Book Of Trespass Quotes

If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Juliet: Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Romeo: Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Juliet: Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Romeo: O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Juliet: Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Romeo: Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. Juliet: Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Romeo: Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again. Juliet: You kiss by the book.

that is what you do when you breathe, you trespass, again and again you trespass on the world.

To believers, the bible is a holy book, to unbelievers, it is a story book.

No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else's island when there's no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it's a slap in the face

We appear to be hardwired to punish those who have slighted us, even if—and this is the counterintuitive bit—even if our acts of vengeance hurt us more than those who have trespassed against us.

Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. ROMEO: Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged. JULIET: Then have my lips the sin that they have took. ROMEO: Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged! Give me my sin again. JULIET: You kiss by the book.

I had read in books that art is not easy But no one warned that the mind repeats In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still the black swan of trespass on alien waters.

There are boundaries in nature. There are rivers, forests, escarpments, ravines and mountain ranges; there are cellulose walls. But these boundaries are in fact areas of transaction, semi-permeable membranes. The notion that a perimeter should be impenetrable is a human contrivance alone.

Put it on record --I am an Arab And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight childern For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your doors, --Lower not myself at your doorstep. --What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab. I am a name without a tide, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. --My roots --Took hold before the birth of time --Before the burgeoning of the ages, --Before cypess and olive trees, --Before the proliferation of weeds. My father is from the family of the plough --Not from highborn nobles. And my grandfather was a peasant --Without line or genealogy. My house is a watchman's hut --Made of sticks and reeds. Does my status satisfy you? --I am a name without a surname. Put it on Record. --I am an Arab. Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: --On my head the 'iqal cords over a keffiyeh --Scratching him who touches it. My address: --I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, --Its streets without name --And all its men in the fields and quarry. --What's there to be angry about? Put it on record. --I am an Arab. You stole my forefathers' vineyards --And land I used to till, --I and all my childern, --And you left us and all my grandchildren --Nothing but these rocks. --Will your government be taking them too --As is being said? So! --Put it on record at the top of page one: --I don't hate people, --I trespass on no one's property. And yet, if I were to become starved --I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. --Beware, beware of my starvation. --And of my anger!

The gospel of Satan is not a system of revolutionary principles, nor yet a program of anarchy. It does not promote strife and war, but aims at peace and unity. It seeks not to set the mother against her daughter nor the father against his son, but fosters the fraternal spirit whereby the human race is regarded as one great “brotherhood.” It does not seek to drag down the natural man, but to improve and uplift him. It advocates education and cultivation and appeals to “the best that is within us.” It aims to make this world such a comfortable and congenial habitat that Christ’s absence from it will not be felt and God will not be needed. It endeavors to occupy man so much with this world that he has no time or inclination to think of the world to come. It propagates the principles of self-sacrifice, charity and benevolence, and teaches us to live for the good of others, and to be kind to all. It appeals strongly to the carnal mind and is popular with the masses, because it ignores the solemn facts that by nature man is a fallen creature, alienated from the life of God, and dead in trespasses and sins, and that his only hope lies in being born again.

In this story the father represents the Heavenly Father Jesus knew so well. St. Paul writes: “God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not reckoning to them their trespasses” (2 Corinthians 5:19—American Standard Version). Jesus is showing us the God of Great Expenditure, who is nothing if not prodigal toward us, his children. God’s reckless grace is our greatest hope, a life-changing experience, and the subject of this book.

Walls look like order; but more often than not a wall stands at the precise fulcrum of an imbalance in society. Most walls are only necessary as a means of defending the resources of those that have them from those that lack them. In this way, though they present themselves as mechanisms of security, they are in fact tools of oppression.

In his book The Captive Mind, written in 1951-2 and published in the West in 1953, the Polish poet and essayist Czeslaw Milosz paid Orwell one of the greatest compliments that one writer has ever bestowed upon another. Milosz had seen the Stalinisation of Eastern Europe from the inside, as a cultural official. He wrote, of his fellow-sufferers: A few have become acquainted with Orwell’s 1984; because it is both difficult to obtain and dangerous to possess, it is known only to certain members of the Inner Party. Orwell fascinates them through his insight into details they know well, and through his use of Swiftian satire. Such a form of writing is forbidden by the New Faith because allegory, by nature manifold in meaning, would trespass beyond the prescriptions of socialist realism and the demands of the censor. Even those who know Orwell only by hearsay are amazed that a writer who never lived in Russia should have so keen a perception into its life. Only one or two years after Orwell’s death, in other words, his book about a secret book circulated only within the Inner Party was itself a secret book circulated only within the Inner Party.

Yaltha is summed up in these two lines from the novel: “Her mind was an immense feral country that spilled its borders. She trespassed everywhere

You must work for a living,’ proclaim the nobility (from the chaise longue).

A book is an invitation into another person's world - real or imagined- so how can you be a trespasser when you have been invited in?

Who, I would like to know, are the men who thus take advantage of your good nature, and trespass on your time? I believe that they do not know what you love most and long for. Have you no friend at hand to tell them what your heart is set upon?

He shouldn't have trespassed!" The voice sounded petulant. Not diabolical. It gave Belle hope, how human it seemed. In all of her fairy tales and adventure books- the ones with the heroes who were clever rather than strong- this was how you outwitted an opponent. By finding a chink in his armor, a personality flaw to exploit. Then you got him to show off his power by turning into a tiny (and easily stompable) mouse, or slitting open his own stomach. All she needed was a flaw, and time.

Central to paternalism is the notion of the status quo: that its form of government is the only viable option. Through history, the concept of the feminine has been linked by the patriarchy to sedition, protest, any form of questioning this status quo.

Originally, the word "wilderness" was a compound of wild and deer; it was any place where wild animals roamed free. But wild-deer-ness was always more than just a place; it was a state of mind. Frances Zaunmiller, the mountain woman who spent forty-fire years living along Salmon River in the Idaho outback, defined wilderness as the psychological expanse where 'a man can walk without trespassing'.

In the middle of the gravel was a large sign with black latters that said PRIVATE PROPERTY--NO TRESPASSING. "We'll go ashore," Grandma said. She was very angry. Sophia looked frightened. "There's a big difference," her grandmother explained. "No well-bred person goes ashore on someone else's island when there's no one home. But if they put up a sign, then you do it anyway, because it's a slap in the face.

If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this; My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.104 Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Rom. O! then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.108 Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. Rom. Then move not, while my prayers’ effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d. [Kissing her. Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.112 Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my sin again. Jul. You kiss by the book.

And that was the unusual thing about me. Unlike pretty much every teen I knew, I liked to be doing the right thing. I didn’t like breaking rules. I didn’t like pushing the envelope. I didn’t like trespassing, or sneaking into cinemas, or buying alcohol or cigarettes. I didn’t even feel comfortable running into a cafe to use the toilet without having first bought a drink. Basically, I didn’t like to do half the things all teenagers did almost habitually.

It was definitely strange going to bed knowing someone was going to be sitting there, watching me sleep. But after I got used to the idea, it was sort of nice, knowing he was there with Spike on the daybed, reading a book called A Thousand Years he'd found in Doc's room, by the light of his own spectral glow. It would have been more romantic if he'd just sat there gazing longingly at my face, but beggars can't be choosers, and how many other girls do you know who have boys perfectly willing to sit in their bedrooms and watch for evil trespassers all night? I bet you can't even name one.

Eena worried to Ian in her thoughts. (You’re not going to let him walk away thinking what I think he’s thinking, are you?) (You won't change his mind. The evidence is a little suggestive. You should have just stayed behind me.) (Oh, this is all my fault?) (Well, you were the one swimming in your underwear.) (And you’re the one who took your shirt off!) (You think the alternative would have been better?) She shuttered at the thought of the Braetic stumbling across her in her underclothes. “Cale,” Eena said in another attempt to convince the stranger. Somehow she managed to sidestep Ian’s effort to halt her, and she approached the man. “I am not messing around with my protector. I am, and always have been, true and faithful to Derian. It’s just……a lot of weird things have happened lately.” The Braetic looked willing to consider a good excuse. “Such as?” “Well,” she started, casting a furtive glance at Ian. He was shaking his head, conveying strong disapproval. She ignored him. “Okay, well…..I’ve been fighting these immortals who are bent on using me to break free from an imprisoning gem where they were sentenced to stayed locked up for eternity. They nearly annihilated a world of Viiduns—that’s how awful they are! But one of these immortals has control over my necklace, and her brother keeps transporting me and my protector all over Moccobatra in search of pieces to a star-shaped platform they intend to use to free their bodies which have been trapped for over three-thousand years now. We were sent here at an inopportune—and highly embarrassing—moment to find the final piece to the platform. It’s been a nightmare just trying to stay alive!” “Wow,” Cale breathed, not looking half as concerned as Eena thought he ought to. “So these immortals are using you and trying to kill you at the same time?” She shook her head. “No, no, only the dragons are trying to kill me…or they were trying to kill me until Naga put a stop to them.” Eena heard Ian’s hand smack against his forehead. She saw humor sweep over the Braetic’s face. It made her angry. “Dragons too, huh?” Cale snickered. “It’s the truth!” she insisted. (Eena, just forget it. You’re only making it worse.) She ignored her protector’s advice again. “Cale, I’m telling you the honest-to-goodness truth. Do you know the story of Wanyaka Cave? The red-gemmed prison and the two spirit sisters?” Completely out of patience, Ian broke into the conversation, rudely speaking over his queen. “We’ll be on our way now, sir. We apologize for trespassing.” With a big grin on his face, the Braetic offered a friendly alternative. “Why don’t the pair of you accompany me home. I’m sure my wife can round up some suitable clothing for you. Those immortals must have a ripe sense of humor, leaving you alone in the woods without any decent attire.” He caught a chuckle in his throat. “That is unless it was the dragons who took the shirt off your back.” “Dragons are immortals!” Eena snapped, as if any fool ought to know it. Ian flashed her a harsh look. “We would greatly appreciate the help, sir.” “Oh, it’ll cost you something,” Cale informed them, “but we can discuss that on our way.

Gladly I close this festive day, Grasping the altar's hallow'd horn; My slips and faults are washed away, The Lamb has all my trespass borne.

he trespass against thee the fourth time thou shalt not

…The children of God, being the children of the resurrection.… For he is not a God of the dead, but of the living: for all live unto him. —Luke 20:36, 38 (KJV) EASTER: CELEBRATE I’d like to think that, unlike Peter, I wouldn't have denied Jesus three times, but my faith is tepid, sketchy, uncertain. I wish it were different. I wish, like my mother, I could hold on to my faith, no matter what. Weird thing is, I can accept the bizarre claim that an itinerant preacher in first-century Palestine was crucified like a common criminal, was dead and buried…but not buried for long. I can buy that—which, you gotta admit, is a pretty large story to swallow. And I can believe His message is a living one—not because I have that much faith but because it makes sense to me: We're here to help others so that “whenever you cared for one of the least of these, you did it for me.” Yessir. Roger. Understood. But that Someone could forgive my trespasses, my myriad short- comings, my irrational fuming, my weak-willed nature so that I can help others by forgiving them…no. No can do. My ego won’t allow it. This Easter, I think I’ve figured out at least one gift inherent in the Jesus story: It’s about letting go of ego, that ridiculous remnant from our hominid past, that lying leftover that says we’re in control, we need neither the world nor each other, thank you very much, that we don’t require (and therefore don’t deserve) forgiveness…my God. Just let it go. Let. It. Go. Bury the past; then roll away the stone and celebrate what’s risen in its place. Lord, this Easter, help rid me of my selfish ego. Granted, ego is easy and forgiveness is difficult…but today, of all days, I’m willing to try the hard way. —Mark Collins Digging Deeper: Mt 28:8–10; Lk 24:1–12; Jn 11:25–26

Yea, and as often as my people repent will I forgive them their trespasses against me.

Mr. Nobley had entered the room before he noticed her. He groaned. “And here you are. Miss Erstwhile. You are infuriating and irritating, and yet I find myself looking for you. I would be grateful if you would send me away and make me swear to never return.” “You shouldn’t have told me that’s what you want, Mr. Nobley, because now you’re not going to get it.” “Then I must stay?” “Unless you want to risk me accusing you of ungentleman-like behavior at dinner, yes, I think you should stay. If I spend too much time alone today, I’m in real danger of doing a convincing impersonation of the madwoman in the attic.” He raised an eyebrow. “And how would that be different from--” “Sit down, Mr. Nobley,” she said. He sat in a chair on the opposite side of a small table. The chair creaked as he settled himself. She didn’t look at him, watching instead the rain on the window and the silvery shadows the wet light made of the room. She spent several moments in silence before she realized that it might be awkward, that conversation at such a time was obligatory. Now she could feel his gaze on her face and longed to crack the silence like the spine of a book, but she had nothing to say anymore. She’d lost all her thoughts in paint and rain. “You are reading Sterne,” he said at last. “May I?” He gestured to the book, and she handed it to him. Jane was remembering a scene from the film of Mansfield Park when suitor Henry Crawford read to Frances O-Connor’s character so sweetly, the sound created a passionate tension, the words themselves becoming his courtship. Jane glanced at Mr. Nobley’s somber face, and away again as his eyes flicked from the page to her. He began to read from the top. His voice was soft, melodious, strong, a man who could speak in a crowd and have people listen, but also a man who could persuade a child to sleep with a bedtime story. “The man who first transplanted the grape of Burgundy to the Cape of Good Hope (observe he was a Dutchman) never dreamt of drinking the same wine at the Cape, the same grape produced upon the French mountains--he was too phlegmatic for that--but undoubtedly he expected to drink some sort of vinous liquor; but whether good, bad, or indifferent--he knew enough of this world to know, that it did not depend upon his choice…” Mr. Nobley was trying very hard not to smile. His lips were tight; his voice scraped a couple of times. Jane laughed at him, and then he did smile. It gave her a little thwack of pleasure as though someone had flicked a finger against her heart. “Not very, er…” he said. “Interesting?” “I imagine not.” “But you read it well,” she said. He raised his brows. “Did I? Well, that is something.” They sat in silence a few moments, chuckling intermittently. Mr. Nobley began to read again suddenly, “Mynheer might possibly overset both in his new vineyard,” having to stop to laugh again. Aunt Saffronia walked by and peered into the dim room as she passed, her presence reminding Jane that this tryst might be forbidden by the Rules. Mr. Nobley returned to himself. “Excuse me,” he said, rising. “I have trespassed on you long enough.

Dr. Pym,” Emma huffed, “what happened back there? What’s going on?” “I told you that we are here to see a man. What I did not say was that I have been searching for this individual for nearly a decade. Only recently did I finally track him to this village. You heard me asking the signora how to find his house.” “That’s it? That’s what made her drop the plate?” “Yes, it appears that he is regarded by the locals as something of a devil. Or perhaps the Devil. The signora was a bit flustered.” “Is he dangerous?” Michael asked. Then he added, “Because I’m the oldest now, and I’m responsible for Emma’s safety.” “Oh, please,” Emma groaned. “I wouldn’t say he’s dangerous,” the wizard said. “At least, not very.” They hiked on, following a narrow, twisting trail. They could hear goats bleating in the distance, the bells around their necks clanking dully in the still air. Stalks of dry grass scratched at the children’s ankles. The light was dying, and soon Michael could no longer see the town behind them. The trail ended at a badly maintained rock wall. Affixed to the wall was a piece of wood bearing a message scrawled in black paint. “What’s it say?” Emma asked. The wizard bent forward to translate. “It says, ‘Dear Moron’—oh my, what a beginning—‘you are about to enter private property. Trespassers will be shot, hanged, beaten with clubs, shot again; their eyeballs will be pecked out by crows, their livers roasted’—dear, this is disgusting, and it goes on for quite a while.…” He skipped to the bottom. “ ‘So turn around now, you blithering idiot. Sincerely, the Devil of Castel del Monte.’ ” Dr. Pym straightened up. “Not very inviting, is it? Well, come along.” And he climbed over the wall. Michael

The day shall dawn when never child but may Go forth upon the sward secure to play. No cruel wolves shall trespass in their nooks, Their lore of lions shall come from picture-books.

Yahweh spoke unto Moses that same day, saying, 32:48 “Go into the mountains of Abarim, unto Mount Nebo, in the land of Moab opposite Jericho, and behold the land of Canaan, which I give to the children of Israel for a possession. 32:49 You will die on that mountain and be gathered unto your ancestors, as Aaron died on Mount Hor and was gathered unto his ancestors, 32:50 because you trespassed against me among the children of Israel at the waters of Meribah-Kadesh, in the wilderness of Zin, and because you did not sanctify me in the midst of the children of Israel. 32:51 You shall see the land before you, but you shall not go in. You shall not cross over into the land I give to Israel.

God’s clothing of Adam and Eve has provided a thought model and a metaphor that have been repeatedly used and enjoyed all down the centuries. The Jewish poet and prophet Isaiah describes how the redeemed phrase their song of gratitude to God: I will greatly rejoice in the Lord; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation; he has covered me with the robe of righteousness. (Isa 61:10) In the parable of the Prodigal Son, Christ describes how the prodigal came home in all his filthy rags, shame and disgrace, and then what his father’s response was: ‘the father said to his servants, “Bring quickly the best robe, and put it on him”’ (Luke 15:22). The picturesque metaphors of the Revelation say of the redeemed: They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. ‘Therefore they are before the throne of God.’ (Rev 7:14–15) And this same age-long symbolic gesture and metaphor, translated into the straightforward theological language of the New Testament reads like this: God was in Christ, reconciling the world unto himself, not reckoning unto them their trespasses . . . him who knew no sin he made to be sin on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in him. (2 Cor 5:19, 21 rv) For as by the one man’s disobedience the many were made sinners, so by the one man’s obedience the many will be made righteous. (Rom 5:19) This, then, in any generation is the first stage of redemption.1 The Christian gospel does not pretend that upon believing in Christ we shall never thereafter suffer any more pain, distress, sickness or death. Far from it. But it does affirm that God stands waiting to put into effect, for any who will, the first stage of redemption here and now: that is, personal reconciliation and peace with God, and the certainty that God will never reject us, because in Christ God is for us: If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died—more than that, who was raised—who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. (Rom 8:31–34)

Freedom is not political, nor some religious belief or ideological concept. It’s simply the privilege to walk, one foot in front of the other, in the direction of our choosing. Bound not by fences nor no-trespassing signs, only by our limits and desires. A freedom so pure you can taste it—existing outside our own self-imposed walls.

And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins" (Eph. 2:1). As John Gill said, "The design of the apostle in this and some following verses, is to show the exceeding sinfulness of sin, and to set forth the sad estate and condemnation of man by nature, and to magnify the riches of the grace of God, and represent the exceeding greatness of His power by conversion.

I forgive those who have trespassed against me and my communities, because those who exclude us will not ask themselves, "What if I'm wrong?" I forgive them for keeping me from Christ. For building walls instead of bridges.

In Leviticus the first offering that is mentioned is not the sin offering or the trespass offering but the burnt offering

Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

Son of man, when the land sinneth against me by trespassing grievously, then will I stretch out mine hand upon it, and will break the staff of the bread thereof, and will send famine upon it, and will cut off man and beast from it: though these three men, Noah, Daniel, and Job, were in it, they should deliver but their own souls by their righteousness, saith the Lord God. Ezekiel 14:13-14

No matter how much you pray, you will always feel empty if you cannot forgive those who trespass against you.

She didn’t believe that. Didn’t agree with it. But intrusive thoughts were trespassers. You didn’t invite them in. But they broke in, anyway, whether they were true or false.

The Christian knows the truth about the non-Christian. He knows this because he is himself what he is by grace alone. He has been saved from the blindness of mind and the hardness of heart that marks the 'natural man.' The Christian has the 'doctor's book.' The Scriptures tell him the origin and of the nature of sin. Man is dead in trespasses and sins (Eph 2:1). He hates God. His ability to see the facts as they are and to reason about as he ought to reason about them is, at bottom, a matter of sin. He has the God-created ability of reasoning within him. He is made in the image of God. God's revelation is before him and within him. He is in his own constitution a manifestation of the revelation and therefore of the requirement of God. God made a covenant with him through Adam (Rom 5:12). He is therefore now, in Adam, a covenant-breaker. He is also against God and therefore against the revelation of God (Rom 8:6-8). This revelation of God constantly and inescapably reminds him of his creatural responsibility. As a sinner he has, in Adam, declared himself autonomous.

I bark poetry to chase away trespassing pain, For it knows my street, my home, and my name.

In his book American Homicide, Roth notes that in the 1850s “aggression and vitriolic language invaded personal as well as political relationships and turned everyday encounters over debts or minor offenses like trespassing into deadly ones.” Fellow citizens, he writes, “killed each other over card games, races, dogfights, wrestling matches, and raffles.

To read someone’s diary was to peer into the crevices of their soul. It was both a trespass and a privilege. A violation and an invitation. It was as intimate as a kiss.

On an average trip he brought two physics books, a few philosophy books, several volumes of poetry, and one thesaurus

This is not a real book. It does not deal with real people, nor should it be read by real people. But there are in the world so many real books already written for the benefit of real people, and there are still so many to be written, that I cannot believe that a little alien book such as this, written for the magically-inclined minority, can be considered a trespasser.

you were dead in your sins and trespasses (Eph. 2:1). As a descendent of the first man, Adam, you share in the guilt and corruption of his, the first sin (Rom. 5:12–21). You were an enemy of God (v. 10), a sinner brought forth in iniquity (Ps. 51:5), by nature deserving of wrath (Eph. 2:3). You were a sinner who sinned and deserved to die (Rom. 6:23). But here’s the good news for every Christian reading this book: the Bible says that, at just the right time, Jesus Christ died for you (5:8). The Good Shepherd laid down his life for his sheep (John 10:15). Jesus drank the cup of God’s wrath for you (see Mark 10:45). His death on the cross means God is now for you instead of against you (Rom. 3:25; 8:31–39). By faith, through the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, you are a reconciled, justified, adopted child of God. What good news!

THE WARRIOR CODE 1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle. 2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan’s territory. 3. Elders and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. 4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life. 5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice. 6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name. 7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice. 8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies or retires. 9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh. 10. A gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time. 11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats. 12. No warrior may neglect a kit in pain or in danger, even if that kit is from a different Clan. 13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code. 14. An honorable warrior does not need to kill other cats to win his battles, unless they are outside the warrior code or it is necessary for self-defense. 15. A warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet.

14 And it came to pass in the thirty and first year that they were divided into tribes, every man according to his family, kindred and friends; nevertheless they had come to an agreement that they would not go to war one with another; but they were not united as to their laws, and their manner of government, for they were established according to the minds of those who were their chiefs and their leaders. But they did establish very strict laws that one tribe should not trespass against another, insomuch that in some degree they had peace in the land; nevertheless, their hearts were turned from the Lord their God, and they did stone the prophets and did cast them out from among them.

After tea she read them a story. They liked her stories. The one in the book was pretty awful, but the Susan version was well received. She translated as she read. "...and then Jack chopped down the beanstalk, adding murder and ecological vandalism to the theft, enticement and trespass charges already mentioned, but he got away with it and lived happily ever after without so much as a guilty twinge about what he had done. Which proves that you can be excused just about anything if you’re a hero, because no one asks inconvenient questions. And now,” she closed the book with a snap, “it’s time for bed.

The walls of England’s private estates, erected by our richest and most established families, the Arundels, the Buccleuchs, the Beauforts, Grosvenors, Lonsdales and Bedfords possess a grandeur and authority that has somehow overridden the violence and theft, the malevolence they enacted to build them.

The mindwall has become so entrenched in our heads that it remains unchallenged and unquestioned.

Only recently have our rights to protest been secured in law. Article 10 of the European Convention for Human Rights (1953) ratifies our right for Freedom of Expression and Article 11 gives us a human right for Freedom of Assembly and Association. However, in England, the laws of private property trump our collective human rights, which means on private land neither of these rights apply.

Geoffrey Hughes, Professor of the History of the English Language in Johannesburg, explains: ‘It is a likely speculation that the Norman French title “count” was abandoned in England in favour of the Germanic “earl” … precisely because of the uncomfortable phonetic proximity to cunt.

Today, fees at Eton are now almost £13,000 per term, and at Winchester £400 more. But with the phrase ‘bred into the marrow of their bones’ the aristocracy suddenly lurches from a quaint daydream to something altogether more chilling. This is eugenics, in top hat and tails.

The British taxpayer finances this destruction to enable the pastime of a select few. Avery estimates that the 147 moors across England, which occupy over half a million acres, are used by just 5,000 individuals – under 0.01 per cent of the population. The law defends the rights of the few over the many, by right of property alone.

The aristocrats of England made their money by monopolising the land and using their elite definition of property rights to line their own pockets.

Englishmen took the wealth of foreign nations and claimed it as their own. But we are still a long way from recognising the deeper truth: that it was practised first on their own soil, when the landlords colonised the commons.

Decorative pomp and verbose flummery is all that disguises the bare basics of the aristocratic wealth system – land enclosed, resources monopolised and rights of use sold back to those that can afford them. Let the daylight in on the magic, and you have nothing but basic rentier capitalism.

Today, a third of Britain is still owned by the aristocracy. The twenty-four remaining non-royal dukes own almost four million acres between them.

We need space for the mind to rave, to wander and to dream. Access to land is access to experience and access to nature is access to our own wild, spiritual mind.

As long as what happens on the land is governed by a select few there will never be a society that reflects the values of its constituents, there will never be an England that reflects the values of anything but a tiny minority of its citizens.

The collective narcissist sees every situation polarised by the innate excellence of their nation and the subsequent assumption that other nationalities want a piece of it.

Nationalism is a dream of simplicity, an anaesthetic to the complexities of a fluid world.

Originating from the Greek δοκεῖν, meaning to seem or to appear, a doxa is a belief so widely held in society that it becomes seemingly self-evident: it requires no explanation and receives no scrutiny.

When the Conservatives privatised the contracts for housing asylum seekers in 2012, the companies sought housing where land was the cheapest – in deprived areas, places already suffering from neglect and the stranglehold of austerity. In 2016, in Middlesbrough, one in every 152 people was an asylum seeker; in Rochdale, one in every 204 and in Bolton, one in 271. Perhaps unsurprisingly, these towns all voted to leave the EU in the 2016 referendum. While the feeling of being swamped was blamed on an external threat, it was in fact caused by internal inequality, organised from deep within the system of England: the price of land.

Nationalism presents the orthodoxy of class supremacy as a national doxa, and, just like Cannadine’s definition of class, it is nothing more than a ‘rhetorical construction’, whose walls are built with words alone.

Free festivals, organic gatherings of people on common land, have always been a threat to the status quo. But organised, sanctioned festivals, the bread and circuses of ancient Rome, were seen as a way of allowing people to vent their frustrations in a manner contained by local authorities.

Winston Churchill, who himself crossed and re-crossed the fence line of partisan politics, said much the same thing: ‘It is not the individual I attack; it is the system. It is not the man who is bad; it is the law which is bad. It is not the man who is blameworthy for doing what the law allows and what other men do; it is the state which would be blameworthy if it were not to endeavour to reform the law and correct the practice.

the roots of Ownership Anxiety, the obsessive evasion of scrutiny, is that it simply cannot be justified.

Perhaps no passage stresses the vital importance of reconciliation more than 2 Corinthians 5:17-21: If any man is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ, and gave us the ministry of reconciliation, namely, that God was in Christ reconciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and He has committed to us the word of reconciliation. Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were entreating through us; we beg you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.

But mindfulness is just idleness without the social stigma, repackaged with a barcode and brand. Idleness, from the Germanic word Idla, meaning worthless, has historically been a term given to any use of time not dedicated to turning profit; it is a slur on a vernacular use of time. It is the bane of the authorities and used to this day to describe anyone who is not doing what they ought to be doing. And since the industrial revolution, with the work ethic firmly installed into our modern minds, the final victory of commercialism has been to sell idleness back to us. This is rentier capitalism of the mind – access to experience is enclosed, monopolised and rented out as a commodity.

The station records revealed that in the decades following the town’s foundation, the blacks had been kept on a tight rein. The log book for the police cells indicated that a week rarely passed without an inmate from the nearby mission being locked up, from a period of twelve hours to several weeks, and for matters including trespassing, drunkenness, absconding and co-habitation with those of a superior caste.

Dr. Martin Seligman of the University of Pennsylvania is perhaps the world’s foremost expert on optimism and motivation. In his groundbreaking book, Learned Optimism, he suggests that depression is primarily the result of wrong thinking. He writes, “Depression . . . is caused by conscious negative thoughts. There is no deep underlying disorder to be rooted out: not unresolved childhood conflicts, not our unconscious anger, and not even our brain chemistry. Emotion comes directly from what we think: Think ‘I am in danger’ and you feel anxiety. Think ‘I am being trespassed against’ and you feel anger. Think ‘Loss’ and you feel sadness. . . . If we change these habits of thought, we will cure depression.”5

Either death or escape would eventually save us, and I built my entire existence on those two possibilities. Even while living alone, I still trusted in those two inevitabilities. Until she arrived. A trespassing girl with a heart of fucking gold who showed me a third possibility.

Today, the national crisis that grips the land is not Brexit, but the spell that binds 92 per cent of the land and 97 per cent of the waterways in England from public use. If England really wants to take back control, it should take it from the anachronistic system of ownership that has left so many of its people dispossessed of their rights.

you don’t inherit the land from your ancestors, you borrow it from your children.

Once again, the fence creates the crime.

He had never before been trapped in a summerhouse with a beautiful woman in his arms, and it wasn’t unwelcome. Her slender body was light, though her skirts billowed down to the ground. “I fear this is rather awkward for you.” She sent him a chagrined smile. “I didn’t mean for you to hold me until the rain stopped.” “I don’t mind it, a chara.” “I must be getting heavy.” Her face was flushed, as if she hadn’t considered the consequences of the rain. But her slight weight meant nothing at all to him. He met her gaze, and in her brown eyes, he saw that she was unsettled by his presence. Though he had done nothing at all except hold her, he was well aware of her slender curves. Her gown was damp, outlining her figure, and he found himself studying her closely. There was no hint of red in her brown hair now, for it was soaked from the rain. Her eyelashes were tipped with droplets, and the deep brown of her eyes fascinated him. Her nose had a slight tilt, and her cheeks held the flush of embarrassment. Even her lips were a soft pink, her upper lip slightly smaller than the lower. She pressed them together for a moment and then whispered, “Why are you staring at me?” “Because you are a beautiful woman. Why wouldn’t I stare?” He knew he ought to smile to reassure her that he was only teasing and it meant nothing, but that wasn’t entirely true. She was lovely, and he saw no harm in telling her so. “You are making me feel uncomfortable,” she admitted. “And I should remind you that my heart is already given to another man.” “Don’t worry, a chara. I wouldn’t be trespassing where I’m not wanted. They’re only words.” She still appeared uneasy. “Perhaps you should put me down on the bench again, Lord Ashton.” “If you’re wanting me to, I will. But I should warn you that the rain will soak through your gown and make you colder. It might not be wise.” “Nothing I do is very wise, it seems.” She lowered her gaze to avoid his. “I know how improper this is. My grandmother would be appalled if she could see you holding me right now. Even though we do have a chaperone.” She nodded toward Hattie, who was still cowering from the storm. “I-I should have brought Calvert along.” He didn’t deny it. The scent of her skin enticed him, and he was caught up in watching a single raindrop slide down her throat. Her breathing seemed to shift, and she was staring back at him now. Her eyes passed over his hair and his face. In her scrutiny, he wondered if she found him appealing enough. He’d never given much thought to his looks, but he hoped she was not displeased. “Why are you looking at me?” he murmured. Her mouth tightened, but she managed a smile. “I suppose, for the same reason you looked at me.” “Because you find me handsome?” He continued watching her, and the longer he held her, the more it struck him that he liked having this woman in his arms. “Well, you are that,” she admitted with a smile. “But I wondered if you might be a pirate in disguise, planning to carry me off. Despite my intentions to wed Lord Burkham.” There was teasing in her voice, meant to lighten the mood. “I

Ashton took her hand, resting his other palm against her waist. He moved in a slow tempo, giving her time to pick up each foot in the dance step. But every time he attempted to turn her, her feet seemed to tangle together. “I’m so clumsy,” she apologized. “My feet won’t move the way I want them to.” She lacked the physical ability to keep the rhythm, and it heightened her frustration. “I don’t even know what I was thinking. No one waltzes this slowly.” He didn’t deny it, but his hand pressed lightly at her waist, turning her once more. “You knew it wouldn’t be easy.” “You’re right. And besides that, I only took my first steps a week ago. It could take months before I’m nimble enough to dance.” In answer to that, the earl lifted her up and held her body aloft while he spun her in the waltz step. The sudden motion caught her unawares, and she began to laugh. “You cannot lift me up in a ballroom, Lord Ashton. Please put me down.” Her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment, though the Irishman didn’t seem to care. He stopped spinning her, but held her up a moment longer. “Iain,” he corrected. But he did not set her down just yet. He kept his arms beneath her hips, and Rose was caught up in his green eyes. He stared at her with unveiled interest, and his dark hair framed a chiseled face. She could half-imagine him carrying her across the garden and laying her down against the grass before he kissed her again. The thought brought her attention back to his firm mouth. She had enjoyed his kiss, and it had soothed her pride to know that she’d kindled his interest. It had been so long since she’d seen Thomas, she didn’t know what remained between them. But it felt good to have a man watching her as if he wanted her. “Iain,” she murmured. He brought her down, but the entire time, her body was pressed close to his. She kept her arms upon his shoulders a moment longer before she took slow, limping steps back to the garden bench. Why did she allow her imagination to trespass into thoughts of what could never be? He needed an heiress who would return with him to Ireland. Not a woman like her. They were friends, and that was all.

When the guide led the others upstairs, they strayed behind. Michele looked frustrated at the velvet ropes blocking the doors to the rooms. "We've got to get in those closets!" she said urgently. Overhead she could hear the footsteps of the people proceeding from one side of the house to the other. She wondered which room had the head. She wanted to be the one to find it. "We don't have much time," Brian said, as the muffled footsteps clomped into another room. "Oh, you take the study, I'll take the dining room," Michele said uncertainly. Brian ducked under one rope and Michele did the same in the other room. She tiptoed carefully past a table covered with fragile-looking china. They were really trespassing, she worried, hoping Brian was being careful too. If they accidentally broke something, she guessed their allowance forever would never begin to pay for a priceless antique. She pulled the small door open just enough to slip inside. She looked down at the floor, assuming the head would be sitting in the corner, maybe in a box or something. But instead of a head, she saw two feet. Michele jumped and looked up at a head and squealed in surprise. "Brian! You scared me to death!" "You sure you're brave enough to find the pirate's missing head?" he teased. She could tell he was tickled to have scared her so. "You're in my closet," she admonished. "No, you're in mine," Brian said, motioning behind him towards the door to the study. "There are two entrances to this chimney room." "Look," he said, tapping on the window. Below, waving at them were Michael and Jo Dee. Brian made silly faces back at them.

From high in the sky I looked down upon an island, and then I was standing on the island in front of a house. The house was white and stood upon a sort of inland cliff. I entered it, and there was a great hearth in the center of the room, the heart, I thought, of a place full of peace. Behind it were shelves with jars full of liquid, and when I looked out I could see a garden with neat rows of herbs. On the other side I could see that the land fell away, and in the distance was a view of a village and sea and shore. Feeling almost as if I were trespassing in someone’s house and the owner might come home and catch me, I sat in a big chair by the hearth, watched thoughtfully by an owl—not Moon—who perched on a shelf. As I did so, my fears subsided. I knew that this was my chair and my house, that I fitted it perfectly and was completely comfortable, that this was the place in the world that I was seeking. It was a place in which there was no dread.