Blythe You Quotes

Gilbert, I'm afraid I'm scandalously in love with you.

It’s exhausting,” Signa said as she looked down to her lap, “to pretend you are something -someone- you’re not.” Blythe took her by the hand. “Then do not spend your life exhausted.

You don’t just fit into my world, Blythe. You are my world

That’s not who you are,” Blythe said. “Who am I?” “My little wolf.” She traced my jaw, the ridge of my knuckles. “All teeth and claws. Cunning, and fierce, and insatiable.

Whether they’re family or friends, manipulators are difficult to escape from. Give in to their demands and they’ll be happy enough, but if you develop a spine and start saying no, it will inevitably bring a fresh round of head games and emotional blackmail. You’ll notice that breaking free from someone else’s dominance will often result in them accusing you of being selfish. Yes, you’re selfish, because you’ve stopped doing what they want you to do for them. Wow. Can these people hear themselves?!

You could literally saw a woman in half and it would still be called a magic trick.

I don’t know how to talk about the rabbit hole without accidentally inviting you to follow me down it.

I am trying to sleep on the front porch of forgiveness. I am too young to be this lonely. Still, do not mistake all of my honest open for empty. I didn’t leave the door of my love unlocked so you could mistake my sadness for a shelf. I do not have room to carry anyone’s chaos but my own. If I sink, it will be in my own ocean. If I float, it will be on the ship I built with my own hands.

Where in the goddamn hell are Blythe and Chris?” … “They’re fucking in the shower! Thank you, Lord!” Then her heels continue down the walkway while a collective round of applause echoes into the now-dark sky. “Congratulations! But hurry it up, kids! Dinner is almost ready.

Crushes are basically love energy within yourself that you use the idea of another person to access.

I am certain everything is a poem if you catch it in just the right light

After ten whole minutes of painful silence, I finally raised my hand and told Mr. O'Hara I loved Miranda Blythe's romance novels, and I decided I liked him immediately when he didn't laugh or reassure me that we'd be reading real books. Like Mrs. Andrews had last year. He did say, 'I'm afraid Ms. Blythe is not on the curriculum this semester. We'll be starting your education with the epic poets—boring, I know, but necessary building blocks. However, an extra-credit book report is always welcome, and you're free to choose whatever topic you like.' Then Mr. O'Hara added, 'I think Ms. Blythe's works would be a particularly interesting topic for a report. In fact, if you want an example of the archetypal hero journey—' 'Wait, wait, wait.' Fred raised his hand. 'You read romance novels?' 'My dear boy,' Mr. O'Hara replied, 'I read everything.

You were everything bright and leaving.

To be free, you must think. There is no way to follow blindly and to be free.

Once I had her clean, I wrapped her in a towel and carried her back to the bed. A small red bloodstain was on the sheets, and again the possessive monster inside me threw back his head and roared his pleasure. I stood there holding her and letting the proof I was the only man to be inside her wash over me. Blythe turned her head, and I felt her stiffen in my arms. “Oh, I can clean that up,” she said, starting to wiggle. I pulled her tighter to my chest. “No. I’m going to dry you off and hold you some more. I like seeing that blood. I did that,” The pleasure in my voice made Blythe smile.

Freedom is not doing what you like, but liking what you do.

Love is all tangled up with worry, but you can't cast out into the world until the line is untangled.

To feel joyful about love, you have to feel that you’ve opted into it, not that you’ve been forced to participate in it through your decision to be born.

1. Heat the oven to Denial. 2. Prepare the pan with a spray of Anger. 3. Mix in two medium-size bargains with The Bony Guy. 4. Add 1/3 cup of Depression (tears will do if you want low-fat). 5. Bake...until you can jab a toothpick in your arm and it seems Acceptable.

come back to the city it was easiest for you to breathe in

I would like to turn the Kaiser into a good man – a very good man – all at once if I could. That is what I would do. Don't you think, Mrs. Blythe, that would be the very worstest punishment of all?" "Bless the child," said Susan, "how do you make out that would be any kind of a punishment for that wicked fiend?" "Don't you see," said Bruce, looking levelly at Susan, out of his blackly blue eyes, "if he was turned into a good man he would understand how dreadful the things he has done are, and he would feel so terrible about it that he would be more unhappy and miserable than he could ever be in any other way. He would feel just awful – and he would go on feeling like that forever. Yes" – Bruce clenched his hands and nodded his head emphatically, "yes, I would make the Kaiser a good man – that is what I would do – it would serve him 'zackly right.

You don't have to try to be the hero." His voice is rough and low. "I'm not trying," I say. "I am.

We’re the sun and moon, Blythe.” “What does that mean?” “I turn invisible when you’re out.

Remember: you did the best you could in the situation you were in with the materials you had.

The guy hefted the sword, weighing it. "What's a pretty thing like you want with a sword anyway?" "She's going to use it to castrate guys who ask stupid questions," Blythe answered for me, her voice flat.

POCKET-SIZED FEMINISM The only other girl at the party is ranting about feminism. The audience: a sea of rape jokes and snapbacks and styrofoam cups and me. They gawk at her mouth like it is a drain clogged with too many opinions. I shoot her an empathetic glance and say nothing. This house is for wallpaper women. What good is wallpaper that speaks? I want to stand up, but if I do, whose coffee table silence will these boys rest their feet on? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if someone takes my spot? I want to stand up, but if I do, what if everyone notices I’ve been sitting this whole time? I am guilty of keeping my feminism in my pocket until it is convenient not to, like at poetry slams or my women’s studies class. There are days I want people to like me more than I want to change the world. There are days I forget we had to invent nail polish to change color in drugged drinks and apps to virtually walk us home at night and mace disguised as lipstick. Once, I told a boy I was powerful and he told me to mind my own business. Once, a boy accused me of practicing misandry. You think you can take over the world? And I said No, I just want to see it. I just need to know it is there for someone. Once, my dad informed me sexism is dead and reminded me to always carry pepper spray in the same breath. We accept this state of constant fear as just another part of being a girl. We text each other when we get home safe and it does not occur to us that our guy friends do not have to do the same. You could saw a woman in half and it would be called a magic trick. That’s why you invited us here, isn’t it? Because there is no show without a beautiful assistant? We are surrounded by boys who hang up our naked posters and fantasize about choking us and watch movies we get murdered in. We are the daughters of men who warned us about the news and the missing girls on the milk carton and the sharp edge of the world. They begged us to be careful. To be safe. Then told our brothers to go out and play.

Discipline will save you when the chips are down. Discipline will temper you and turn you into steel when your ass is burning alive in the flames of life’s hard times-furnace.

Think the highest thought you can think, Feel into it, then expand it. Do this every morning.

Unforgettable experiences are generally worth splurging on; unlike stuff, memories don’t wear out (or take up space, get dusty, break, or get stolen). If you really want to go and work at an orangutan orphanage in Borneo, it will be worth the cash.

So stay." It seems to take forever for him to answer, and his hands are still playing with my hair, his lips still darting against mine every few seconds. "I can't" He steps back and takes my hand to move me out of the way of the door. "I'd give anything to stay, but I can't. You're stunning, Blythe." He gives me an almost-sad smile. "But I just can't stay. It's too much.

Mr Blyth, you should remember one thing. A celibate island life fighting Turks is no particular guarantee of early maturity. Take a little crone-like advice, and don’t rush your judgements.

If you have to see me broken and beat-up to care about me, I will *never* care about you. If you only like me when I'm cast down, I will get back up and wipe the kindness right off your face.

men like to look down, blink a lot, and say in an extremely pained way that “You deserve better” because they’re trying to act like you’re both victims. He’s the one breaking up with you, which is his choice and what he wants, but by saying it’s for YOUR good he positions himself as deserving of sympathy. He can’t even let you have your pain because THIS IS FOR YOU and HE’S BEING SELF-SACRIFICING. It’s really fucked up and a little gaslight-y.

But what is life but fifteen to one hundred years of becoming cocooned in societal bullshit, followed by zero to eighty-five years of sloughing off that bullshit through reading, therapy, and sitting on the edge of a lake thinking about your life and choices?

Have you any unfulfilled dreams, Anne?” asked Gilbert. Something in his tone—something she had not heard since that miserable evening in the orchard at Patty’s Place—made Anne’s heart beat wildly. But she made answer lightly. “Of course. Everybody has. It wouldn’t do for us to have all our dreams fulfilled. We would be as good as dead if we had nothing left to dream about. What a delicious aroma that low-descending sun is extracting from the asters and ferns. I wish we could see perfumes as well as smell them. I’m sure they would be very beautiful.” Gilbert was not to be thus sidetracked. “I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends— and YOU!” Anne wanted to speak but she could find no words. Happiness was breaking over her like a wave. It almost frightened her. “I asked you a question over two years ago, Anne. If I ask it again today will you give me a different answer?” Still Anne could not speak. But she lifted her eyes, shining with all the love-rapture of countless generations, and looked into his for a moment. He wanted no other answer.

Jerott’s eyes and Philippa’s met. ‘When I meet my friend,’ said Jerott Blyth carefully, ‘there is likely to be a detonation which will take the snow off Mont Blanc. I advise you to seek other auspices. Philippa, I think we should go down below.’ ‘To swim?’ said that unprepossessing child guilelessly. ‘I can stand on my head.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Jerott morosely. ‘Why in hell did you come?’ The brown eyes within the damp, dun-coloured hair inspected him narrowly. ‘Because you need a woman,’ said Philippa finally. ‘And I’m the nearest thing to it that you’re likely to get. It was very short notice.

A culture fixated on female thinness is not an obsession about female beauty, but an obsession about female obedience. Dieting is the most potent political sedative in women’s history; a quietly mad population is a tractable one.

Like, Plato’s Symposium contains a story about soul mates: human beings were originally four-legged, four-armed, two-faced beings who had immense strength and were always cartwheeling around, perfectly content. To prevent these powerful humans from taking over, the gods split each human into two, who then wandered the earth looking for their soul mates. That is … the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

When it comes to the way you present yourself online, the acid test is: Can you imagine Grace Kelly doing it? If you can picture her saying “Dem hos betta watch out imma beat some ass tonite”, then congratulations, you have a much better imagination than mine. Likewise, if you can’t quite see her posting a snapshot of herself drunkenly pole-dancing, think twice about broadcasting those pictures to the world.

God gives you everything you need. You just have to look around for it, and it will be there.

Discontent comes from two sources alone: Not having dreams, or not pursuing the ones you have. No one has ever died sorry who tried to turn a wish into a memory.

Blythe, people might think bad things about you that aren't true. The only thing that matters is what you believe about yourself.

If your body could speak would she forgive you?

What are you thinking about?" Blythe said. "How you're more of a lightning strike than a thunderstorm." She grinned. "Don't know what that means, but I like it.

It was always you, Blythe. From the moment I met you, it was always you. I brought my family home so you can work your magic on them. They need you. I need you. It’s time you let me back in.

If your confidence is based purely on the way you look, you’re setting yourself up for a) years of fretting about how to appear perfect, and b) anxiety / despair as the wrinkles inevitably set in. (Not to mention the fact that the world is FULL of pretty girls – you’re going to have to dig a little bit deeper if you want to stand out in the crowd.) Base your self-belief on what’s in your heart and mind; you’ll never lose your inner beauty.

When everything that you know and love is taken from you, the smallest, most mundane things, stuff that you normally pay no attention to, like a random alley cat passing by your window, can have a very large emotional impact.

Lots of people have a “timeline” in mind for their life: the age when they want to get married, have kids, retire. The best advice I ever got was to forget all about this schedule. Why try to squeeze your life into a totally artificial construct based on meaningless rules? You’ll end up doing stupid things, like randomly marrying the guy you happen to be dating when you’re 29 because your self-imposed wedding deadline is age 30. Despite people hotly debating the “correct” age to tick off life’s milestones, it’s different for everyone – there’s no right or wrong answer.

KRIT "Fuck," Matty whispered. He'd heard her. It was me who couldn't breathe now. I had thought it was an accident. But she'd fucking done it on purpose. To protect me. Holy hell. "I'm gonna go . . . ," Matty trailed off. I listened to his footsteps until he was gone before pulling back and looking down at Blythe. "You got in front of a six-foot-three one hundred and eighty pounds of muscle because he was going to hit me?" She nodded. "It was my fault he was going to hit you. I was just going to stop him." She was going to stop him. This girl. Never in all my life did I imagine there was anyone like her. Never. "Sweetheart, how did you intend to stop him? I could handle him. I've kicked his ass many, many times." I cupped her chin in my hand. "I had rather had him kick my ass than to have anything happen to you. That was fucking unbearable. You can't do that to me. If you get hurt, I won't be able to handle it." She signed, and her eyes locked back toward the stage. " I made this worse. I'm sorry. Can you go fix things with the two of you so you can get back onstage?" The distressed look on her face meant I wasn't going to be able to leave. I wanted nothing more than to take her back home and hold her all night. But she was really upset about this. I had overreacted. She had been sitting over here staring at the floor with the saddest lost expression, and I couldn't think straight. I had to get to her. "I'll get Green, and we'll go back onstage. But you have to promise me that you won't try and save me again. I take care of you. Not the other way around," I told her. She reached up and touched my face. "Then who will take care of you?" No one had ever cared about that before. That wasn't something I was going to tell her, though. "You safe in my arms is all I need. Okay?" She frowned and glanced away from me. "I'm not agreeing to that," she said. God, she was adorable. I pressed a kiss to her head. "Come with me to get the guys," I told her as I stood up and brought her with me. "You won't do anything to Green then?" she said, sounding hopeful. "No." Until you're asleep tonight. And then I'm beating his ass.

You. Your soul. What's inside you. You shine from the inside out. Your so bright, Blythe. I get close to you and the darkness just recedes. The world I live in slips further away, and I can see there's hope. You're that hope. Not just for me but for all of us.

Even more than I hate commodifying myself, I hate men judging me as a commodity. For thousands of years, women have been throughout their lives reduced to their worth as sexual objects (slash domestic workers). We learn very early on to go to great lengths to increase our sexual value in the eyes of men, without even realizing that’s why we’re (for example) agonizing over whether our one snack for the day should be a pear or a seventy-calorie sugar-free yogurt. For years—much of my childhood and early twenties—I spent the largest portion of my conscious thought on food and how much I hated and was terrified of my body. It has taken a lot of work to divorce my view of my body and my feelings of romantic worthiness from outside sources. I’m afraid apps would undermine that effort.

The concept of hard times resulting in a positive transformation is repeated in nature over and over again; it’s why they say that a diamond is a piece of charcoal that handled stress exceptionally well! Think about how a caterpillar has to cocoon herself in darkness and wait, in a space which becomes far too small for her expanding wings. If you were to interfere with the process and help her out, she would never develop the strength she needs to fly; it’s the struggling which makes her powerful enough to break free and become a butterfly.

Do that thing you always wanted to do “someday” in the future: get on a plane in your Jackie O shift dress and shades, take a train across Europe wearing red lipstick, buy that sporty two-seater car, spend your money on perfume. Otherwise you might wake up one day with a husband and kids and wonder what you did with all that free time you once had. And if you’re already experiencing the domestic bliss of family life, savour every moment.

I am here, Brethren in Christ, to lead you, every man, woman and little child of the Faith, to freedom. God in His mercy be praised.’ ‘Then God in His mercy has arranged that we should lead them from the rear,’ said Jerott Blyth thinly from the window. ‘The entire garrison of Tripoli has just marched away.

We talk about wanting to change the world, and we often picture this as a lofty goal reached only by superstars, politicians and billionaires. The truth is, no matter where you are or what you’re doing, you’re making a difference just by existing. Every action you carry out will either make the universe a better place or a worse one.

Every time you try to do something that anxiety wants to stop you from doing, you've struck a blow that will make the anxiety weaker.

I now know that true chillness can also come from being so demoralized by American politics that you cannot care about men.

I can’t survive losing you twice. -Blythe

When your mother kisses you on the scalp, let her. Let your father hug you, hard.

You’ve been crying, Aunt Edith,” said a troubled Timothy. He got up out of his chair and hugged her. “Just you wait till I grow up and when I’m a man nothing’ll ever make you cry.

She swallows knives, then gets angry when you make her spit them out and don’t name her magic.

When you come to examine into the actuating motives for any line of human endeavor you will find that vanity figures about ninety per cent directly or indirectly, in the assay.

You’re safe with me, Blythe,” he whispered. “I swear to you, I’m only yours. For good or bad, I’m with you.

You don't need to be in love to count as a human

From the moment Leo comes on screen in that navy blue suit, I have chest palpitations. He’s like an angel, a beautiful, damaged angel. “What’s he so stressed out about?” Peter asks, reaching down and stealing a handful of Kitty’s popcorn. “Isn’t he a prince or something?” “He’s not a prince,” I say. “He’s just rich. And his family is very powerful in this town.” “He’s my dream guy,” Kitty says in a proprietary tone. “Well, he’s all grown up now,” I say, not taking my eyes off the screen. “He’s practically Daddy’s age.” Still… “Wait, I thought I was your dream guy,” Peter says. Not to me, to Kitty. He knows he’s not my dream guy. My dream guy is Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables. Handsome, loyal, smart in school. “Ew,” Kitty says. “You’re like my brother.” Peter looks genuinely wounded, so I pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t you think he’s a little scrawny?” Peter presses. I shush him. He crosses his arms. “I don’t get why you guys get to talk during movies and I get shushed. It’s pretty bullshit.” “It’s our house,” Kitty says. “Your sister shushes me at my house too!” We ignore him in unison.

The thing that, for me, triggers a realization that my life is hollow without [insert man] is the release of a new movie in a franchise or a season in a show that I had watched with some dude.

Oh. I guess I must’ve have forgotten it at my desk, I said, though the truth was that I didn’t wear it that much. I didn’t like the way it made my mouth feel hot and suffocated, a bacterial cesspool. You should be more careful, Blythe chided. It’s company policy for a reason. If the masks actually work, don’t you think maybe there wouldn’t be an epidemic? I asked, facetiously polite.

Blaspheme if you must,’ said Blyth wearily. ‘You’ll get your wages all right. You’ll survive.’ ‘I’m not going to die of laughing at any rate,’ said Lymond, and Blyth nearly lost his temper again.

Blythe. I want to come home. It’s time. It’s way past time. I need to come home. Let me come home, baby. I swear if you do, I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you better than anyone else ever could.

Physics extra credit: What should you do if you are stuck on frictionless ice? Assume you are nude and there is no atmospheric resistance. While correct, the answer 'suffocate' will not earn the credit.

Remember The Princess and the Pea? She could feel a single pea through dozens of mattresses, and that’s how everyone knew she was of noble blood, even though she’d arrived looking bedraggled and scruffy. It’s supposed to be an example of the saying “breeding will out”, meaning that you can always spot true royalty, even if that someone is dressed in rags. Am I the only one who thinks the moral of this story is all screwed up? You get caught in a storm and knock on a stranger’s door in the middle of the night to ask for shelter... then when they ask how you slept, you COMPLAIN that you were uncomfortable? Honey, that’s not being a Princess. That’s being a diva bitch.

What Mr Blyth has been engaged in was not love, my dear Francis. It was romance, a thing to which Mr Blyth has been very prone; together with melodrama. Whatever made you think that melodrama makes Mr Blyth uncomfortable? He revels in it.

He was looking backwards, and that was an entirely different thing. Looking backwards was important, even when you were standing still. He had to see what was there. There was something back there, and even if everybody else didn't see it, he had to.

As long as you wear clothes you love, which suit your body and your personality, it won’t matter if you’re wearing a dress that was in vogue five years ago; you’ll still look amazing. Also, somebody has to START new trends, and that somebody could be you.

The water was a thick black stroke of ink speckled with gold flakes and silver chips, the shattered reflections of a thousand bright windows, shimmering. Her eyes sparkled the same way, filled with a thousand tiny lights. "You're not looking," she said. But I was.

Naturalness has something to do with our wildness, beyond the civilizing influences of the everyday mind. The everyday mind fabricates. It plans. It manages. It interprets and seeks meaning. Its energy is tight. Naturalness is the part of the self that is unconstructed, spontaneous, free, unmade, and without plans or agendas. It is a part of you that is at ease in your own skin, and it does not resist being present. This part of you is aligned with the realm of the body and can be felt there. The body is, after all, an animal.

If you like cool, funny entertainment, you might like this one. It's a first novel by a local author." She handed him a copy of Practical Demonkeeping. "A very different kind of buddy novel. I thought it was hilarious." "You're reading me like a book." The guy shook his head as if embarrassed by his own lame joke. Then he looked over at Blythe. Natalie saw his gaze move swiftly over her mother's red V-neck sweater and short skirt. "How can you tell that's exactly what would make me happy?" he asked. Oh boy. He was flirting. Guys did that a lot with her mom. She was super pretty, and Natalie knew it wasn't only because Mom was her mom and all kids thought their moms were pretty. Even her snottiest friends like Kayla said Blythe looked like a model. Like Julia Roberts. Plus, her mom had a knack for dressing cool and being social---she could talk to anyone and make them like her. Also, she had a superpower, which was on full display right now. She had the ability to see a person for the first time and almost instantly know what book to recommend. She was really smart and had also read every book ever written, or so it seemed to Natalie. She could talk to high school kids about Ivanhoe and Silas Marner. She ran a mystery discussion group. She could tell people the exact day the new Mary Higgins Clark novel would come out. She knew which kids would only ever read Goosebumps books, no matter what, and she knew which kids would try something else, like Edward Eager or Philip Pullman. Sometimes people didn't know anything about the book they were searching for except "It's blue with gold page edges" and her mom would somehow figure it out.

Don’t hold back because you’re afraid of hurting someone else. If your best friend wants to be a cheerleader and you make the team but she doesn’t, don’t feel guilty. If you end up earning more than your sister, it’s not a betrayal. Your success might be an inspiration for someone else, while limiting yourself to avoid upsetting the balance doesn’t help anyone. Equally, rather than being paralysed by jealousy when someone else is coming out on top, use it to spur you on to greater things. Some of our best achievements will be triggered by envy at seeing someone else fulfilling our secret ambitions.

It was no accident that one of the first things God asked of Adam was for him to name the animals he saw around him. Why do you suppose God asked man to do that? Because once you have a name, you have the beginning of understanding, and once you have understanding, you lose fear. God didn’t want man to be fearful. He wanted man to be brave.

Breathe. Just breathe.” “There’s no air, Blythe.” “Reach for me. I won’t let you drown. I’m right here.” He rubs my back some more and then laughs lightly. “You’re already taken.” “I have two hands, Sabin. Grab one.” He thinks for a while, and I feel him take hold of his own hands to fully encircle me in his embrace. “I’m trying, love. I’m trying.

Why, I never!” Waving a letter covered with spidery handwriting, she said, “What a surprise! After all these years, Hannah wants to pay me a visit. She’d love to see the house she grew up in.” At the sound of Hannah’s name, my heart beat faster. Speechless with happiness, I listened to my aunt chatter excitedly. “She says John died last winter and she’s staying in Riverview to straighten out his estate.” Aunt Blythe paused to scrutinize the letter. “Listen to this, Drew: ‘You’ll find me a bit long in the tooth, Blythe, but, never fear, I still have my wits about me. You might warn Edward I’m not a jot sweeter than I was the last time we met!” Aunt Blythe laughed. “In other words, Hannah hasn’t changed a bit!

Theo,” Aunt Blythe said. “According to Father, he was a no-good rascal, but just look at that angelic little face. He couldn’t have been all bad.” “I guess Great-grandfather didn’t like him either.” “No, indeed.” Aunt Blythe laughed. “If anything, Father disliked Theo even more than Hannah. The feeling was mutual, I’m afraid. I haven’t seen either one of them since their mother died. Lord, that was more than fifty years ago.” I looked closely at the swing in the picture. “Was this taken on your porch?” Aunt Blythe nodded. “Hannah used to live here. Father bought the house after her mother died.” She pointed to the sweet-faced woman and the stern man beside her. “Great-aunt Mildred and Great-uncle Henry.” I leaned against my aunt’s shoulder. “Let me guess,” I said. “Great-grandfather didn’t like them either.” “What a perceptive boy you are.

The “German problem” after 1970 became how to keep up with the Germans in terms of efficiency and productivity. One way, as above, was to serially devalue, but that was beginning to hurt. The other way was to tie your currency to the deutsche mark and thereby make your price and inflation rate the same as the Germans, which it turned out would also hurt, but in a different way. The problem with keeping up with the Germans is that German industrial exports have the lowest price elasticities in the world. In plain English, Germany makes really great stuff that everyone wants and will pay more for in comparison to all the alternatives. So when you tie your currency to the deutsche mark, you are making a one-way bet that your industry can be as competitive as the Germans in terms of quality and price. That would be difficult enough if the deutsche mark hadn’t been undervalued for most of the postwar period and both German labor costs and inflation rates were lower than average, but unfortunately for everyone else, they were. That gave the German economy the advantage in producing less-than-great stuff too, thereby undercutting competitors in products lower down, as well as higher up the value-added chain. Add to this contemporary German wages, which have seen real declines over the 2000s, and you have an economy that is extremely hard to keep up with. On the other side of this one-way bet were the financial markets. They looked at less dynamic economies, such as the United Kingdom and Italy, that were tying themselves to the deutsche mark and saw a way to make money. The only way to maintain a currency peg is to either defend it with foreign exchange reserves or deflate your wages and prices to accommodate it. To defend a peg you need lots of foreign currency so that when your currency loses value (as it will if you are trying to keep up with the Germans), you can sell your foreign currency reserves and buy back your own currency to maintain the desired rate. But if the markets can figure out how much foreign currency you have in reserve, they can bet against you, force a devaluation of your currency, and pocket the difference between the peg and the new market value in a short sale. George Soros (and a lot of other hedge funds) famously did this to the European Exchange Rate Mechanism in 1992, blowing the United Kingdom and Italy out of the system. Soros could do this because he knew that there was no way the United Kingdom or Italy could be as competitive as Germany without serious price deflation to increase cost competitiveness, and that there would be only so much deflation and unemployment these countries could take before they either ran out of foreign exchange reserves or lost the next election. Indeed, the European Exchange Rate Mechanism was sometimes referred to as the European “Eternal Recession Mechanism,” such was its deflationary impact. In short, attempts to maintain an anti-inflationary currency peg fail because they are not credible on the following point: you cannot run a gold standard (where the only way to adjust is through internal deflation) in a democracy.

Marthe said dryly, ‘Philippa wishes only to say thank you, and so also do I. They say in Italy, don’t they, that the boat will sink that carries neither monk, nor student, nor whore.… How good that we have Mr Blyth.' ‘How good that we have Mlle Marthe,’ Lymond replied. His clothes, freshly changed, were impeccable and his brushed yellow hair, free of sand, was lit guinea-gold by the gleam of the lamps. ‘Of her fellow men so charming a student.

Blythe's favorite shelf near the coffee area. She'd labeled it W.O.W. (WORDS OF WISDOM) and it was stocked with her perennial favorites with bookmarked passages. Natalie used to love browsing that shelf. A book would never betray you or change its mind or make you feel stupid. She took down The Once and Future King and found a marked passage: "The best thing for being sad," replied Merlyn, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That is the only thing that never fails."

wonder if Mr. Alec Davis would come back and ha'nt me if I threw a stone at the urn on top of his tombstone," said Jerry. "Mrs. Davis would," giggled Faith. "She just watches us in church like a cat watching mice. Last Sunday I made a face at her nephew and he made one back at me and you should have seen her glare. I'll bet she boxed HIS ears when they got out. Mrs. Marshall Elliott told me we mustn't offend her on any account or I'd have made a face at her, too!" "They say Jem Blythe stuck out his tongue at her once and she would never have his father again, even when her husband was dying," said Jerry. "I wonder what the Blythe gang will be like." "I liked their looks," said Faith. The manse children had been at the station that afternoon when the Blythe small fry had arrived. "I liked Jem's looks ESPECIALLY." "They say in school that Walter's a sissy," said Jerry. "I don't believe it," said Una, who had thought Walter very handsome. "Well, he writes poetry, anyhow. He won the prize the teacher offered last year for writing a poem, Bertie Shakespeare Drew told me. Bertie's mother thought HE should have got the prize because of his name, but Bertie said he couldn't write poetry to save his soul, name or no name." "I suppose we'll get acquainted with them as soon as they begin going to school," mused Faith. "I hope the girls are nice. I don't like most of the girls round here. Even the nice ones are poky. But the Blythe twins look jolly. I thought twins always looked alike, but they don't. I think the red-haired one is the nicest." "I liked their mother's looks," said Una with a little sigh. Una envied all children their mothers. She had been only six when her mother died, but she had some very precious memories, treasured in her soul like jewels, of twilight cuddlings and morning frolics, of loving eyes, a tender voice, and the sweetest, gayest laugh. "They say she isn't like other people," said Jerry. "Mrs. Elliot says that is because she never really grew up," said Faith. "She's taller than Mrs. Elliott." "Yes, yes, but it is inside—Mrs. Elliot says Mrs. Blythe

Long before I was ready to say good-bye, Hannah rose to her feet and beckoned to Andrew. “We’ve had enough excitement for one day. It’s time to leave.” After making sure Aunt Blythe wasn’t looking, Andrew pulled a leather bag out of his pocket. “She thinks you already have these,” he said. “They’re yours for keeps now.” I clasped the marbles to my heart and stared at him through a blur of tears. “Come back soon, Andrew.” He hugged me so hard he squashed my nose against his bony shoulder. “At my age, I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best to see you again, and that’s the truth. After all, Hannah and I aren’t that far away. With modern cars and highways, Riverview’s a sight closer than it used to be.” Reluctant to let him go, I looked him in the eye. “No matter what happens, I’ll always keep you here.” I struck my chest with my fist. “Right here in my heart as long as I live.” Andrew smiled. “I fancy you picked up that pretty notion from Hannah.” Hugging me again, he said, “I hope your heart lasts as long as mine has, Drew. I want you to have all the time in the world to do whatever you like.

Hannah tells me you’re an archeologist,” she said. “Drew’s father has followed in your footsteps. He spent the whole summer in France, excavating a Roman ruin.” A spark of mischief flared in Andrew’s eyes. “Why, it could be the other way around,” he said. “Perhaps I got the idea from him.” Hannah gave Andrew a sharp poke with her cane. Luckily, Aunt Blythe didn’t notice that either. “You have the oddest sense of humor,” she said to Andrew. “It’s a pity you spent most of your life overseas. I’m sure I would have enjoyed knowing you.” To escape his sister’s reach, Andrew shifted his position. “It’s strange,” he said to my aunt, “but I feel like I do know you.” “Isn’t that funny?” Aunt Blythe stared at him. “Even though I’ve never set eyes on you before, I feel the same way.” With a little guidance from Hannah, the conversation changed to Andrew’s years in South America. For at least an hour he entertained us with his adventures, which Hannah claimed were highly exaggerated. “He never tells a story the same way twice,” she told me. “You wouldn’t believe how much more exciting they’ve gotten since the first time I heard them.

I think Hannah had two brothers. Yes, I’m sure she did. Theo and, and--this boy.” I shook my head. “If he’s Hannah’s brother, why isn’t he in any of the other pictures?” Aunt Blythe didn’t answer right away. In the silence, rain pattered against the windows and dripped through holes in the roof. The wind crept in through cracks and stirred the folds of a long white dress hanging from the rafters. Finally, my aunt raised her eyes from the photograph. “I think his name was Andrew. Isn’t that strange? You share a face and a name with a boy who died years before you were born.” My throat tightened. “He died? Andrew died?” Aunt Blythe looked at me. “Oh, dear,” she said, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.” “I’m not scared!” My voice came out as high and squeaky as a girl’s. Furious at myself for being such a baby, I leapt to my feet and headed for the stairs. “Slow down, Drew,” my aunt called. “You’ll go through the floor!” Before the words were out of her mouth, a board split under my weight, and I fell flat on my face. In seconds my aunt was beside me. “Are you all right?” she asked. “Did you hurt yourself?” “I’m fine.” Too embarrassed to meet her eyes, I peered into the hole I’d made.

The Princess attitude to food isn’t about obsessively scraping the oil off your salad, saying no to crème brûlée and taking a little snack bag of spinach everywhere you go. I truly believe it’s more important to consciously choose what you’re going to eat and enjoy every bite – even if it’s a gooey chocolate cake with extra sugary sprinkles – than to make a healthy diet such a burden that your life stretches out in front of you as a joyless, never-ending round of wafer snack breads. (Let’s face it, chocolate is a divine gift to us all and should be appreciated for the mood-altering drug that it is.)

A week later Mrs. Blythe, coming up from the village late in the afternoon, paused at the gate of Ingleside in an amazement which temporarily bereft her of the power of motion. An extraordinary sight met her eyes. Round the end of the kitchen burst Mr. Pryor, running as stout, pompous Mr. Pryor had not run in years, with terror imprinted on every lineament—a terror quite justifiable, for behind him, like an avenging fate, came Susan, with a huge, smoking iron pot grasped in her hands, and an expression in her eye that boded ill to the object of her indignation, if she should overtake him. Pursuer and pursued tore across the lawn. Mr. Pryor reached the gate a few feet ahead of Susan, wrenched it open, and fled down the road, without a glance at the transfixed lady of Ingleside. "Susan," gasped Anne. Susan halted in her mad career, set down her pot, and shook her fist after Mr. Pryor, who had not ceased to run, evidently believing that Susan was still full cry after him. "Susan, what does this mean?" demanded Anne, a little severely. "You may well ask that, Mrs. Dr. dear," Susan replied wrathfully. "I have not been so upset in years. That—that—that pacifist has actually had the audacity to come up here and, in my own kitchen, to ask me to marry him. HIM!" Anne choked back a laugh. "But—Susan!

It is said,’ said the Aga Morat, ‘that blindness of the eyes is a lighter thing than blindness of the perceptive faculties of the mind. The sun is high: the perception is dazzled. One has made divers chambers available to us in these poor houses for an hour. Let us retire and, by giving ease to the flesh, bring new light also to the proper functions of the mind. There, for the Hakim’s servant Mr Blyth, and the lady. In this chamber, Crawford Efendi and I shall have much to discuss.… Sweet to be taken up, you say, as medicine is by the lip. Such a creature I enjoy, thin-skinned, tender and delicate, light of flesh and goodly in make, impulsive in walk and beautiful in the justness of stature. Communing thus, shall not our dreaming souls melt?’ For a moment, Lymond did not reply. Then he said, in the same level voice, ‘It is written before God, that after this hour we depart all four, in good health to Djerba?’ The Aga Morat had risen. Looking down, his heavy face creased in a smile. ‘It is written,’ he said. Slowly, Lymond rose also. He looked neither at Jerott nor at Marthe, but stepped straight out from under the awning and confronted the Aga. In the blinding white light, the fine lines of his skin were all suddenly visible, and his eyes by contrast quite dark. But his hair, uncut since Marseilles, shone mint-gold in the sun. ‘If it is so agreed,’ Lymond said, ‘I am solicitous for thee, as thou art for me.’ And without pausing, he followed the Aga Morat into the house.

get out on the rocks or the fields or the water and spout them." Captain Jim had come up that afternoon to bring Anne a load of shells for her garden, and a little bunch of sweet-grass which he had found in a ramble over the sand dunes. "It's getting real scarce along this shore now," he said. "When I was a boy there was a-plenty of it. But now it's only once in a while you'll find a plot—and never when you're looking for it. You jest have to stumble on it—you're walking along on the sand hills, never thinking of sweet-grass—and all at once the air is full of sweetness—and there's the grass under your feet. I favor the smell of sweet-grass. It always makes me think of my mother." "She was fond of it?" asked Anne. "Not that I knows on. Dunno's she ever saw any sweet-grass. No, it's because it has a kind of motherly perfume—not too young, you understand—something kind of seasoned and wholesome and dependable—jest like a mother. The schoolmaster's bride always kept it among her handkerchiefs. You might put that little bunch among yours, Mistress Blythe. I don't like these boughten scents—but a whiff of sweet-grass belongs anywhere a lady does." Anne had not been especially enthusiastic over the idea of surrounding her flower beds with quahog shells; as a decoration they did not appeal to her on first thought. But she would not have hurt Captain Jim's feelings for anything; so she assumed a virtue she did not at first feel, and thanked him heartily. And when Captain Jim had proudly encircled every bed with a rim of the big, milk-white shells, Anne found to her surprise that she liked the effect.

It must be a shock to see us so old,” Hannah said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t climb a tree or shoot a marble if my life depended on it. Neither could Andrew, but I doubt he’ll admit it.” “If I put my mind to it,” Andrew said, “I could beat Drew with one hand tied behind my back. He was never any match for me.” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “It seems to me he outplayed you once.” “Pshaw. What’s one game?” If Aunt Blythe hadn’t come back just then, I’d have argued, maybe even challenged Andrew to a rematch, but instead, I smiled and leaned my head against Hannah’s shoulder, happy to feel her arm around me. This close, she still smelled like rose water. Turning the pages of the album, Hannah showed us pictures of Mama and Papa, Theo, herself--and Andrew. “These are my favorites.” She pointed to the photographs John had taken of us in the Model T. We were all smiling except Theo. He sat beside me, scowling into the camera, still angry about Mrs. Armiger and the music lessons. “We wanted Theo to come with us today,” Hannah said, “but he’s living down in Florida with his third wife--a lady half his age, I might add.” Andrew nudged me. “He sends his best, said he hopes to see you again someday.” I glanced at Aunt Blythe but she was staring at the photograph. “The resemblance is incredible. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was Drew.” Andrew chuckled. “Take a good look at me now. This is how the poor boy will look when he’s ninety-six.” I studied his rosy face, his white hair and mustache. His back was bent, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. Going to his side, I put my arms around him. “You’re not so bad,” I said. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you could still beat me in a game of ringer.

You didn’t marry?” Aunt Blythe asked Andrew. He glanced at me. “When I was a boy no older than Drew, I had a close brush with death. It always seemed to me a miracle that I lived.” Once more Hannah made an attempt to stop her brother with a poke of her cane, but Andrew went on talking, his eyes on my face, his voice solemn. “I often thought I’d been meant to die, so I decided to lead a solitary life. There’s no way of telling what one person might do to change the history of the world.” Before he could say anything else, Hannah patted Aunt Blythe’s arm. “I brought along an old photo album. Would you please fetch it from the car?” As soon as my aunt was out of sight, Hannah said, “If you don’t hush, Andrew, we’re going to leave the minute Blythe comes back. I swear I don’t know what ails you. You might as well be twelve years old!” She turned to me then and took my hand. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Drew? He was an absolute imp when he was your age and he still is. All that’s changed is his outside.” I stared into Hannah’s eyes, faded now to the color of shadows on winter snow. “He told you, didn’t he?” “In some ways, I think I knew all along.” Hannah squeezed my hand. “I’m so glad we’ve lived long enough to see you again.” I flung my arms around her. She felt as thin-boned as a bird, and I was afraid to hug her too tightly. I didn’t want to hurt her. “It must be a shock to see us so old,” Hannah said. “I’m afraid I couldn’t climb a tree or shoot a marble if my life depended on it. Neither could Andrew, but I doubt he’ll admit it.” “If I put my mind to it,” Andrew said, “I could beat Drew with one hand tied behind my back. He was never any match for me.” Hannah raised her eyebrows. “It seems to me he outplayed you once.” “Pshaw. What’s one game?

At that moment, the back door opened, and Great-grandfather wheeled himself outside. Slowly and carefully, Hannah stepped through the door behind him. Aunt Blythe followed, balancing a tray loaded with a pitcher of lemonade and five glasses. "Come along, you two," Hannah called. “Tarnation,” Andrew muttered. “Am I going to have to see that jackass today?” Without letting me help, he levered himself out of the chair with his cane. “I bet Hannah woke the old coot up just to make me miserable.” When we joined the others on the porch, Great-grandfather refused to look at us. Keeping his head down, he fidgeted with the blanket on his lap. “This is a fine way to greet me,” Andrew said. “Maybe he doesn’t recognize you.” Aunt Blythe bent down to peer into Great-grandfather’s face. “Your cousins are here, Father. Can you say hello to Hannah and Andrew?” “It’s my house,” he mumbled. “They can’t have it.” Andrew looked as if he wanted to give his cousin a punch in the nose, but Hannah intervened. “We know the house is yours, Edward,” she said. “Don’t worry, we haven’t come to take it back. Andrew and I have our own home.” Great-grandfather raised his head and stared at Hannah. “You never liked me. Neither did your brothers. I wasn’t welcome in this house when you lived here. Now it’s mine and you’re not welcome.” Ignoring Aunt Blythe’s protests, Great-grandfather wheeled himself toward the back door. “You and your Roosevelt,” he muttered before he disappeared. “Too bad you women ever got the vote.” “Please excuse Father,” Aunt Blythe said. “He’s having one of his bad days.” Andrew snorted. “All of Edward’s days have been bad, every blasted one of them.” Hannah rapped his fingers. “Don’t be so ornery, Andrew. What will Blythe think of you?” “I say what’s on my mind. Always have.” Andrew shot me a grin. “Isn’t that right, Drew?” Hannah frowned at her brother. “How on earth can Drew answer a question like that?” My aunt didn’t notice the warning tone in her cousin’s voice, but I did. From the look she gave Andrew, I was sure Hannah knew everything.

Reaching out, Andrew crooked his little finger with mine. “If I live, I’ll find a way to let you know, Drew,” he promised. “I owe you that much--and a whole lot more.” After a little silence, Andrew’s face brightened. “You don’t suppose you could stay, do you? Just think of the fun we’d have playing tricks on Edward and Mrs. Armiger.” He laughed at his own thoughts. “Why, we’d make their heads spin, Drew. They wouldn’t know one of us from the other.” For a moment, it seemed possible. My mother and father were away, they wouldn’t miss me. As for Aunt Blythe--well, we’d think of some way to let her know I was all right. We were bouncing on the bed, singing “Yip-I-Addy-I-Ay,” when the door opened and Mama appeared. It was Andrew she looked at, not me. “Why are you still awake?” she asked. “I told you to go to sleep.” As Mama approached the bed, Andrew flung his arms around her. “You can see me, Mama,” he cried. “Oh, thank the Lord! It’s me, your own true son, back again for keeps.” She stared at him, perplexed. “What nonsense is this? Of course I can see you. Of course it’s you. Who else would it be, you silly goose?” I slid off the bed and ran to her side. “Me,” I shouted, “it could be me.” When Mama didn’t even blink, I tugged at her nightgown. “Look at me,” I begged. “I’m here too, we both are. Andrew and me. Can’t you see us both?” I hugged her, but all she did was shiver. “No wonder this room is so drafty,” she murmured. “The attic door is wide open.” Andrew and I stared at each other, his face reflecting my disappointment. He was visible, I was invisible. Like the design on his quilt, the pattern had reversed. Sadly I released Mama. As I turned away, Andrew whispered, “We’ll meet again, Drew. I swear it.” Mama looked at him. “What did you say?” “Oh, nothing.” Hiding his face from his mother, Andrew winked at me and said, “I was just talking to myself, Mama.” I took one long last look at Andrew. Much as I wanted to stay, it was time to leave. When Mama reached out to close the attic door, I slipped through it like a ghost. The door shut behind me. I was alone at the bottom of the dark stairs with nowhere to go but home.

...the centrality of competitiveness as the key to growth is a recurrent EU motif. Two decades of EC directives on increasing competition in every area, from telecommunications to power generation to collateralizing wholesale funding markets for banks, all bear the same ordoliberal imprint. Similarly, the consistent focus on the periphery states’ loss of competitiveness and the need for deep wage and cost reductions therein, while the role of surplus countries in generating the crisis is utterly ignored, speaks to a deeply ordoliberal understanding of economic management. Savers, after all, cannot be sinners. Similarly, the most recent German innovation of a constitutional debt brake (Schuldenbremse) for all EU countries regardless of their business cycles or structural positions, coupled with a new rules-based fiscal treaty as the solution to the crisis, is simply an ever-tighter ordo by another name. If states have broken the rules, the only possible policy is a diet of strict austerity to bring them back into conformity with the rules, plus automatic sanctions for those who cannot stay within the rules. There are no fallacies of composition, only good and bad policies. And since states, from an ordoliberal viewpoint, cannot be relied upon to provide the necessary austerity because they are prone to capture, we must have rules and an independent monetary authority to ensure that states conform to the ordo imperative; hence, the ECB. Then, and only then, will growth return. In the case of Greece and Italy in 2011, if that meant deposing a few democratically elected governments, then so be it. The most remarkable thing about this ordoliberalization of Europe is how it replicates the same error often attributed to the Anglo-American economies: the insistence that all developing states follow their liberal instruction sheets to get rich, the so-called Washington Consensus approach to development that we shall discuss shortly. The basic objection made by late-developing states, such as the countries of East Asia, to the Washington Consensus/Anglo-American idea “liberalize and then growth follows” was twofold. First, this understanding mistakes the outcomes of growth, stable public finances, low inflation, cost competitiveness, and so on, for the causes of growth. Second, the liberal path to growth only makes sense if you are an early developer, since you have no competitors—pace the United Kingdom in the eighteenth century and the United States in the nineteenth century. Yet in the contemporary world, development is almost always state led.

I can do this all night. Because you make me feel this way. You, above me, riding me, and making those sounds that I love. You're the only person I've ever let go with, the only woman who knows the real me.

There was a little silence. Then Danny Hislop heaved a sigh. ‘O beau sire Dieu, what a hell of an evening. Jerott, you either want to have another half-bottle, or vomit three ways what you have, like the Rosault.’ In five months the professionals Hislop and Blyth had reached an understanding.