch to their channel or log on to their blogs. My point is that you have far, far more than 498 servants at your immediate beck and call. Of course, unlike the Sun King’s servants, these people work for many other people too, but from your perspective what is the difference? That is the magic that exchange and specialisation have wrought for the human species.

The human disease is often painful, but as the Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck puts it, it’s only unbearable for as long as you’re under the impression that there might be a cure. Accept the inevitability of the affliction, and freedom ensues: you can get on with living at last.

It’s the very last thing, isn’t it, we feel grateful for: having happened. You know, you needn’t have happened. You needn’t have happened. But you did happen. —DOUGLAS HARDING What makes it unbearable is your mistaken belief that it can be cured. —CHARLOTTE JOKO BECK

I recommend Charlotte Joko Beck’s bracing collection Nothing Special: Living Zen. Joan Tollifson approaches the topic from a more eclectic perspective in her wonderfully titled Death: The End of Self-Improvement, while Kelly Kapic investigates its relevance for Christians in You’re Only Human: How Your Limits Reflect God’s Design and Why That’s Good News. (Jordan Raynor’s Redeeming Your Time is another Christian book, full of finitude-embracing productivity tips that don’t depend on any particular religious belief.)

problem. The human disease is often painful, but as the Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck puts it, it’s only unbearable for as long as you’re under the impression that there might be a cure. Accept the inevitability of the affliction, and freedom ensues: you can get on with living at last.

Ulrich Beck may be seen as one of its most prominent interpreters, coining the concept of the ‘elevator effect’ in the 1980s to describe the new social mobility.43 In a society of economic growth—according to this metaphor—all strata, from wage earners through to the wealthy, stand together in an elevator and rise together. Inequalities between strata or social classes, in this scenario, are certainly not abolished, but they play a less significant role when everyone becomes more prosperous: ‘Class society as a whole is taken a stage higher. There is a collective rise in income, education, mobility, rights, science, mass consumption—despite all the new and persisting inequalities.’44 Beck linked this diagnosis with one of the most influential social developments of modernity: individualization.

27 In particular, it is the younger age cohorts who are caught on the downward escalator. This escalator effect is especially visible in terms of real net incomes, which already began to fall again a few years after Beck’s initial diagnosis.