Briefly Explain Quotes

I live for coincidences. They briefly give to me the illusion or the hope that there's a pattern to my life, and if there's a pattern, then maybe I'm moving toward some kind of destiny where it's all explained.

Paul, tell him you need to talk to international security advisors. Briefly explain the army asked you to act as a temporary diplomat. You don’t have to give the details. Now, what are your calendar plans?

Is that a scanning electron microscope? “This’ll do, pig, this’ll do,” I murmur. “Excuse me?” “Sorry. Film reference, wasn’t meant as an insult.” “Ah. I see.” His tone tells me he clearly doesn’t. I briefly consider educating him, but explaining a movie about a talking pig who wants to be a sheepdog to a Japanese vampire just isn’t all that high on my to-do list.

So, what's the big emergency, princess? You and ice-boy look fine to me, and the Nevernever isn't crumbling around us. What's going on?" "I'm pregnant, Puck," I said quietly, and watched his eyebrows shoot into his hair. Briefly,I explained what had happened at Elysium, the oracle's mysterious appearance and invitation, and Grimalkin's instruction to meet him at the Wishing Tree. By the time I was done, Puck was still staring at me openmouthed, struck mute for maybe the second time in his life, and I would've laughed if the situation wasn't so serious. "Oh," he finally managed. "That's, uh... Wow. That's not something you hear every day. Not exactly what I was expecting, though the entire prophecy thing does get old after a while." He shook himself, seeming to regain his composure, and glanced at Ash. "So, it's the ever so popular Firstborn Child of Doom prophecy, huh, ice-boy? How very cliche. Why can't it be the third nephew twice removed who's fated to destroy the world?

I’m not with you ’cause I’m at war. Which is one way of saying it’s already February and the president wants to deport my friends. It’s hard to explain.

Centuries of navel-gazing. Millennia of masturbation. Plato to Descartes to Dawkins to Rhanda. Souls and zombie agents and qualia. Kolmogorov complexity. Consciousness as Divine Spark. Consciousness as electromagnetic field. Consciousness as functional cluster. I explored it all. Wegner thought it was an executive summary. Penrose heard it in the singing of caged electrons. Nirretranders said it was a fraud; Kazim called it leakage from a parallel universe. Metzinger wouldn't even admit it existed. The AIs claimed to have worked it out, then announced they couldn't explain it to us. Gödel was right after all: no system can fully understand itself. Not even the synthesists had been able to rotate it down. The load-bearing beams just couldn't take the strain. All of them, I began to realize, had missed the point. All those theories, all those drugdreams and experiments and models trying to prove what consciousness was: none to explain what it was good for. None needed: obviously, consciousness makes us what we are. It lets us see the beauty and the ugliness. It elevates us into the exalted realm of the spiritual. Oh, a few outsiders—Dawkins, Keogh, the occasional writer of hackwork fiction who barely achieved obscurity—wondered briefly at the why of it: why not soft computers, and no more? Why should nonsentient systems be inherently inferior? But they never really raised their voices above the crowd. The value of what we are was too trivially self-evident to ever call into serious question. Yet the questions persisted, in the minds of the laureates, in the angst of every horny fifteen-year-old on the planet. Am I nothing but sparking chemistry? Am I a magnet in the ether? I am more than my eyes, my ears, my tongue; I am the little thing behind those things, the thing looking out from inside. But who looks out from its eyes? What does it reduce to? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? What a stupid fucking question. I could have answered it in a second, if Sarasti hadn't forced me to understand it first.

She briefly considers telling the rat about her life crisis. She imagines she’d like to explain that it’s difficult to know who you are once you are alone, when you have always been there for the sake of someone else. But she doesn’t want to trouble the rat with it.

Everyone’s lonely, dear,” she explained, drawing him close to her. “We touch other people only briefly, then we’re alone again. You’ll get used to it in time.

Dreaming may simply be a by-product of this nightly cerebral housecleaning. As the brain clears wastes and consolidates memories, neural circuits fire randomly, briefly throwing up fragmentary images, a bit like someone jumping between television channels when looking for something to watch. Confronted with this incoherent flow of memories, anxieties, fantasies, suppressed emotions, and the like, the brain possibly tries to make a sensible narrative out of it all, or possibly, because it is itself resting, doesn’t try at all, and just lets the incoherent pulses flow past. That may explain why we generally don’t remember dreams much despite their intensity—because they are not actually meaningful or important.

Rape and other acts of violence, up to and including murder, as well as threats of violence, constitute the barrage some men lay down as they attempt to control some women, and fear of that violence limits most women in ways they’ve gotten so used to they hardly notice–and we hardly address. There are exceptions: last summer someone wrote to me to describe a college class in which the students were asked what they do to stay safe from rape. The young women described the intricate ways they stayed alert, limited their access to the world, took precautions, and essentially thought about rape all the time (while the young men in the class, he added, gaped in astonishment). The chasm between their worlds had briefly and suddenly become visible.

even if Noam Chomsky were right about everything, the Islamic doctrines related to martyrdom, jihad, blasphemy, apostasy, the rights of women and homosexuals, etc. would still present huge problems for the emergence of a global civil society (and these are problems quite unlike those presented by similar tenets in other faiths, for reasons that I have explained at length elsewhere and touch on only briefly here). And any way in which I might be biased or blinded by “the religion of the state,” or any other form of cultural indoctrination, has absolutely no relevance to the plight of Shiites who have their mosques, weddings, and funerals bombed by Sunni extremists, or to victims of rape who are beaten, imprisoned, or even killed as “adulteresses” throughout the Muslim world. I hope it goes without saying that the Afghan girls who even now are risking their lives by merely learning to read would not be best compensated for their struggles by being handed copies of Chomsky’s books enumerating the sins of the West

There's no denying that I have feelings for you that can't be explained in any other way. I briefly considered that I had a brain parasite, but that seems even more far-fetched. The only conclusion was love.

Much to the scientists’ surprise, the men, after seeing an emotional face for just one fifth of a second—so briefly that it was still unconscious—were more emotionally reactive than the women. But it’s what happened to the men’s facial muscles next that helped me explain Neil’s guy face to Danielle. As the experiment proceeded, at 2.5 seconds, well into the range of conscious processing, the men’s facial muscles became less emotionally responsive than the women’s. The researchers concluded that the men consciously—or at least semiconsciously—suppressed showing their emotions on their faces. Meanwhile, the women’s facial muscles became more emotionally responsive after 2.5 seconds. According to the researchers, this suggests that men have trained themselves, perhaps since childhood, to automatically turn off or disguise facial emotions. The females’ expressions not only continued to mirror the emotion they were seeing on the face in the photo, but they automatically exaggerated it, from a grin to a big smile or from a subtle frown to a pout. They, too, had been practicing this since childhood.

Some form of natural teleology, a type of explanation whose intelligibility I briefly defended in the last chapter, would be an alternative to a miracle— either in the sense of a wildly improbable fluke or in the sense of a divine intervention in the natural order. The tendency for life to form may be a basic feature of the natural order, not explained by the nonteleological laws of physics and chemistry. This seems like an admissible conjecture given the available evidence. And once there are beings who can respond to value, the rather different teleology of intentional action becomes part of the historical picture , resulting in the creation of new value. The universe has become not only conscious and aware of itself but capable in some respects of choosing its path into the future—though all three, the consciousness, the knowledge, and the choice, are dispersed over a vast crowd of beings, acting both individually and collectively.

I had the abrupt sensation of falling, lost my breath, worried briefly that I’d never catch it again. The more we were together, the further and faster I fell. His gaze was steady yet scorching—which explained why I was melting beneath it.

There's folly in her stride that's the rumor justified by lies I've seen her up close beneath the sheets and sometime during the summer she was mine for a few sweet months in the fall and parts of December ((( To get to the heart of this unsolvable equation, one must first become familiar with the physical, emotional, and immaterial makeup as to what constitutes both war and peace. ))) I found her looking through a window the same window I'd been looking through She smiled and her eyes never faltered this folly was a crime ((( The very essence of war is destructive, though throughout the years utilized as a means of creating peace, such an equation might seem paradoxical to the untrained eye. Some might say using evil to defeat evil is counterproductive, and gives more meaning to the word “futile”. Others, like Edmund Burke, would argue that “the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing.” ))) She had an identity I could identify with something my fingertips could caress in the night ((( There is such a limitless landscape within the mind, no two minds are alike. And this is why as a race we will forever be at war with each other. What constitutes peace is in the mind of the beholder. ))) Have you heard the argument? This displacement of men and women and women and men the minds we all have the beliefs we all share Slipping inside of us thoughts and religions and bodies all bare ((( “Without darkness, there can be no light,” he once said. To demonstrate this theory, during one of his seminars he held a piece of white chalk and drew a line down the center of a blackboard. Explaining that without the blackness of the board, the white line would be invisible. ))) When she left she kissed with eyes open I knew this because I'd done the same Sometimes we saw eye to eye like that Very briefly, she considered an apotheosis a synthesis a rendering of her folly into solidarity ((( To believe that a world-wide lay down of arms is possible, however, is the delusion of the pacifist; the dream of the optimist; and the joke of the realist. Diplomacy only goes so far, and in spite of our efforts to fight with words- there are times when drawing swords of a very different nature are surely called for. ))) Experiencing the subsequent sunrise inhaling and drinking breaking mirrors and regurgitating just to start again all in all I was just another gash in the bark ((( Plato once said: “Only the dead have seen the end of war.” Perhaps the death of us all is called for in this time of emotional desperation. War is a product of the mind; only with the death of such will come the end of the bloodshed. Though this may be a fairly realistic view of such an issue, perhaps there is an optimistic outlook on the horizon. Not every sword is double edged, but every coin is double sided. ))) Leaving town and throwing shit out the window drinking boroughs and borrowing spare change I glimpsed the rear view mirror stole a glimpse really I've believed in looking back for a while it helps to have one last view a reminder in case one ever decides to rebel in the event the self regresses and makes the declaration of devastation once more ((( Thus, if we wish to eliminate the threat of war today- complete human annihilation may be called for. )))

Who is he?" "Rupert St. John." "Isn't he-oh,my,that handsome boy of Julie's? Well, that explains a bit, I suppose. He always did dazzle you whenever you saw him,didn't he?" "Yes,until I got to know him," Rebecca replied, then wished she'd kept that grumble to herself. Up went Lilly's brow. "Something else is wrong aside from the fact that you had to get married?" "I suppose that the bride and groom hate each other could be considered a little something else," Flora said. This time Lilly sat down.She started to say something, but changed her mind. She opened her mouth to start again, but again snapped it shut. Finally she burst out, "This sort of thing was never supposed to happen to you!" Then after giving herself a brief shake, she said, "Very well, as briefly as you can, please,so I can get beyond this sudden urge to go find a pistol.

The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate.

Psychologists have devised some ingenious ways to help unpack the human "now." Consider how we run those jerky movie frames together into a smooth and continuous stream. This is known as the "phi phenomenon." The essence of phi shows up in experiments in a darkened room where two small spots are briefly lit in quick succession, at slightly separated locations. What the subjects report seeing is not a succession of spots, but a single spot moving continuously back and forth. Typically, the spots are illuminated for 150 milliseconds separated by an interval of fifty milliseconds. Evidently the brain somehow "fills in" the fifty-millisecond gap. Presumably this "hallucination" or embellishment occurs after the event, because until the second light flashes the subject cannot know the light is "supposed" to move. This hints that the human now is not simultaneous with the visual stimulus, but a bit delayed, allowing time for the brain to reconstruct a plausible fiction of what has happened a few milliseconds before. In a fascinating refinement of the experiment, the first spot is colored red, the second green. This clearly presents the brain with a problem. How will it join together the two discontinuous experiences—red spot, green spot—smoothly? By blending the colors seamlessly into one another? Or something else? In fact, subjects report seeing the spot change color abruptly in the middle of the imagined trajectory, and are even able to indicate exactly where using a pointer. This result leaves us wondering how the subject can apparently experience the "correct" color sensation before the green spot lights up. Is it a type of precognition? Commenting on this eerie phenomenon, the philosopher Nelson Goodman wrote suggestively: "The intervening motion is produced retrospectively, built only after the second flash occurs and projected backwards in time." In his book Consciousness Explained , philosopher Daniel Dennett points out that the illusion of color switch cannot actually be created by the brain until after the green spot appears. "But if the second spot is already 'in conscious experience,' wouldn't it be too late to interpose the illusory content between the conscious experience of the red spot and the conscious experience of the green spot?

He recalls a lot of family worry about what he was going to do, and while he still sent in the occasional sketch to radio shows, he acknowledges that his confidence was extremely low. Despite his subsequent success and wealth, this propensity for a lack of confidence has continued. “I have terrible periods of lack of confidence,” he explains. “I just don’t believe I can do it and no evidence to the contrary will sway me from that view. I briefly did therapy, but after a while I realised it is just like a farmer complaining about the weather. You can’t fix the weather—you just have to get on with it.” So has that approach helped him? “Not necessarily,” he shrugs.

the students were asked what they do to stay safe from rape. The young women described the intricate ways they stayed alert, limited their access to the world, took precautions, and essentially thought about rape all the time (while the young men in the class, he added, gaped in astonishment). The chasm between their worlds had briefly and suddenly become visible.

What is time? Who can explain this easily and briefly? Who can comprehend this even in thought so as to articulate the answer in words? Yet what do we speak of, in our familiar everyday conversation, more than of time? We surely know what we mean when we speak of it. We also know what is meant when we hear someone else talking about it. What then is time? Provided that no one asks me, I know. If I want to explain it to an inquirer, I do not know. But I confidently affirm myself to know that if nothing passes away, there is no past time, and if nothing arrives, there is no future time, and if nothing existed there would be no present time. Take the two tenses, past and future. How can they 'be' when the past is not now present and the future is not yet present? Yet if the present were always present, it would not pass into the past: it would not be time but eternity. If then, in order to be time at all, the present is so made that it passes into the past, how can we say that this present also 'is'? The cause of its being is that it will cease to be. So indeed we cannot truly say that time exists except in the sense that it tends toward non-existence.

Why do you have to go to the cathedral?' said Leni. K. tried to explain briefly, but he had hardly begun when Leni suddenly said: 'They are hounding you.' K., who could not bear anyone feeling sorry for him unexpectedly or gratuitously, broke off abruptly with just two words; but as he hung up the receiver he said, half to himself and half to the distant woman who could no longer hear him: 'Yes, they are hounding me.

Marie goes silent, watching. Ruth, in whom long friendship has built a window between them, can briefly see inside Marie’s mind. Suppressing a smile, she says that this inspiration of Marie’s seems more devilish than divine. Marie says that she cannot doubt it is divine, for how else does one explain the abbey’s difficulty in finding a good renter for that little house with its gardens on the far side of town? It is providence. She has been shown their path.

Perhaps no word in English has undergone more transformations in its lifetime than ‘toilet’. Originally, in about 1540, it was a kind of cloth, a diminutive form of ‘toile’, a word still used to describe a type of linen. Then it became a cloth for use on dressing tables. Then it became the items on the dressing table (whence ‘toiletries’). Then it became the dressing table itself, then the act of dressing, then the act of receiving visitors while dressing, then the dressing room itself, then any kind of private room near a bedroom, then a room used lavatorially, and finally the lavatory itself. Which explains why ‘toilet water’ in English can describe something you would gladly daub on your face or, simultaneously, ‘water in a toilet’. Garderobe, a word now extinct, went through a similar but slightly more compacted transformation. A combination of ‘guard’ and ‘robe’, it first signified a storeroom, then any private room, then (briefly) a bed-chamber and finally a privy.

Teach me.” The words escape me without thought, and I lift my pleading eyes to meet her puzzled expression . “I don’t know how to do this, Spence. How to love like you do. To live like you do.” I pause briefly, trying to figure a way to explain so she will understand. “Emotions such as trust and compassion, feelings of patience and empathy – those gifts that come so naturally for you – I’ve never been able to understand, much less exercise. I need you to teach me because I want to be able to give you everything you deserve. And you deserve someone as flawless as you.

One of the best things about owning a brain is how you often seem to phase out of normalcy and briefly see your culture with a weirdly objective frame of mind. At some point every child realizes money is made up of slips of paper with no intrinsic value, and wonders why aloud. So, too, will children ask adults what’s up with shaking hands, or putting your fork on one side of the plate, or saying “Bless you” after a sneeze. Parents apply the glue that holds a culture together when explaining to a child that his socks must match, or that punctuality is paramount, or that picking his nose in public is a terrible habit. When a parent tells a boy he shouldn’t play with dolls, or a girl to wait for a boy to ask her to the prom, they are enforcing norms. When a kid asks, “But, why?” she is rightfully bringing to the attention of the adult world that all this stuff is just made up and mostly arbitrary nonsense often clung to for some long-forgotten reason. That feeling you sometimes get when you snap out of your culture for a moment, when the operating system crashes and slowly reboots, has been the subject of literature and drama for thousands of years.

Question No. 6 Briefly outline the historical development of castles in western Europe. What, if anything, do they have to do with cannoli? By the way, is “cannoli” singular or plural? Are the vanilla kind better than the chocolate? Question No. 7 Tell why you like reading stories about dragons and castles and fairies and that sort of thing. Have you ever read, say, A la recherché du temps perdu by Marcel Proust? Compare and contrast this book with any genre fantasy novel and explain why a writer would spend 30 pages describing how he rolls over in bed (no kidding). Why do the French think so highly of Jerry Lewis?

You coming with us?” “Not this time. I’ve got a different errand to run.” “Okay.” She reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear affectionately. “Be careful. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the worst Spanish student in the history of the language.” I laughed. “No probelmo.” By the time I found Reth, he was deep in discussion with the banshees, their discordant voices chiding him for something or other. I hated to pull him away from getting chewed out, but it had to be done. Another faeries, all spring and mint green, was with him. After briefly explaining about the location of the dancers, she left to retrieve them. I wanted to send Reth because I trusted him more, but he didn’t look good. I’d keep him with me so I could keep an eye on him. He wouldn’t ask for help—not from anyone—but I’d be there no matter what. When we got back to the house, Lend was already there with several grocery bags full of bread. Reth turned his head away as though the very sight of it was distasteful. “Even the food of this world is nothing but decay.” Clearly he had never tried pizza, because honestly. We linked hands—my ex-boyfriend, my boyfriend, and my former friend-then-enemy-then-friend and I—and walked through a door to see if maybe empty carbs were good for something after all.

One night, when Violet’s parents had gone out, he teased her about it, whispering against her throat, “I should probably be dating girls my own age now that you’ll be over-the-hill.” Jay was stretched out on Violet’s bed as she curled against him. Violet laughed, rising to the bait. “Fine,” she challenged, pulling away and leaning up on her elbow. “I’m sure there are plenty of men my own age who would be willing to finish what you’ve started.” Jay stiffened, and Violet realized that she’d struck a nerve. “What is it?” He shook his head, and Violet thought he might say, “Nothing,” so when he answered, his words caught her off guard. “Is there someone else, Vi?” Violet frowned, baffled by the unfamiliar jealousy she saw on his face. She wondered what in the world he meant as she reached down and smoothed a strand of hair from his forehead. “What are you talking about, Jay?” His eyes met hers. “I saw you with that guy at the movies, Vi. Who was he?” Violet closed her eyes. She wasn’t ready yet. She didn’t want to tell him about the FBI, about Sara and Rafe or what she’d learned about Mike’s mother. She wondered briefly if he knew about Mike’s mom-if his friend had ever confided in him. But somehow she doubted it. Jay wasn’t like her; he didn’t keep secrets. “It’s not like that,” she explained, hoping that would be enough. Jay got up and went to the window, pushing the curtain aside. Every muscle in his body was rigid. “Like what, Vi? What’s going on? Something’s been bothering you lately. Why can’t you tell me?” He was right. She owed it to him to at least try. “I don’t know how to explain, but I just feel like everything’s changed between us-“ “Of course it’s changed, Violet, what’d you expect?” Violet tried to ignore the bitterness in his voice, telling herself she had no right to be hurt. “It used to be that I would never keep secrets from you. You were my best friend. But now that we’re dating, it’s just…different. I feel like I have to watc what I say, or you get all worried. Sometimes I just want you to be the old Jay again, so I can talk to you.” Violet crept up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back.

Poor Scott. Briefly, briefly, as a boy on the verge of manhood, he’d been so handsome and promising that the sequel must have seemed a dream; behind the acne and brain damage and bewildering alienation, he was a golden boy still. Probably he thought he’d given his poor old stepmom the thrill of her life. One thing was certain: at that moment he’d loved her and was sorry for ever thinking ill of her—she’d packed his lunch!—and wanted to convey this in some meaningful way. Probably, too, he was drunk and/or high. As Scott’s only brother—a person who shared his sense of humor and some of his darker tendencies too—I considered explaining as much to Sandra, for what it was worth. Instead I said, “Welcome to the club.” “. . . No!” I nodded. “Tongue and all.” Sandra

Freydis lifted a hand and rubbed briefly at the spot on her chin where the gun’s muzzle had left a mild indentation. Then she said, to Murphy, “Are you seeing anyone?” Murphy blinked. “Mortals make the best lovers by far,” Freydis explained. “And this job means I’m basically sexually frustrated around the clock. But it’s hard to find mortals I respect.” Murphy’s cheeks turned bright pink. “Um.” Freydis frowned slightly and glanced from Murphy to me and back. “I don’t mind sharing.” “I’m . . . I’m Catholic,” Murphy said. Freydis’s eyes shone with a wicked sparkle. “I don’t mind conflicted, either.” Murphy gave me a somewhat desperate glance. Huh. I’d officially seen everything now. Murphy asking for a rescue. From monsters and madmen, she’d never cried uncle. It had taken a redhead. “Business first, maybe?” I suggested. “We could all die tonight,” Freydis said. “But as you wish.

Seems to know you,” the Captain observed. “He thought I was dead.” Jalena rejoined his party. He gabbled and pointed. Pale-faced men looked our way. They argued briefly, then the whole lot fled the garden. Raven did not explain. Instead, he said, “Shall we get to business?” “Care to illuminate what just happened?” The Captain’s voice had a dangerous softness. “No.” “Better reconsider. Your presence could endanger the whole Company.” “It won’t. It’s a personal matter. I won’t bring it with me.” The Captain thought about it. He is not one to intrude on a man’s past. Not without cause. He decided he had cause. “How can you avoid bringing it? Obviously, you mean something to Lord Jalena.” “Not to Jalena. To friends of his. It’s old history. I’ll settle it before I join you. Five people have to die to close the book.” This sounded interesting. Ah, the smell of mystery and dark doings, of skulduggery and revenge. The meat of a good tale.

Storm Island is a little south of here,” explained Frank, opening a chart. “It’s nothing but a pile of rocks in the sea, according to Worth. The light hasn’t been used in years, since there’s no more shipping from Larchmont.” They left the harbor and headed the boat south on the blue-green sea. The white dunes of the beach were far over to their right. The horizon was a line where the powder-blue sky met the darker hue of the ocean. Then a pile of jumbled rocks came into view. “Must be Storm Island,” Frank said briefly. As they came closer, they saw that the islet was indeed nothing but a mass of rock, about a hundred yards long. From its center rose a conical wooden tower with a black roof and gaping windows. They landed at a little stone jetty and tied up the boat, then mounted some stone steps that apparently led to a path to the lighthouse. Quickly the boys looked around for the gangling figure of the professor. No one was in sight.

This was the point in the Fire Swamp sequence where Buttercup’s dress briefly catches on fire before the flame is extinguished by Westley. It’s merely a line in the stage directions and consumes only a few seconds of film, but before we could shoot the scene, several steps had to be taken. First, a fire marshal had to be brought to the set. He would then meet with the stunt coordinator, Peter Diamond, Nick Allder, our FX supervisor, and his special effects crew. This was followed by what is known as a general “safety meeting” with the rest of the crew. Anytime there are firearms, fire, or even a dangerous or semidangerous stunt involved, there is always a safety meeting of this kind. The whole crew gathers around, and usually the first AD explains what the meeting is about. He then introduces everyone to the person in charge of special effects/stunts/firearms, etc., and that person walks everyone through the sequence, detailing both process and all potential safety concerns.

Voldemort caught up with you?” said Lupin sharply. “What happened? How did you escape?” Harry explained briefly how the Death Eaters pursuing them had seemed to recognize him as the true Harry, how they had abandoned the chase, how they must have summoned Voldemort, who had appeared just before he and Hagrid had reached the sanctuary of Tonks’s parents. “They recognized you? But how? What had you done?” “I . . .” Harry tried to remember; the whole journey seemed like a blur of panic and confusion. “I saw Stan Shunpike . . . . You know, the bloke who was the conductor on the Knight Bus? And I tried to Disarm him instead of—well, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, does he? He must be Imperiused!” Lupin looked aghast. “Harry, the time for Disarming is past! These people are trying to capture and kill you! At least Stun if you aren’t prepared to kill!” “We were hundreds of feet up! Stan’s not himself, and if I Stunned him and he’d fallen, he’d have died the same as if I’d used Avada Kedavra! Expelliarmus saved me from Voldemort two years ago,” Harry added defiantly. Lupin was reminding him of the sneering Hufflepuff Zacharius Smith, who had jeered at Harry for wanting to teach Dumbledore’s Army how to Disarm. “Yes, Harry,” said Lupin with painful restraint, “and a great number of Death Eaters witnessed that happening! Forgive me, but it was a very unusual move then, under imminent threat of death. Repeating it tonight in front of Death Eaters who either witnessed or heard about the first occasion was close to suicidal!” “So you think I should have killed Stan Shunpike?” said Harry angrily. “Of course not,” said Lupin, “but the Death Eaters—frankly, most people!—would have expected you to attack back! Expelliarmus is a useful spell, Harry, but the Death Eaters seem to think it is your signature move, and I urge you not to let it become so!” Lupin was making Harry feel idiotic, and yet there was still a grain of defiance inside him. “I won’t blast people out of my way just because they’re there,” said Harry. “That’s Voldemort’s job.

Eeh, but whah’s the use, the fuckin’ use?” Dixon resting his head briefly tho’ audibly upon the Table. “It’s over . . . ? Nought left to us but Paper-work . . . ?” Their task has shifted, from Direct Traverse upon the Line to Pen-and-Paper Representation of it, in the sober Day-Light of Philadelphia, strain’d thro’ twelve-by-twelve Sash-work, as in the spectreless Light of the Candles in their Rooms, suffering but the fretful Shadows of Dixon at the Drafting Table, and Mason, seconding now, reading from Entries in the Field-Book, as Dixon once minded the Clock for him. Finally, one day, Dixon announces, “Well,— won’t thee at least have a look . . . ?” Mason eagerly rushes to inspect the Map of the Boundaries, almost instantly boggling, for there bold as a Pirate’s Flag is an eight-pointed Star, surmounted by a Fleur-de-Lis. “What’s this thing here? pointing North? Wasn’t the l’Grand flying one of these? Doth it not signify, England’s most inveterately hated Rival? France?” “All respect, Mason,— among Brother and Sister Needle-folk in ev’ry Land, ’tis known universally, as the ‘Flower-de-Luce.’ A Magnetickal Term.” “ ‘Flower of Light’? Light, hey? Sounds Encyclopedistick to me, perhaps even Masonick,” says Mason. A Surveyor’s North-Point, Dixon explains, by long Tradition, is his own, which he may draw, and embellish, in any way he pleases, so it point where North be. It becomes his Hall-Mark, personal as a Silver-Smith’s, representative of his Honesty and Good Name. Further, as with many Glyphs, ’tis important ever to keep Faith with it,— for an often enormous Investment of Faith, and Will, lies condens’d within, giving it a Potency in the World that the Agents of Reason care little for. “ ’Tis an ancient Shape, said to go back to the earliest Italian Wind-Roses,” says Dixon, “— originally, at the North, they put the Letter T, for Tramontane, the Wind that blew down from the Alps . . . ? Over the years, as ever befalls such frail Bric-a-Brack as Letters of the Alphabet, it was beaten into a kind of Spear-head,— tho’ the kinder-hearted will aver it a Lily, and clash thy Face, do tha deny it.” “Yet some, finding it upon a new Map, might also take it as a reassertion of French claims to Ohio,” Mason pretends to remind him. “Aye, tha’ve found me out, I confess,— ’tis a secret Message to all who conspire in the Dark! Eeh! The old Jesuit Canard again!

The cemetery watchman left the room and returned with a tray holding three small skulls and a large one. I could feel the short hairs on the back of my neck standing up of their own accord. None of them were real though; they were wood or celluloid imitations. They all had flaps that opened at the top; one was a jug and the other three steins. The man behind the desk named the toast. 'To our Friend!' I thought he meant myself at first; he meant that shadowy enemy of all mankind, the Grim Reaper. 'We are called The Friends of Death,' he explained to me when the grisly containers had been emptied. 'To outline our creed and purpose briefly, it is this: That death is life, and life is death. We have mastered death, and no member of the Friends of Death need ever fear it. They 'die,' it is true, but after death they are buried in special graves in our private cemetery - graves having air vents, such as you discovered. Also, our graves are equipped with electric signals, so that after the bodies of our buried members begin to respond to the secret treatment our scientists have given them before internment, we are warned. Then we come and release them - and they live again. Moreover, they are released, freed of their thralldom; from then on death is an old familiar friend instead of an enemy. They no longer fear it. Do you not see what a wonderful boon this would be in your case, Brother Bud; you who have suffered so from that fear?' ("Graves For The Living")

Oedipa spent the next several days in and out of libraries and earnest discussions with Emory Bortz and Genghis Cohen. She feared a little for their security in view of what was happening to everyone else she knew. The day after reading Blobb's Peregrinations she, with Bortz, Grace, and the graduate students, attended Randolph Driblette's burial, listened to a younger brother's helpless, stricken eulogy, watched the mother, spectral in afternoon smog, cry, and came back at night to sit on the grave and drink Napa Valley muscatel, which Driblette in his time had put away barrels of. There was no moon, smog covered the stars, all black as a Tristero rider. Oedipa sat on the earth, ass getting cold, wondering whether, as Driblette had suggested that night from the shower, some version of herself hadn't vanished with him. Perhaps her mind would go on flexing psychic muscles that no longer existed; would be betrayed and mocked by a phantom self as the amputee is by a phantom limb. Someday she might replace whatever of her had gone away by some prosthetic device, a dress of a certain color, a phrase in a ' letter, another lover. She tried to reach out, to whatever coded tenacity of protein might improbably have held on six feet below, still resisting decay-any stubborn quiescence perhaps gathering itself for some last burst, some last scramble up through earth, just-glimmering, holding together with its final strength a transient, winged shape, needing to settle at once in the warm host, or dissipate forever into the dark. If you come to me, prayed Oedipa, bring your memories of the last night. Or if you have to keep down your payload, the last five minutes-that may be enough. But so I'll know if your walk into the sea had anything to do with Tristero. If they got rid of you for the reason they got rid of Hilarius and Mucho and Metzger-maybe because they thought I no longer needed you. They were wrong. I needed you. Only bring me that memory, and you can live with me for whatever time I've got. She remembered his head, floating in the shower, saying, you could fall in love with me. But could she have saved him? She looked over at the girl who'd given her the news of his death. Had they been in love? Did she know why Driblette had put in those two extra lines that night? Had he even known why? No one could begin to trace it. A hundred hangups, permuted, combined-sex, money, illness, despair with the history of his time and place, who knew. Changing the script had no clearer motive than his suicide. There was the same whimsy to both. Perhaps-she felt briefly penetrated, as if the bright winged thing had actually made it to the sanctuary of her heart-perhaps, springing from the same slick labyrinth, adding those two lines had even, in a way never to be explained, served him as a rehearsal for his night's walk away into that vast sink of the primal blood the Pacific. She waited for the winged brightness to announce its safe arrival. But there was silence. Driblette, she called. The signal echoing down twisted miles of brain circuitry. Driblette! But as with Maxwell's Demon, so now. Either she could not communicate, or he did not exist.

The black magic that evil-minded people of all religions practice for their ugly and inhuman motives. The modern world ignores that and even do not believe in it; however, it exists, and it sufficiently works too. When I was an assistant editor, in an evening newspaper, I edited and published such stories. As a believer, I believe that. However, not that can affect everyone; otherwise, every human would have been under the attack of it. No one can explain and define black magic and such practices. The scientists today fail to recognize such a phenomenon; therefore, routes are open for black magic to proceeds its practices without hindrances. One can search online websites, and YouTube; it will realize a large number of the victims of that the evil practice by evil-minded peoples of various societies. The magic, black magic, or evil power exists, and it works too. Evil power causes, effects, and appears, as diseases and psychological issues since no one can realize, trace, and prove that horror practice; it is the secret and privilege of the evil-minded people that law fails to catch and punish them, for such crime. I exemplify here, the two events briefly, one a very authentic that I suffered from it and another, a person, who also became a victim of it. The first, when I landed on the soil of the Netherlands, I thought, I was in the safest place; however, within one year, I faced the incident, which was a practice of my family, involving my brothers, my country mates, who lived in the Netherlands. The most suspected were the evil-minded people of the Ahmadiyya movement of Surinam people, and possibly my ex-wife and a Pakistani couple. I had seen the evidence of the black magic, which my family did upon me, but I could not trace the reality of other suspected ones that destroyed my career, future, health, and even life. The second, a Pakistani, who lived in Germany, for several years, as an active member of the Ahmadiyya Movement, he told me his story briefly, during a trip to London, attending a literary gathering. He received a gold medal for his poetry work, and also he served Ahmadiyya TV channel; however when he became a real Muslim; as a result, Ahmadiyya worriers turned against him. When they could not force him to back in their group, they practiced the devil's work to punish him. The symptoms of magic were well-known to me that he told me since I bore that on my body too. The multiple other stories that reveal that the Ahmadiyya Movement, possibly practices black magic ways, to achieve its goals. As my observation, they involve, to eliminate Muslim Imams and scholars, who cause the failure of that new religion and false prophet, claiming as Jesus. I am a victim of their such practices. Social Media and such websites are a stronghold of their activities. In Pakistan, they are active, in the guise of the real Muslims, to dodge the simple ones, as they do in Europe and other parts of the word. Such possibility and chance can be possible that use of drugs and chemicals, to defeat their opponents, it needs, wide-scale investigation to save, the humanity. The incident that occurred to me, in the Netherlands, in 1980, I tried and appealed to the authorities of the Netherlands, but they openly refused to cooperate that. However, I still hope and look forward to any miracle that someone from somewhere gives the courage to verify that.

Nothing within the cosmos contains the ground of its own being. To use an old terminology, every finite thing is the union of an essence (its “what it is”) with a unique existence (its “that it is”), each of which is utterly impotent to explain the other, or to explain itself for that matter, and neither of which can ever be wholly or permanently possessed by anything. One knows of oneself, for instance, that every instant of one’s existence is only a partial realization of what one is, achieved by surrendering the past to the future in the vanishing and infinitesimal interval of the present. Both one’s essence and one’s existence come from elsewhere—from the past and the future, from the surrounding universe and whatever it may depend upon, in a chain of causal dependencies reaching backward and forward and upward and downward—and one receives them both not as possessions secured within some absolute state of being but as evanescent gifts only briefly grasped within the ontological indigence of becoming. Everything that one is is a dynamic and perilously contingent synthesis of identity and change, wavering between existence and nonexistence. To employ another very old formula, one’s “potential” is always being reduced or collapsed into the finitely “actual” (always foreclosing forever all other possibilities for one’s existence), and only in this way can one be liberated into the living uncertainty of the future. Thus one lives and moves and has one’s being only at the sufferance of an endless number of enabling conditions, and becomes what one will be only by taking leave of what one has been. Simply said, one is contingent through and through, partaking of being rather than generating it out of some source within oneself; and the same is true of the whole intricate web of interdependencies that constitutes nature.

Blood pressure check!” The doorknob rattled, as if the nurse were intending just to walk in, but the lock held, thank God. The nurse knocked again. “Oh, shit,” Gina breathed, laughing as she scrambled off of him. She reached to remove the condom they’d just used, encountered . . . him, and met his eyes. But then she scooped her clothes off the floor and ran into the bathroom. “Mr. Bhagat?” The nurse knocked on the door again. Even louder this time. “Are you all right?” Oh, shit, indeed. “Come in,” Max called as he pulled up the blanket and leaned on the button that put his bed back up into a sitting position. The same control device had a “call nurse” button as well as the clearly marked one that would unlock the door. “It’s locked,” the nurse called back, as well he knew. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, as he wiped off his face with the edge of the sheet. Sweat much in bed, all alone, Mr. Bhagat? “I must’ve . . . Here, let me figure out how to . . .” He took an extra second to smooth his hair, his pajama top, and then, praying that the nurse had a cold and couldn’t smell the scent of sex that lingered in the air, he hit the release. “Please don’t lock your door during the day,” the woman scolded him as she came into the room, around to the side of his bed. It was Debra Forsythe, a woman around his age, whom Max had met briefly at his check-in. She had been on her way home to deal with some crisis with her kids, and hadn’t been happy then, either. “And not at night either,” she added, “until you’ve been here a few days.” “Sorry.” He gave her an apologetic smile, hanging on to it as the woman gazed at him through narrowed eyes. She didn’t say anything, she just wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and pumped it a little too full of air—ow—as Gina opened the bathroom door. “Did I hear someone at the door?” she asked brightly. “Oh, hi. Debbie, right?” “Debra.” She glanced at Gina, and then back, her disgust for Max apparent in the tightness of her lips. But then she focused on the gauge, stethoscope to his arm. Gina came out into the room, crossing around behind the nurse, making a face at him that meant . . .? Max sent her a questioning look, and she flashed him. She just lifted her skirt and gave him a quick but total eyeful. Which meant . . . Ah, Christ. The nurse turned to glare at Gina, who quickly straightened up from searching the floor. What was it with him and missing underwear? Gina smiled sweetly. “His blood pressure should be nice and low. He’s very relaxed—he just had a massage.” “You know, I didn’t peg you for a troublemaker when you checked in yesterday,” Debra said to Max, as she wrote his numbers on the chart. Gina was back to scanning the floor, but again, she straightened up innocently when the nurse turned toward her. “I think you’re probably looking for this.” Debra leaned over and . . . Gina’s panties dangled off the edge of her pen. They’d been on the floor, right at the woman’s sensibly clad feet. “Oops,” Gina said. Max could tell that she was mortified, but only because he knew her so well. She forced an even sunnier smile, and attempted to explain. “It was just . . . he was in the hospital for so long and . . .” “And men have needs,” Debra droned, clearly unmoved. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.” “No, actually,” Gina said, still trying to turn this into something they could all laugh about, “I have needs.” But it was obvious that this nurse hadn’t laughed since 1985. “Then maybe you should find someone your own age to play with. A professional hockey player just arrived. He’s in the east wing. Second floor.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Lots of money. Just your type, I’m sure.” “Excuse me?” Gina wasn’t going to let one go past. She may not have been wearing any panties, but her Long Island attitude now waved around her like a superhero’s cape. She even assumed the battle position, hands on her hips.

My father's generation grew up with certain beliefs. One of those beliefs is that the amount of money one earns is a rough guide to one's contribution to the welfare and prosperity of our society. I grew up unusually close to my father. Each evening I would plop into a chair near him, sweaty from a game of baseball in the front yard, and listen to him explain why such and such was true and such and such was not. One thing that was almost always true was that people who made a lot of money were neat. Horatio Alger and all that. It took watching his son being paid 225 grand at the age of twenty-seven, after two years on the job, to shake his faith in money. He has only recently recovered from the shock. I haven't. When you sit, as I did, at the center of what has been possibly the most absurd money game ever and benefit out of all proportion to your value to society (as much as I'd like to think I got only what I deserved, I don't), when hundreds of equally undeserving people around you are all raking it in faster than they can count it, what happens to the money belief? Well, that depends. For some, good fortune simply reinforces the belief. They take the funny money seriously, as evidence that they are worthy citizens of the Republic. It becomes their guiding assumption-for it couldn't possibly be clearly thought out-that a talent for making money come out of a telephone is a reflection of merit on a grander scale. It is tempting to believe that people who think this way eventually suffer their comeuppance. They don't. They just get richer. I'm sure most of them die fat and happy. For me, however, the belief in the meaning of making dollars crumbled; the proposition that the more money you earn, the better the life you are leading was refuted by too much hard evidence to the contrary. And without that belief, I lost the need to make huge sums of money. The funny thing is that I was largely unaware how heavily influenced I was by the money belief until it had vanished. It is a small piece of education, but still the most useful thing I picked up at Salomon Brothers. Almost everything else I learned I left behind. I became fairly handy with a few hundred million dollars, but I'm still lost when I have to decide what to do with a few thousand. I learned humility briefly in the training program but forgot it as soon as I was given a chance. And I learned that people can be corrupted by organizations, but since I remain willing to join organizations and even to be corrupted by them (mildly, please), I'm not sure what practical benefit will come from this lesson.

The Tale of Human Evolution The subject most often brought up by advocates of the theory of evolution is the subject of the origin of man. The Darwinist claim holds that modern man evolved from ape-like creatures. During this alleged evolutionary process, which is supposed to have started 4-5 million years ago, some "transitional forms" between modern man and his ancestors are supposed to have existed. According to this completely imaginary scenario, four basic "categories" are listed: 1. Australopithecus 2. Homo habilis 3. Homo erectus 4. Homo sapiens Evolutionists call man's so-called first ape-like ancestors Australopithecus, which means "South African ape." These living beings are actually nothing but an old ape species that has become extinct. Extensive research done on various Australopithecus specimens by two world famous anatomists from England and the USA, namely, Lord Solly Zuckerman and Prof. Charles Oxnard, shows that these apes belonged to an ordinary ape species that became extinct and bore no resemblance to humans. Evolutionists classify the next stage of human evolution as "homo," that is "man." According to their claim, the living beings in the Homo series are more developed than Australopithecus. Evolutionists devise a fanciful evolution scheme by arranging different fossils of these creatures in a particular order. This scheme is imaginary because it has never been proved that there is an evolutionary relation between these different classes. Ernst Mayr, one of the twentieth century's most important evolutionists, contends in his book One Long Argument that "particularly historical [puzzles] such as the origin of life or of Homo sapiens, are extremely difficult and may even resist a final, satisfying explanation." By outlining the link chain as Australopithecus > Homo habilis > Homo erectus > Homo sapiens, evolutionists imply that each of these species is one another's ancestor. However, recent findings of paleoanthropologists have revealed that Australopithecus, Homo habilis, and Homo erectus lived at different parts of the world at the same time. Moreover, a certain segment of humans classified as Homo erectus have lived up until very modern times. Homo sapiens neandarthalensis and Homo sapiens sapiens (modern man) co-existed in the same region. This situation apparently indicates the invalidity of the claim that they are ancestors of one another. Stephen Jay Gould explained this deadlock of the theory of evolution although he was himself one of the leading advocates of evolution in the twentieth century: What has become of our ladder if there are three coexisting lineages of hominids (A. africanus, the robust australopithecines, and H. habilis), none clearly derived from another? Moreover, none of the three display any evolutionary trends during their tenure on earth. Put briefly, the scenario of human evolution, which is "upheld" with the help of various drawings of some "half ape, half human" creatures appearing in the media and course books, that is, frankly, by means of propaganda, is nothing but a tale with no scientific foundation. Lord Solly Zuckerman, one of the most famous and respected scientists in the U.K., who carried out research on this subject for years and studied Australopithecus fossils for 15 years, finally concluded, despite being an evolutionist himself, that there is, in fact, no such family tree branching out from ape-like creatures to man.

Before their chaise drew to a complete halt in front of the house a door was already being flung open, and a tall, stocky man was bouncing down the steps. “It would appear that our greeting here is going to be far more enthusiastic than the one we received at our last stop,” Elizabeth said in a resolute voice that still shook with nerves as she drew on her gloves, bravely preparing to meet and defy the next obstacle to her happiness and independence. The door of their chaise was wrenched open with enough force to pull it from its hinges, and a masculine face poked inside. “Lady Elizabeth!” boomed Lord Marchman, his face flushed with eagerness-or drink; Elizabeth wasn’t certain. “This is indeed a long-awaited surprise,” and then, as if dumbstruck by his inane remark, he shook his large head and hastily said, “A long-awaited pleasure, that is! The surprise is that you’ve arrived early.” Elizabeth firmly repressed a surge of compassion for his obvious embarrassment, along with the thought that he might be rather likeable. “I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you overmuch,” she said. “Not overmuch. That is,” he corrected, gazing into her wide eyes and feeling himself drowning, “not at all.” Elizabeth smiled and introduced “Aunt Berta,” then allowed their exuberant host to escort them up the steps. Beside her Berta whispered with some satisfaction, “I think he’s as nervous as I am.” The interior of the house seemed drab and rather gloomy after the sunny splendor outside. As their host led her forward Elizabeth glimpsed the furnishings in the salon and drawing room-all of which were upholstered in dark leathers that appeared to have once been maroon and brown. Lord Marchman, who was watching her closely and hopefully, glanced about and suddenly saw his home as she must be seeing it. Trying to explain away the inadequacies of his furnishings, he said hastily, “This home is in need of a woman’s touch. I’m an old bachelor, you see, as was my father.” Berta’s eyes snapped to his face. “Well, I never!” she exclaimed in outraged reaction to his apparent admission of being a bastard.” “I didn’t mean,” Lord Marchman hastily assured, “that my father was never married. I meant”-he paused to nervously tug on his neckcloth, as if trying to loosen it-“that my mother died when I was very young, and my father never remarried. We lived here together.” At the juncture of two hallways and the stairs Lord Marchman turned and looked at Berta and Elizabeth. “Would you care for refreshment, or would you rather go straight to bed?” Elizabeth wanted a rest, and she particularly wanted to spend as little time in his company as was possible. “The latter, if you please.” “In that case,” he said with a sweeping gesture of his arm toward the staircase, “let’s go.” Berta let out a gasp of indignant outrage at what she perceived to be a clear indication that he was no better than Sir Francis. “Now see here, milord! I’ve been putting her in bed for nigh onto two score, and I don’t need help from the likes of you!” And then, as if she realized her true station, she ruined the whole magnificent effect by curtsying and adding in a servile whisper, “if you don’t mind, sir.” “Mind? No, I-“ It finally occurred to John Marchmen what she thought, and he colored up clear to the roots of his hair. “I-I only meant to show you how,” he began, and then he leaned his head back and briefly closed his eyes as if praying for deliverance from his own tongue. “How to find the way,” he finished with a gusty sigh of relief. Elizabeth was secretly touched by his sincerity and his awkwardness, and were the situation less threatening, she would have gone out of her way to put him at his ease.

(p.112-114) This past, the Negro's past, of rope, fire torture, castration, infanticide, rape; death and humiliation; fear by day and night, fear as deep as the marrow of the bone; doubt that he was worthy of life, since everyone around him denied it; sorrow for this women, for his kinfolk, for his children, who needed his protection, and whom he could not protect; rage, hatred, and murder, hatred for white men so deep that it often turned against him and his own, and made all love, all trust, all joy impossible - this past, this endless struggle to achieve and reveal and confirm a human identity, human authority, yet contains, for all its horror, something very beautiful. I do not mean to be sentimental about suffering - enough is certainly as good as a feast - but people who cannot suffer can never grow up, can never discover who they are. That man who is forced each day to snatch manhood, his identity, out of the fire of human cruelty that rages to destroy it knows, if he survives his effort, and even if he does not survive it, something about himself and human life that no school on earth - and indeed, no church - can teach. He achieves his own authority, and that is unshakable. This is because, in order to save his life, he is forced to look beneath appearances, to take nothing for granted, to hear the meaning behind the words. If one is continually surviving the worst that life can bring, one eventually ceases to be controlled by a fear of what life can bring; whatever it brings must be borne. And at this level of experience one's bitterness begins to be palatable, and hatred becomes too heavy a sack to carry. The apprehension of life here so briefly and inadequately sketched has been the experience of generations of Negroes, and it helps to explain how they have endured and how they have been able to produce children of kindergarten age who can walk through mobs to get to school. It demands great force and great cunning continually to assault the mighty and indifferent fortress of white supremacy, as Negroes in this country have done so long. It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate. The Negro boys and girls who are facing mobs today come out of a long line of improbable aristocrats - the only genuine aristocrats this country has produced. I say "this country" because their frame of reference was totally American. They were hewing out of the mountain of white supremacy the stone of their individuality. I have great respect for that unsung army of black men and women who trudged down back lanes and entered back doors, saying "Yes, sir" and "No, Ma'am" in order to acquire a new roof for the schoolhouse, new books, a new chemistry lab, more beds for the dormitories, more dormitories. They did not like saying "Yes, sir" and "No Ma'am", but the country was in no hurry to educate Negroes, these black men and women knew that the job had to be done, and they put their pride in their pockets in order to do it. It is very hard to believe that they were in anyway inferior to the white men and women who opened those back doors. It is very hard to believe that those men and women, raising their children, eating their greens, crying their curses, weeping their tears, singing their songs, making their love, as the sun rose, as the sun set, were in any way inferior to the white men and women who crept over to share these splendors after the sun went down. ... I am proud of these people not because of their color but because of their intelligence and their spiritual force and their beauty. The country should be proud of them, too, but, alas, not many people in this country even know of their existence.

Briefly, the book’s central arguments are these: 1. Rapid productivity growth in the modern economy has led to cost trends that divide its output into two sectors, which I call “the stagnant sector” and “the progressive sector.” In this book, productivity growth is defined as a labor-saving change in a production process so that the output supplied by an hour of labor increases, presumably significantly (Chapter 2). 2. Over time, the goods and services supplied by the stagnant sector will grow increasingly unaffordable relative to those supplied by the progressive sector. The rapidly increasing cost of a hospital stay and rising college tuition fees are prime examples of persistently rising costs in two key stagnant-sector services, health care and education (Chapters 2 and 3). 3. Despite their ever increasing costs, stagnant-sector services will never become unaffordable to society. This is because the economy’s constantly growing productivity simultaneously increases the community’s overall purchasing power and makes for ever improving overall living standards (Chapter 4). 4. The other side of the coin is the increasing affordability and the declining relative costs of the products of the progressive sector, including some products we may wish were less affordable and therefore less prevalent, such as weapons of all kinds, automobiles, and other mass-manufactured products that contribute to environmental pollution (Chapter 5). 5. The declining affordability of stagnant-sector products makes them politically contentious and a source of disquiet for average citizens. But paradoxically, it is the developments in the progressive sector that pose the greater threat to the general welfare by stimulating such threatening problems as terrorism and climate change. This book will argue that some of the gravest threats to humanity’s future stem from the falling costs of these products, rather than from the rising costs of services like health care and education (Chapter 5). The central purpose of this book is to explain why the costs of some labor-intensive services—notably health care and education—increase at persistently above-average rates. As long as productivity continues to increase, these cost increases will persist. But even more important, as the economist Joan Robinson rightly pointed out so many years ago, as productivity grows, so too will our ability to pay for all of these ever more expensive services.

But as to the wish that the form of the Church should be ascertained by some kind of vain pomp, how perilous it is I will briefly indicate, rather than explain, that I may not exceed all bounds. What they say is, that the Pontiff, who holds the apostolic see, and the priests who are anointed and consecrated by him, provided they have the insignia of fillets and mitres, represent the Church, and ought to be considered as in the place of the Church, and therefore cannot err. Why so? because they are pastors of the Church, and consecrated to the Lord. And were not Aaron and other prefects of Israel pastors? But Aaron and his sons, though already set apart to the priesthood, erred notwithstanding when they made the calf (Exod. 32:4). Why, according to this view, should not the four hundred prophets who lied to Ahab represent the Church? (1 Kings 22:11, &c.). The Church, however, stood on the side of Micaiah. He was alone, indeed, and despised, but from his mouth the truth proceeded. Did not the prophets also exhibit both the name and face of the Church, when, with one accord, they rose up against Jeremiah, and with menaces boasted of it as a thing impossible that the law should perish from the priest, or counsel from the wise, or the word from the prophet? (Jer. 18:18). In opposition to the whole body of the prophets, Jeremiah is sent alone to declare from the Lord (Jer. 4:9), that a time would come when the law would perish from the priest, counsel from the wise, and the word from the prophet. Was not like splendour displayed in that council when the chief priests, scribes, and Pharisees assembled to consult how they might put Jesus to death? Let them go, then, and cling to the external mask, while they make Christ and all the prophets of God schismatics, and, on the other hand, make Satan’s ministers the organs of the Holy Spirit!

I will need to speak briefly about the divine twins in Proto-Indo-European mythology. In short, these are recurring twin Gods that show up in many Indo-European cultures. They are typically depicted as youthful sons of the Sky Father, associated with horses, who attend a consort Goddess with solar characteristics. Their sun Goddess consort is typically rescued from the sea, or some other “watery peril.”31 The mythology is mainly reconstructed using Greek, Vedic, and Lithuanian culture. The Greek Dioscuri correspond clearly to the Vedic Aswins, and the Baltic Dieva Deli. This is pertinent to the episode of the Nart Sagas explained above, because Zerasha is retrieved from the sea and marries the hero, Akshar. Later, Akshar and his twin brother Akshartag quarrel over her and both of them die. Interestingly, Zerasha’s daughter Satanaya (born from her tomb) also marries one of two twin brothers. (one of her two half-brothers). This strengthens the idea that Satanaya is, in some sense, Zerasha reborn.

Though things weren’t ending the way I had hoped, I was extremely grateful. I share my story not to shame anyone or place punitive pressure, but because of my genuine hope that the system in the industry I love so deeply can continue to improve. And looking around at the panoply of people who made my dream of Sunnyside happen felt powerful and remarkable. Even if just briefly, we were doing creative work the way we had hoped it could be done. Through our characters, we brought our communities to life. We created a vibrant professional creative space in which we didn’t have to explain ourselves.

No, I'll mostly be watching you, anyway.’ His fingers traced patterns across the skin of my arm, raising goosebumps. ‘Will you cry?’ ‘Probably,’ I admitted, ‘if I'm paying attention.’ ‘I won't distract you then.’ But I felt his lips on my hair, and it was very distracting. The movie eventually captured my interest, thanks in large part to Marcel whispering Romeo's lines in my ear-his irresistible, velvet voice made the actor's voice sound week and coarse by comparison. And I did cry, to his amusement, when Juliet woke and found her new husband dead. ‘I'll admit, I do sort of envy him here, ‘Marcel said, drying the tears with a lock of my hair. ‘She's very pretty.’ He made a disgusted sound. ‘I don't envy him the girl-just the ease of the suicide,’ he clarified in a teasing tone. ‘You humans have it so easy! All you have to do is throw down one tiny vial of plant extracts…’ ‘What?’ I gasped. ‘It's something I had to think about once, and I knew from Chiaz's experience that it wouldn't be simple. I'm not even sure how many ways Chiaz tried to kill himself in the beginning… after he realized what he'd become…’ His voice, which had grown serious, turned light again. ‘And he's still in excellent health.’ I twisted around so that I could read his face. ‘What are you talking about?’ I demanded. ‘What do you mean, this something you had to think about once?’ ‘Last spring, when you were… nearly killed…’ He paused to take a deep breath, snuggling to return to his teasing tone. ‘Of course, I was trying to focus on finding you alive, but part of my mind was making contingency plans. As I said, it's not as easy for me as it is for a human.’ For one second, the memory of my last trip to Phoenix washed over my head and made me feel dizzy. I could see it all so clearly-the the blinding sun, the heat waves coming off the concrete as I ran with desperate haste to find the sadistic angel who wanted to torture me to death. James, waiting in the mirrored room with my mother as his hostage-or so I'd thought. I hadn't known it was all a ruse. Just as James hadn't known that Marcel was racing to save me; Marcel made it in time, but it had been a close one. Unthinkingly, my fingers traced the crescent-shaped scar on my hand that was always just a few degrees cooler than the rest of my skin. I shook my head as if I could shake away the bad memories and tried to grasp what Marcel meant. My stomach plunged uncomfortably. ‘Contingency plans?’ I repeated. ‘Well, I wasn't going to live without you.’ He rolled his eyes as if that fact were childishly obvious. ‘But I wasn't sure how to do it- I knew Emmah and Joh would never help… so I was thinking maybe I would go to Italy and do something to provoke the Ministry.’ I didn't want to believe he was serious, but his golden eyes were brooding, focused on something far away in the distance as he contemplated ways to end his own life. Abruptly, I was furious. ‘What is Vulture?’ I demanded. ‘The Ministry is a family,’ he explained, his eyes still remote. ‘A very old, very powerful family of our kind. They are the closest thing our world has to a royal family, I suppose. Chiaz lived with them briefly in his early years, in Italy, before he settled in America-do you remember the story?’ ‘Of course, I remember.

Melodic ‘Let us have the story,’ Aron almost sang in his feathery voice. The white-haired ancient angel drifted away, gliding toward one of the wooden thrones. The other paused beside Aron, and he reached his hand out, at first, I thought to take Aron's hand. All the same and all, he just touched Aron's palm briefly and then dropped his hand to his side. Aron raised one black brow. I wondered how his papery skin did not crumple in the effort. Marcel snorted very quietly, and Olivia looked at him, curious. ‘Thank you, Marcus,’ Aron said. ‘That's quite interesting.’ I realized, a second late, that Marcus was letting Aron know his thoughts. Marcus didn't look interested. He glided away from Aron to join the one who must be Karly, seated against the wall. Two of the attending angels followed silently behind his bodyguards as I had thought before. I could see that the two women in the sundresses had gone to stand beside Karly in the same manner. The idea of an angel needing a guard was faintly ridiculous to me, All the same, and all, maybe the ancient ones were as frail as their skin suggested. Aron was shaking his head. ‘Amazing,’' he said. ‘Amazing.’ Olivia's expression was frustrated. Marcel turned to her and explained again in a swift, low voice. ‘Marcus sees relationships. He's surprised by the intensity of ours.’ Aron smiled. ‘So, convenient,’ he repeated to himself. Then he spoke to us. ‘It takes quite a bit to surprise Marcus; I can assure you.’ I looked at Marcus's dead face, and I believed that.

To whomever is expressing that resistance do please explain briefly the intention of the benefits from the exercise, then add: “are you willing to give it a try?

Practicing meditation is increasingly important as changes in the world lead to higher levels of anger and fear, and as advances in technology quicken the pace of life, giving us little time to simply “be” with ourselves. Although kids and teens rarely beg their parents to find them a meditation teacher, research indicates that when children and adolescents establish a practice regularly, meditation benefits them in the same ways as it does adults. In this section, we’ll briefly discuss mindfulness and Transcendental Meditation, the two forms of meditation that are used most widely with children and teens, and explain why we recommend building meditation periods into your kids’ days.

Placing and implementing black magic is a suicide that results in hell.” --- The black magic that evil-minded people of all religions practice for their ugly and inhuman motives. The modern world ignores that and does not even believe in it. However, it exists, and it works sufficiently. For many years, I edited and published these stories as an assistant editor for an evening newspaper, and as a believer, I believe that. It’s important to note that it doesn’t have any impact on everyone; otherwise, every human would be under attack from it. No one can explain or define black magic or similar practices. Today’s scientists are not capable of recognizing, diagnosing, or even denying such a phenomenon; therefore, options are open for black magic to proceed with its practices without any obstacles. By searching online websites and YouTube, one can uncover the many victims of the evil practices of evil-minded individuals in different societies. Evil power, black magic, and magic do exist and are also effective. Evil power causes physical damage and appears as diseases and psychological issues since no one can realize, trace, or prove that horror practice; it is the secret and privilege of evil-minded people that the law fails to catch and punish them for such crimes. I briefly exemplify two events, one of which was very authentic, and I suffered from it, and another of which also happened to someone who also became a victim. The first time when I arrived in the Netherlands, I assumed I was in the most secure area; however, within a year, I faced an incident that was a tradition in my family, including the involvement of my brothers and my compatriots who lived in the Netherlands. The most suspected were the evil-minded people of the Ahmadiyya movement from Surinam and possibly my ex-wife and a Pakistani couple. I had seen the evidence of the black magic that my family took upon me, but I could not trace the reality of other suspected ones that ruined my career, future, health, and even life. The second person, a Pakistani who lived in Germany for several years as an active member of the Ahmadiyya Movement, told me his story briefly during a trip to London, attending a literary gathering. Besides receiving a gold medal for his poetry work, he also worked for the Ahmadiyya TV channel. However, when he became a real Muslim, Ahmadiyya warriors turned against him. They practiced the devil’s work to punish him when they couldn’t force him back into their false group. The symptoms of magic became apparent to me after he mentioned that since I had them on my body as well. Such a possibility and chance exist that can be created by using drugs and chemicals to defeat their opponents; it needs a comprehensive investigation to save humanity. Multiple other stories reveal that the Ahmadiyya Movement may use black magic to achieve its goals. From my observation, they were involved in eliminating Muslim imams and scholars, which caused the failure of that new religion and the appearance of a false prophet claiming to be Jesus. I have been a victim of these types of practices. Their activities revolve around social media and similar websites. In Pakistan, they are deceiving the uninformed by pretending to be genuine Muslims, just like they do in Europe and other parts of the world. I tried to contact the Dutch authorities about the incident that occurred to me in 1980, but they ignored my request for cooperation; however, I still hope and look forward to any miracle that someone from somewhere gives me the courage to verify all this I want.

Mother Frey nodded. “You are right to ask, my lady, and I will tell you.” But she did not immediately explain. Instead, she poured herself another cup of wine. The others watched, and Helleda Frost in particular noted how badly the old woman’s hands were shaking. Some of the wine slopped onto the table. Helleda rose, reached across to take the wine bottle, and finished pouring. Her eyes met Mother Frey’s and they shared a moment of communication that ran along a different channel than what was ever shared between the men. Mother Frey reached for her cup and her fingers briefly brushed the back of the stern noblewoman’s hand, and for a moment Helleda’s eyes softened. There was even a shared nod, though it was very small and very brief.

I live over there,” He paused and looked back at Julie consideringly. “Oh. I probably shouldn’t have told you that if you really are a stalker. Although I guess if you are a stalker you already know that and that’s why you’re here. Did you come to kill me?” Julie couldn’t help it. She let a burst of nearly hysterical laughter escape briefly before managing to cut herself off. “Is that funny?” Reggie asked, seeming to genuinely think there might have been a joke he missed. “Not in a way I can explain,” Julie told him, shrugging. How do you explain to someone that in fact you had possibly sacrificed everything to keep someone alive only to be accused of trying to kill them? You didn’t.

Sadly, the original manuscript of Gorin-no-sho no longer exists. According to Terao Magonojō, it was destroyed in a castle fire, possibly the Edo Castle fire of 1657 or the Yashiro Castle fire in Kyushu in 1672. Musashi never titled the five scrolls Gorin-no-sho. He named each individual scroll as one of the five elements. It was Nagaoka Naoyuki and Toyota Masakata who conceived Gorin-no-sho as a shorthand title in their notes, and this designation stuck. As for the use of the “five elements” (gorin), it was not Musashi’s intention to appropriate the idea from Buddhist philosophy. In Heihō Sanjūgo-kajō, he had already referred to the heart or mind of the warrior as being comparable to the properties of “Water.” He also wrote briefly of the “Ether” as a state of high attainment and clarity, but not in the Buddhist sense of Nirvana. It was more like figuratively piercing through the clouds of confusion and being exposed to the boundless clear sky.46 Moreover, he had discussed the “Wind” of other schools in previous texts. Wind is a term in Japanese indicating “type” or “appearance.” Adopting “Earth” to explain the basis of his school, and “Fire” to represent what happens in the heat of battle and dueling, probably seemed convenient and oddly prophetic.

Make her qualify herself a few times before escalating to a first date. Doing this will imply to her that you are man who has options. One way to do this is to briefly mention a personality trait that you admire in others and then suggest that perhaps she has that personality trait. If she responds by confirming what you suggest, she is essentially validating herself to gain your approval. Only after she does this a few times should you consider asking her to meet you in person. Here is one way to make her qualify herself to you. “I’m a big fan of people who take care of their health and yet also enjoy the little things in life. You mention in your profile that you eat healthy. I think that’s great. Do you allow yourself to indulge in a little bit of ice cream or chocolate every now and then?” Pass the sneaky tests women will throw at you in their messages by straddling the line between alpha and beta. If women find some incongruence between your profile content, photographs, and messages, they will try to expose the cause of that discrepancy. For example, if your profile content and messages to a woman indicate that you are a man who is successful with women, but you are 5’8” tall, bald, and far from handsome, she will want to make sure that you really a high-value man. So, she might mention a recent bad date, a strange email message, or some other communication that she received from a low-value guy and ask you what your thoughts are on that issue. If you talk negatively about the low-value guy, she will convince herself that you could not possibly be a high-value man. After all, high-status men do not make fun of those who stand lower in the social hierarchy. If you empathize with the low-value guy by explaining his actions, she will think that you must be a low-value guy yourself. How else could you feel this guy’s pain? The best

We have seasonal festivals where men and women can join,” he explained. Sora felt the conversation take a different turn. She hesitated, wondering if this was truly worth knowing about -but curiosity got the best of her. “Join...? You mean... make love?” An odd expression passed over Crash's face. “You could call it that.” (…) She fidgeted with her staff. “And have you participated in these... festivals...?” He cast a glance at her. A wry grin curved along the corners of his mouth. He looked at her a little too long, and it made her stomach squirm, her cheeks flush self-consciously. “Several times,” he said. “Would you like more details?” “Uh, no, I'm fine,” she said briefly. Yes! Her mind admonished. Yes, ask him! No, it would be far too awkward, she could already feel the blush spreading from her cheeks up to her forehead.

Madison!” Bob’s head jerks up and he steps back three paces from me, and all the warmth that was him is suddenly gone. “Dad!” I cry. My father steps between me and Bob. “What are you doing here?” “Skip called me.” Skip and I grew up together. The traitor. “Skip said some ex-convict was carrying you out of the bar over his shoulder.” He looks from Bob to me and back again. “Is that true?” “I can explain, sir,” Bob begins, but my dad shoots him a look. “Why do you look so familiar to me?” Dad asks him. “We met in the courtroom, sir.” “What’s your name?” “Bob Caster, sir.” Dad’s eyes narrow. “One of Phil’s boys?” “Yes, sir.” Bob scratches his nose like he’s suddenly uncomfortable. “Why are you with my daughter?” “We’re on a date, sir.” “One that ends with you throwing her over you shoulder?” “That’s actually how it starts, sir.” A chuckle bursts from my lips and I cover my mouth to keep it in. “Sorry,” I mutter. “Madison, get in the car.” Dad points to his fancy car, which is parked right behind the one I’m sitting on. “With all due respect, sir, I’d like to take her home.” “If you had any respect for my daughter, you wouldn’t have been all over her on the hood of a car in the middle of the street.” “It was just a kiss, Dad—” “It looked like more than that.” “It was,” Bob interjects. His eyes meet mine. “It was more than that.” “What was it?” I whisper, past the lump that’s suddenly clogging my throat. “More,” Bob says. “I don’t know how to explain it. But it was more.” “More than you deserve,” Dad snaps. “My daughter will not have a relationship with an ex-convict.” Bob takes a step back and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I understand, sir,” he says. “Good night, Madison.” “Don’t go!” I cry. He rounds the front of his car and gets inside. He cranks it and waits for me to get my butt off it. “You deserve better than him, Madison,” Dad says. I get off the hood of the car and glare at him. “Dad!” “Get in the car, Madison!” he shouts. He points his finger in the direction he wants me to go. I stomp over to the car and get in, and my heart breaks when I see that Bob is already driving away. His eyes meet mine briefly in his mirror and I see a world of hurt inside him. “I’m not going to my apartment, Dad,” I tell him. “Yes, you are.” “No, I’m not.” Dad heaves a sigh. “What do you want, Madison?” “I want to get to know him, Dad. That’s all. I like him a lot.” “I could tell,” he grunts. “He’s not the one for you.

But surely, if Fergus had actually spoken to Cooper, he wouldn’t have kept mum on that little detail. Who are you kidding? The man thrived on meddling, especially where his beloved McCrae girls were concerned. That would also explain why he’d so conveniently disappeared once Cooper had taken the floor. And why he hadn’t come back out carrying the shotgun they kept handy in the back. “Uncle Gus” was all she said. He smiled briefly. “I thought that was a better bet than your chief-of-police brother. I’ve already guessed Fergus didn’t tell you about our little conversation.” She shook her head. “How long ago?” “A week. Not so long as all that.” Long enough, she thought, already mentally rehearsing the conversation she’d be having with her uncle the minute she got back to the pub. “We only had the one chat.” “One was apparently all that was needed. What else did he share with you?” She immediately held up her hand. “On second thought, don’t tell me. I’ll have that little chat with him directly.” “He wants you to be happy,” Cooper said. “And he thought encouraging a man I haven’t seen in over a year, a man who was my former employer and nothing more, to hop on a plane and bop on up this side of the equator to see me was what would make me happy?” Cooper’s smile deepened, and that twinkle sparked to life in his eyes again, making them so fiercely blue it caught at her breath. “He might have mentioned that you’d be less than welcoming of a surprise visit. He also said if I had a prayer of your still being here when I arrived, a surprise visit was pretty much my only shot. And how the frosty reception I was sure to receive was simply your automatic defense system, and how I should just ignore all that and ‘press my suit’ anyway, as I believed he called it.” Kerry closed her eyes, willed her short fuse to wink out before it had the chance to get dangerously lit up. Yep, too late. She turned abruptly and moved to go around Cooper, aiming herself back toward the lot where the truck was parked. Cooper’s hand shot out and took hold of her arm, releasing it the moment she stopped and turned to look at him, her balance intact. “His heart was in the right place, Starfish. He warned me. It was my choice to come here and risk it anyway. Don’t go unloading all the frustration you’re feeling about my unexpected arrival, not to mention the unfortunate public spectacle I made of this whole thing, on your poor uncle.

On the other hand, it is also characteristic of the state of philosophical inquiry today and has been for a long time that, while there has been extensive controversy about whether or not the *a priori* can be known, it has never occurred to the protagonists to ask first what could really have been meant by the fact that a time-determination turns up here and why it must turn up at all. To be sure, as long as we orient ourselves toward the common concept of time we are at an impasse, and negatively it is no less than consistent to deny dogmatically that the *a priori* has anything to do with time. However, time in the sense commonly understood, which is our topic here, is indeed only one derivative, even if legitimate, of the original time, on which the Dasein's ontological constitution is based. *It is only by means of the Temporality of the understanding of Being that it can be explained why the ontological determinations of Being have the character of apriority*. We shall attempt to sketch this briefly, as far as it permits of being done along general lines. We have just seen that all comportment toward beings already understands Being, and not just incidentally: Being must necessarily be understood precursorily (pre-cecently). The possibility of comportment toward beings demands a precursory understanding of Being, and the possibility of the understanding of Being demands in its turn a precursory projection upon time. But where is the final stage of this demand for ever further precursory conditions? It is temporality itself as the basic constitution of the Dasein. Temporality, due to its horizonal-ecstatic nature, makes possible *at once* the understanding of Being and comportment toward beings; therefore, that which does the enabling as well as the enablings themselves, that is, the possibilities in the Kantian sense, are "temporal," that is to say, Temporal, in their specific interconnection. Because the original determinant of possibility, the origin of possibility itself, is time, time temporalizes itself as the absolutely earliest. *Time is earlier than any possible earlier* of whatever sort, because it is the basic condition for an earlier as such. And because time as the source of all enablings (possibilities) is the earliest, all possibilities as such in their possibility-making function have the character of the earlier. That is to say, they are *a priori*. But, from the fact that time is the earliest in the sense of being the possibility of every earlier and of every *a priori* foundational ordering, it does not follow that time is ontically the first being; nor does it follow that time is forever and eternal, quite apart from the impropriety of calling time a being at all.” ―from_The Basic Problems of Phenomenology_

What’s going on?  What news?” I said glancing between the two. Sam gave Clay a sharp look. “You didn’t tell her?” “He’s not talking to me, yet,” I said, wondering what bad news Sam had to share. Sam shook his head at Clay.  “You’ve dug your own hole then, son.”  He focused on me.  “A group of Forlorn have asked Elder Joshua to approach you for an unofficial kind of Introduction.  Joshua approved, but he made it clear they were to keep it brief and then leave, unless any of them had a further request of him.” The meaning of Sam’s words sunk in deep like a vicious bite.  It also explained his less than warm greeting.  He stood in my living room as an Elder on pack business, not as family or a friend.  I struggled to contain my anger. “I thought I was done with that.  We had a deal.”  I crossed my arms and coldly regarded Sam.  “I know I said I was done.” The carefully, composed expression on Sam’s face faltered a bit.  “Honey, there are rules we must follow to keep peace in the pack.  Clay had six months to convince you of his suit.  That time has passed.  That means unMated can once again approach you, with permission.” My mouth popped open.  Six months.  Permission from an Elder.  That’s why they’d stationed Joshua here.  A backup plan because they knew I didn’t want to Claim Clay.  They failed to understand I didn’t want to Claim anyone.  I’d never been free.  I clenched my fists.  My temper boiled. “That’s complete crap,” I gritted out.  “First of all, I didn’t reject anyone.  Second, no one ever told me about this stupid rule.”  My voice rose to a yell, and I took a deep breath and closed my eyes briefly to restrain myself.  When I reopened them, I felt more in control and able to speak calmly.  “You know what?  I don’t care what the pack rules are.  I gave you my word and my time.  Now, I expect you to keep yours.  I worked hard to get here, Sam.  I won’t let anyone take this away from me.”  My hands shook.  That Sam had cared for me in the past and given me a place to call home for two years, kept my tongue marginally civil. “By not completing the Claim, you’ve become eligible again.  Charlene was granted a special consideration because, at that time, we weren’t even sure a Claiming would be possible between a human and a werewolf.  Now that we know it is, you fall under the same rules,” Sam explained calmly, his face again carefully devoid of emotion. “No, I don’t.”  I knew I could stand there and argue all day with Sam, and he wouldn’t budge.  It would always be whatever’s best for the pack with him.  “Is this why Clay was beat up?” Clay made a noise—like a snort of disagreement—behind me. “Feel free to jump in at any time,” I said, turning to arch an eyebrow at him.  He remained mute, but his eyes softened when he looked at me. Sam spoke up from behind me, but I didn’t turn to look at him. “Gabby, it’s the reason he’s been fighting.  He’s not relinquishing his tie to you.  Every time an unMated shows up here, he will challenge that man for his right for an Introduction.  Did Clay get beat up?  Only as a byproduct of handing out beatings.” Clay steadily met my gaze the entire time.  It broke my heart a little to know he was fighting so hard to keep me, and all I’d given him in those six months was a kiss.  Not even spontaneously given, but relinquished as part of a bribe.  I hadn’t rejected him.  I just didn’t want to be forced into a choice.  If I chose to be with Clay, I wanted it to be on our terms. “Why

All I knew was where it had started, a year before. The three strikes against me and all the reasons I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t have explained the girls, the women, who had briefly entered my life. Briefly changed it. [He] wouldn’t have understood their laughs, their indignations, their secrets. For the rest of the night my eyes drifted to the people on the street, the girls, the women, and I felt like I was seeing the lives they wouldn’t live.

Listed below are three basic rules that will help you become a successful candidate. Remember, however, that you need not be offered a job in every case to consider yourself successful. Rather, you are successful if you keep the job search process going in a professional manner. In working with countless people in the process of looking for a job, I have concluded that, for those who are currently unemployed, the full-time job should be just that: looking for a job. For those who currently have a job, but are openly seeking a better position with new challenges or a higher salary, take comfort in knowing you are working from a position of strength; use that knowledge to add to your self-esteem. In all cases, see yourself from the employer’s point of view. In their eyes, you are a more likely candidate if you behave professionally before and after the interview (with appropriate inquiry and follow-up—more on that later) and if you interact appropriately during the interview itself. As you continue to look for a job, remember the following tips for success: 1. When you call about a job prospect, get as much information as you can about the position and the company—including the name of the person doing the interviewing. Don’t be put off by feelings of anxiety—you have a right to “interview” them too. If possible, go to the library and research the company. By the time of your interview, you will feel more confident—and less anxious—because you will have resources from which to draw during your conversation. 2. If you have time to mail your resume before your scheduled interview, do so. But be sure to include a cover letter as well. While the resume gives background information about you, the cover letter explains why you are writing and briefly describes what makes you a good candidate for the job. Don’t allow low self-esteem to make you afraid to “sell yourself!” Only you can say why you would be an asset to the company. And one more thing—write the letter to a particular person, not “To Whom It May Concern” or “Dear Sir or Madam.” Most of the time, a prospective employer’s receptionist is willing to tell you exactly whom to contact. Use courtesy titles (“Dear Mrs. Smith”), unless the person is someone you already know on a first-name basis. 3. Do follow up. An appropriate measure of assertiveness goes a long way. Most employers appreciate someone who is diligent and communicates a genuine interest in the position. But don’t be aggressive. Limit your contact to a follow-up note, a phone call two weeks later, and perhaps a third one a few weeks after that. Be sure to let them know that if another, more appropriate, position comes along, you would be interested to learn about it. Again, by communicating properly and creating your own opportunities, you can achieve some control over your own destiny.

How Individual License Package of OLM Converter Pro Helpful in OLM to MBOX Conversion! Most of the companies, do not bother about user’s problems they only want to make money either fair or unfair means. It’s very difficult o finds a user-friendly company which performs their social responsibilities also. Gladwev is the only one IT company which cares about users and provides the high-grade product. Nowadays it in the limelight for its excellent innovation “OLM Converter Pro” the admirable migration tool can Convert Outlook for Mac to Apple Mail. Gladwev launched Individual License Package, which composes of many advantages. Let's look at various features of the Individual version of OLM Converter Pro: 1. Individual License Package can be very helpful to an individual or single user those have limited files for to convert Outlook Mac to Mac Mail. It can merge multiple files of Contact and calendar into .vcf and .ical respectively. 2. This software is capable to converts single user Email’s Accounts along with their attached documents, audio, video, pictures, drafts, etc. it ensures the complete and accurate OLM to MBOX Conversion. 3. An individual version of this software application can install on TWO Mac devices; it is compatible with all version of Mac system. This software provides high-performance speed as compared to other migration tools. 4. Gladwev offers this License Package for both Mac and Windows systems. The user can buy it according to their necessity of conversion. 5. Moreover, it is under the budget of the user. The user can purchase at only US$ 39. 6. Gladwev also provides easiness for locating this conversion software on the Web as highlighting the option, “Download Now.” 7. The best part of Individual License Package is that Gladwev has provided A to Z proper instruction or guidance that makes the user comfortable with this migration application. 8. This version of OLM Converter Pro satisfies all the conversion requirement and expectations of an individual. 9. Gladwev always readily available to provide day and night customer support services that resolve the problems of users and make Export Mail from Outlook for Mac to Apple Mail. 10. If the user wants more details about company or product. All the information and privacy policy have briefly explained in very simple and understandable language. 11. Gladwev also best in the matter of keeping privacy. It never reveals user’s private information to outsiders or any other.

Now I wish to make it quite clear that it is this prophecy of a possibly violent revolution which I consider, from the point of view of practical politics, by far the most harmful element in Marxism; and I think it will be better if I briefly explain the reason for my opinion before I proceed with my analysis. I am not in all cases and under all circumstances against a violent revolution. I believe with some medieval and Renaissance Christian thinkers who taught the admissibility of tyrannicide that there may indeed, under a tyranny, be no other possibility, and that a violent revolution may be justified. But I also believe that any such revolution should have as its only aim the establishment of a democracy; and by a democracy I do not mean something as vague as ‘the rule of the people’ or ‘the rule of the majority’, but a set of institutions (among them especially general elections, i.e. the right of the people to dismiss their government) which permit public control of the rulers and their dismissal by the ruled, and which make it possible for the ruled to obtain reforms without using violence, even against the will of the rulers. In other words, the use of violence is justified only under a tyranny which makes reforms without violence impossible, and it should have only one aim, that is, to bring about a state of affairs which makes reforms without violence possible. I do not believe that we should ever attempt to achieve more than that by violent means. For I believe that such an attempt would involve the risk of destroying all prospects of reasonable reform. The prolonged use of violence may lead in the end to the loss of freedom, since it is liable to bring about not a dispassionate rule of reason, but the rule of the strong man. A violent revolution which tries to attempt more than the destruction of tyranny is at least as likely to bring about another tyranny as it is likely to achieve its real aims.

Sigils are made by combining the letters of the alphabet after a process of simplification. For example, the word ‘Woman’ in Sigil form is or or , etc. The word ‘Tiger’ or , ‘Hat’ , ‘Come’ , ‘Moon’ , ‘It ’ or , etc. The idea is to obtain a simple form that can be easily visualised at will, yet has not too much pictorial relation to the desire. The true method has a much greater virtue, which cannot be explained briefly, being the secret of thought form, as degrees of suggestion, and what is in a name.74 We have now agreed as to how a Sigil is made, and what virtue it has. Verily, whatever a person believes by sigils is the truth, and is always fulfilled. This system of sigils is believed

I knew that before noon I would be told that my discovery was not special. An older and wiser scientist would tell me that, in fact, what I had seen was something that he himself might have assumed. While he explained that my observation wasn’t a true revelation, only a confirmation of what should have been an obvious guess, I listened politely. It didn’t matter what he said. Nothing could alter the overwhelming sweetness of briefly holding a small secret that the universe had earmarked just for me. I knew instinctively that if I was worthy of a small secret, I might someday be worthy of a big one. By

looked into his eyes and they were troubled as if he was asking the most important question he would ever ask. “Would you explain it to me?” “It would be my honor,” I paused briefly then continued. “It is called the Yeshua Cup; it speaks of the break between the Great Unseen and His creation. Iam could not leave us in darkness so one day He shall send us His redeemer, He shall be raised up and broken, even to the point of death, but death will not have dominion over him. He shall be raised up and balance will be restored.

Real Love   It seems I got off on the wrong foot, right from the start. Speaking unwisely, but speaking from my heart.   Feelings aren’t easy to explain; meanings of words are sometimes lost, in what we say. Our fears and heartaches from the past often get in the way.   My heart is tender and fearful from all the pain that has happened to me. I feel yours is, too, and that pain and sorrow can cause us to miss what could be.   Being too careful, we can lose the chance that we long for. For sometimes, the one for us is only briefly at the door.   It takes courage, faith and trust to find real, true love. We must not give up, and put our hope in the Lord up above   If one is willing to share their thoughts and their dreams. If there is any attraction at all, it is a waste it seems.   Because real love is one of the hardest things to find. But if you do, it gives peace, comfort and joy to your heart and to your mind.   So here is your poem, that is written to you from me. It is written from my heart, to a love that shall never be.

The human race is a very precious and ancient race. Its history goes back many hundreds of thousands of years. Some spiritual teachers even believe that it goes back more than 550 million years. I know this sounds crazy and does not make sense, but if you continue to read deeper into this book, I can promise you that this subject will make more sense and sound less crazy. Because we have such a long history, I’m not going to go into great detail about it because it will take more than a lifetime to explain it all. Instead, I will briefly explain who we are, why we are here and where we came from. If you want to know more about our history, a good place to start is to do research on ETs and their involvement with ancient civilizations.

I want to show you something,” I say. “But I’m afraid you’re going to be angry at me.” She’s suddenly on guard. “Why? What is it?” I turn my wrist over and point to her tattoo on my inner wrist. It’s a bare spot I’d been saving for something special. She leans toward it, and all of her breath rushes from her body. I can feel it across my hand when she exhales. “That’s my tat,” she says. She takes my hand in hers and lifts it toward her face. “Are you angry?” I ask. She looks up at me briefly and then back down at the tattoo. She’s taking in every facet of it. Her hand trembles as she holds tightly to mine. “You changed it.” “I felt like you needed a way out.” I put it on my wrist because I was intrigued by the secrets inside. It’s art, and I appreciate art in all its forms. She swallows. Hard. Then her eyes start to fill with tears. She blinks them back for as long as she can. And then she gets up and runs toward the bathroom. Shit. Now I fucked up. I made her cry. She runs by the waitress, who startles. The waitress starts in my direction, a sway in her hips, but I get up and follow Kit. I stop outside the door to the ladies’ room and press my hand against it. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. She’s in there crying, and I obviously can’t hear her to be sure she’s all right. Fuck it. I’m not leaving her in there upset. I push through the door, and I don’t see any feet in the stalls when I bend over. Where the fuck did she go? I push doors open, but the last one is locked. I stand up on my tiptoes and look over the top. She’s standing there with her forearms pressed against the wall, her head down between her arms, and her back is shaking. She’s crying. I knock on the stall door and say, “Let me in, Kit.” The door doesn’t open. I step back onto my tiptoes and look over. She’s still crying. “Let me in,” I repeat. She doesn’t move, so I walk into the stall next to hers and stand up on the toilet. I rock the partition between the stalls gently. It might hold my weight. There’s only one way to find out. I hoist myself up and over the wall, bringing my legs over the top slowly and carefully, and then I hop down. Before I can reach for her, she’s in my arms, her hands sliding around my neck. She’s still sobbing, and her body shakes against mine. I tilt her face up because I can’t see her lips to tell if she’s saying anything to me or not. I need to apologize. I didn’t expect her to get so upset. I’ll have it covered up with something else if it bothers her this much. My heart twists inside my chest. I really fucked up. “I’m sorry,” I tell her, looking down into her face. Her cheeks are soaked with tears, and she freezes, looking up at me. I can feel her like a heartbeat in my chest. She steps on the toes of my boots and then rocks onto her tiptoes. She pulls my head down with a hand at the back of my neck. Her brown eyes are smoldering, and black shit is running down her cheeks again, but I don’t care. She’s never looked more beautiful to me. I hold her face in my hands and wipe beneath her eyes with my thumbs. Her breath tickles my lips, and she leans even closer. She’s standing on my fucking boots, and I don’t care. She can do whatever it takes to get closer to me. “Why did you do it?” she asks, moving back enough that I can see her lips. I already told her: I thought she needed a way out. All I added to the tattoo was a keyhole right in the center of the guitar. It’s a simple design really. “I don’t know,” I say. I want to explain it to her, but I can’t. Not right now.

Wife?” Annabel glanced around the room before turning back to him and saying with surprise, “Oh, you mean me.” For some reason that seemed funny to her and she found herself giggling again. “How do you feel?” he asked, eyeing her closely. “Like I have to pee,” she answered, and then slapped a hand over her mouth with dismay, only to tear it away and mutter, “Damn, I said it,” which was followed quickly by an alarmed, “Oh damn, I said damn.” Swearing was definitely not allowed at the abbey. For some reason her words seemed to amuse the man. She could tell by the way his lovely dark eyes crinkled and his terribly stern mouth turned up. He had lovely eyes. “Thank ye,” Ross rumbled. “So do you.” “So do I, what?” she asked with confusion. “Have lovely eyes,” he explained. “I didn’t tell you, you have lovely eyes. Did I?” she asked with a frown. Annabel was sure she’d only thought that. Still smiling, he shook his head slightly, but apparently decided not to trouble himself answering, because he didn’t and simply bent to tug the furs and linens away from her, saying, “Come, I’ll walk ye to the garderobe.” “Oh no,” she said at once, scrambling to get out of bed. “That is not necessary, my lord. I know where it is. I used to live—Oh,” Annabel gasped with surprise when she stood up and the room swung wildly. Ross immediately reached out to steady her, and she leaned against his chest and closed her eyes briefly in the hopes that the room would settle when she opened them again. After a moment, she cautiously eased them open and tipped her head back to peer up at the man holding her. He had a very nice face. She hadn’t seen enough men to decide whether he was handsome compared to others, and so far his face seemed a touch stern most of the time.

Still, I really was on the spot, and I had to try. So I took a deep breath and tried to put away all my brand-new emotions. I laid down my kit and knelt beside the ravaged body of Deke Slater, looking carefully at the wounds on the face and arms, almost certainly caused by human teeth and showing some dried blood—which meant the wounds had been made while his heart was still pumping. Eaten alive. There were traces of blood starting where the stake punctured the chest and running all over the exposed torso, indicating that he had also been alive briefly after they had pounded it in. Probably the blood had soaked his shirt, which was why they removed it. Or maybe they just liked his abs. That would explain why several mouthfuls of them were missing. Around

My God!” Sophia sat back, her eyes wide with horror. “It’s a drug! He’s drugging her and she doesn’t even know it.” Here we go. “It’s common knowledge that we’re genetic traders—the fact that we have more than one means to attract a mate of an entirely different species should come as no surprise,” he pointed out. “You…you cold blooded bastard.” Sophia shook her head. “Poor Liv—she has no idea what he’s doing to her.” “It wouldn’t matter even if she did,” Sylvan explained patiently, ignoring her insults. “The mating scent is too strong to fight, even with advanced warning. Stronger species than yours have tried and they have all failed. With very few exceptions.” He closed his eyes briefly thinking of Feenah, of her pure white hair and pale crystal eyes. I’m sorry, Sylvan… “It’s not right. You’re not fighting fair.” Sophia’s words pushed back the painful memory and Sylvan opened his eyes again to see the look of despair and anger on her lovely face. She looked almost on the brink of tears. Wonderful—she was even more upset and irrational than he had thought she would be. He supposed he ought to feel irritated. Instead, the illogical urge to hold and comfort her came over him so strongly that he had to sit back and cross his arms over his chest to keep from reaching for her. “I believe you humans have a saying that covers this—‘All’s fair in love and war.’ Is that right?” he said softly. “Yes, but that doesn’t mean—” Sylvan leaned forward again and took her soft, small hands between his own larger ones. “You must understand, Sophia—Baird isn’t trying to trick your sister into anything. He’s simply using every power at his disposal to keep her. Because he needs her—he loves her. She is the only woman in the entire universe for him and the bond that will form between them will be one of undying love and devotion.” “Maybe for him.” She looked down as though mesmerized by the sight of her own small hands being engulfed in his much larger ones. “But not for Liv. He’s going to trick her into having bonding sex with him —whatever that is—and then she’ll spend the rest of her life hating him once she finds out how he did it.” She looked up at Sylvan. “You don’t know her like I do—she hates being lied to. Her last boyfriend cheated on her and then lied about it and she dumped him and never looked back. If she knew what Baird was doing to her…” “It’s not as though it’s a conscious choice on his part,” Sylvan tried to explain. “It’s the way our bodies react chemically to our chosen mates. We can’t turn it off, even if we try. Sometimes it comes even when it’s not wanted. We have a saying for it—‘The blood knows what the mind does not wish to see.’” Lifting a hand, he cupped her cheek and brushed away the single tear that had escaped her wide green eyes with his thumb. “It cannot be helped.” Sophia

Little Pete. He’s not exactly just Astrid’s autistic brother.” He explained briefly while Toto added a chorus of “Sam believes that’s true” remarks. “How do we get Little Pete to do anything?” Dekka asked. “The last time Little Pete felt mortal danger he made the FAYZ,” Sam said. “He needs to be in mortal danger again.” Jack and Dekka exchanged a wary look, each wondering what the other had known or guessed about Little Pete. “Little Pete?” Jack asked. “That little kid has that kind of power?” “Yes,” Sam said simply. “Next to Pete, me, Caine, all of us, we’re like . . . like popguns compared to a cannon. We don’t even know what the limits of his powers are,” Sam said. “What we do know is we can’t communicate with him very well. We can’t even guess what he’s thinking.” “Little Pete,” Dekka muttered and shook her head. “I knew he was important, I got that a long time ago. But he can do that? He has that kind of power?” She pondered for a moment, nodded, and said, “I see why you kept it secret. It’s like having a nuclear weapon in the hands of, well, a little autistic kid.

My Dear Benjamin Zander, You have just completed a presentation to the leadership of the North Shore–Long Island Jewish Health System. I “should” be immediately returning to my job as one of the System’s Vice Presidents (such a fancy title, no?), but not without first sitting down and briefly telling you of how your words, energy, and humour affected me this day. I am the man who approached you and told you of my emotional “reunion” with my father through your presentation. He was Swiss-German, and throughout my adult life I have struggled to explain to myself why, in the 25 years that he was with me, he could never, even once, say to me “I love you.” Oh, we did many things as a family, and I suppose his “teachings” in the form of admonishments have always remained with me, though softened, as I had the joy of becoming a father myself to 5 beautiful children. You told us, as you were about to play Chopin, to use the time to reflect on someone no longer in our lives. I thought about my father and again about that nagging question which I could never answer—why couldn’t he say “I love you”?

The SS experimented briefly in 1944 with using Hollerith cards and tabulators to steer the deployment of camp inmates to work sites but soon gave up on the idea.

Pitch example 2 Hi (journalist name), I would like to offer the news of a joint venture for your business pages.  Two industry leaders in the world of branding and signage from the UK and US have joined forces to form (the name of the joint venture), a one-stop design, engineering, manufacturing and project management solution for businesses across the globe. Do let me know if you need more information on this.  Regards (Name) Dissecting the pitch This pitch is about a branding joint venture and it’s a real pitch that I sent to a journalist for my client, which resulted in great coverage. Let’s break it down: Straight away, you know it’s a joint venture story.  I’ve been helpful enough to tell the journalist where it would fit, i.e. their business pages.  The credibility is enforced by saying two industry leaders in the world of branding and signage.  I’ve detailed the sector. I’ve mentioned the international collaboration by saying it’s a UK and US company. I briefly explain what they’re offering by saying it’s a one-stop design, engineering, manufacturing and project management solution. It’s a bit of a mouthful but the reason there was this much detail as opposed to the more straightforward doggy daycare, is because the audiences were very different. This is for the branding press and the business press, whereas the doggy daycare was aimed at the local media, who cover a range of topics.

Explain the significance and context • Write the words “Why it matters,” bold them and slap a colon at the end. • Think about the person you listed as your target audience. • In one sentence, explain the reason you are sharing this with them as bluntly and briefly as possible.

What I failed to do in those first seventy-two hours, though, was follow my initial instincts, which were to get on television, explain to the American people what had happened, and assure them that it was safe to travel. My team had made a sensible argument for waiting: It was important, they said, for the president to have all the facts before making a statement to the public. And yet my job involved more than just managing the government or getting the facts right. The public also looked to the president to explain a difficult and often scary world. Rather than coming off as prudent, my absence from the airwaves made me seem unengaged, and soon we were taking incoming fire from across the political spectrum, with less charitable commentators suggesting that I cared more about my tropical vacation than I did about threats against the homeland. It didn’t help that my usually unflappable secretary of homeland security, Janet Napolitano, briefly stumbled in one of her TV interviews, responding to a question about where security had broken down by saying that “the system worked.

Firstly let me briefly explain the basic physical layout of the Old Testament’s Tabernacle.

Research has found that humans are incapable of attending to multiple activities at once. What we’re actually doing when “multitasking” is switching back and forth very rapidly between tasks, attending to each one separately but briefly. As MIT neuroscientist Dr. Earl Miller explained in a 2008 interview on NPR,9 “Switching from task to task, you think you’re actually paying attention to everything around you at the same time. But you’re actually not.

Because I live for coincidences. They briefly give to me the illusion or hope that there's a pattern to my life, and if there's a pattern, then maybe im moving toward some kind of destiny where it's all explained.

I would like to explain the three aspects of sitting in the following order: (1) seating the body; (2) regulating the breath; (3) stabilizing the mind. Before I begin, however, I would like to briefly discuss the preliminary precautions to take in order to settle the mind and body for sitting. In Zazen-gi, it states, First awaken your compassionate mind with a deep longing to save all sentient beings. You must practice samadhi meditation with great care, and promise to ferry these sentient beings over to the other shore, refusing to practice zazen only for your own emancipation.2 In other words, our sitting must be based on the compassionate desire to save all sentient beings by means of calming the mind.

120 stunning color combination ideas - We take you through the basics of combining colors and offer 120 stunning color combinations inspired by nature, wildlife, food & drink, and travel. Your choice of colors can set the tone of your entire project, so choosing wisely is crucial. After all, you don’t want your colors conveying a mood that is opposite to what the project calls for and you certainly don’t want a color combination that is off-putting or confusing to the eye. We briefly explain the science behind choosing the right mix of colors, and then give you 120 beautiful color combinations that you can start using immediately. Let’s jump right in! The science of combining colors Believe it or not, there’s a science to creating color combinations and it’s actually not complicated to grasp. All you need is the color wheel, and an understanding of five different combination styles that each has its own place in your bag of tricks. Complementary color combination Complementary refers to a 2-color combination where the colors are opposite from each other on the color wheel. The two colors complement each other through their contrast, which allows each color to stand out. Monochromatic color combination Monochromatic refers to a combination of different shades, tones and tints of the same color, by adding black, white or grey to the original color. A monochromatic color combination is traditional and subtle. Triadic color combination Triadic colors refers to a 3-color combination that forms a perfect triangle on the color wheel. There’s not as much contrast as there is with complementary colors, but there’s enough to let each color do its thing. Analogous color combination Analogous is another 3-color combination, this time colors that are adjacent to each other on the colour wheel. With this color combination, it’s best to make one color dominant and use the others as accents. Tetradic color combination Tetradic refers to a 4-color combination where the colors are placed in a perfect square around the color wheel (essentially two pairs of complementary colors). To achieve balance with so many colors, it’s best to keep one color dominant and use the rest as accents. Color combination based on nature Sometimes nature knows best. If you find a color combination that appears somewhere in nature, chances are it’s a winning combination, as you can see from the examples in many of the examples that follow.

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Many aspects of Piaget's theory of infant development have been severely criticized. I briefly cover three lines of criticism: (a) Piaget did not properly explain the process of interiorization and the emergence of symbolic representations, (b) Piaget largely ignored the importance of social interaction for the development of knowledge, and (c) Piaget severely underestimated infants’ abilities.

regression as dummy variables Explain the importance of the error term plot Identify assumptions of regression, and know how to test and correct assumption violations Multiple regression is one of the most widely used multivariate statistical techniques for analyzing three or more variables. This chapter uses multiple regression to examine such relationships, and thereby extends the discussion in Chapter 14. The popularity of multiple regression is due largely to the ease with which it takes control variables (or rival hypotheses) into account. In Chapter 10, we discussed briefly how contingency tables can be used for this purpose, but doing so is often a cumbersome and sometimes inconclusive effort. By contrast, multiple regression easily incorporates multiple independent variables. Another reason for its popularity is that it also takes into account nominal independent variables. However, multiple regression is no substitute for bivariate analysis. Indeed, managers or analysts with an interest in a specific bivariate relationship will conduct a bivariate analysis first, before examining whether the relationship is robust in the presence of numerous control variables. And before conducting bivariate analysis, analysts need to conduct univariate analysis to better understand their variables. Thus, multiple regression is usually one of the last steps of analysis. Indeed, multiple regression is often used to test the robustness of bivariate relationships when control variables are taken into account. The flexibility with which multiple regression takes control variables into account comes at a price, though. Regression, like the t-test, is based on numerous assumptions. Regression results cannot be assumed to be robust in the face of assumption violations. Testing of assumptions is always part of multiple regression analysis. Multiple regression is carried out in the following sequence: (1) model specification (that is, identification of dependent and independent variables), (2) testing of regression assumptions, (3) correction of assumption violations, if any, and (4) reporting of the results of the final regression model. This chapter examines these four steps and discusses essential concepts related to simple and multiple regression. Chapters 16 and 17 extend this discussion by examining the use of logistic regression and time series analysis. MODEL SPECIFICATION Multiple regression is an extension of simple regression, but an important difference exists between the two methods: multiple regression aims for full model specification. This means that analysts seek to account for all of the variables that affect the dependent variable; by contrast, simple regression examines the effect of only one independent variable. Philosophically, the phrase identifying the key difference—“all of the variables that affect the dependent variable”—is divided into two parts. The first part involves identifying the variables that are of most (theoretical and practical) relevance in explaining the dependent

It takes him long time, but eventually Simon is able to explain. A computer is a magical box that provides endless pleasure for free. Simon is used to constant access to this box—a never-ending flow of pleasures. When the box stops working—or even just briefly slows down—he becomes so enraged that he curses our God, the one who gave

Kashmareck went out, returning a few moments later with a woman who set all the men’s eyes ablaze. About forty, she had long legs, blond hair, and the face of a Russian doll. She quickly scanned the group, settled into a chair that seemed to be reaching out for her, and opened a memo pad. With her firm, decisive movements, she must have been used to subduing the troops. She explained briefly, in discursive tones, that she worked for the military, customs, and the police, especially in antiterrorism and hostage negotiations. A heavyweight in her field. Lucie had never felt such attention around her. The testosterone level was rising. At least this bombshell had the power to capture their minds.

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