Byron Sharp Quotes

...then he looked at my T-shirt and saw Byron's picture on it and he quoted "She Walks in Beauty," which is like my favorite poem next to the one by Baudelaire about his girlfriend being nothing but worm food, except that Lily called that one first because Baudelaire is her fave poet and so she got the shirt with him on it, even though Byron is way more scrumptious and I would do him on sharp gravel if I had the chance. --from The Chronicles of Abby Normal

Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end; For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning; Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, Being Pride, which leads the mind to soar too far, Till our own weakness shows us what we are. But Time, which brings all beings to their level, And sharp Adversity, will teach at last Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the Devil, That neither of their intellects are vast: While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, We know not this—the blood flows on too fast; But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean, We ponder deeply on each past emotion.

Life 's a poor player,'—then 'play out the play, Ye villains!' above all keep a sharp eye Much less on what you do than what you say: Be hypocritical, be cautious, be Not what you seem, but always what you see.

But I can endure a surprising amount of midnight torment without being absent from class sharp at nine the next day. I suppose that marks me as something not quite up to the Byronic standard.

He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely> a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief.

He was presented to her as Spencer Perceval, the Prime Minister of England. Kassandra stiffened as he bent over her hand. Mercifully, he released her swiftly but then proceeded to speak with exaggerated enunciation as though he presumed “foreign” and “slow” were synonymous. “I do hope your stay will be pleasant, Your Highness.” “Thank you, Prime Minister, I am quite assured that it will be. England is a delightful conjunction of seeming conflicts and contradictions, don’t you think?” Perceval frowned, taken by surprise and unsure how to respond. “Well, as to that-“ “After all, the culture that has produced that astonishing novel Sense and Sensibility and Lord Byron’s…ummm…affecting work within the space of just a few short months can hardly be considered merely a self-aggrandizing island with delusions of empire, can it?” “I suppose not; that is to say?” “Do excuse us, Prime Minister,” Alex interjected smoothly. “I am sure you will understand there are so many waiting to meet Her Highness.” As he guided her toward the next eager greeter, Alex murmured, “Pray do try to remember we are not actually attempting to incite war with England.” Kassandra shrugged, feeling better since she had set down that vile Perceval. “Didn’t you suspect the Prime Minister of plotting an invasion of Akora just last year?” Her brother cast her a sharp look. “You weren’t supposed to know about that.” “For pity’s sake…” “All right, yes I did, but he was soundly discouraged by the Prince Regent himself. There is no reason to have any further concern in that regard.” Kassandra did not answer. She had her own thoughts on the subject and was not ye ready to share them. The introductions continued. Too soon, her head throbbed and the small of her back ached, but she kept her smile firmly in place. When the gong sounded for dinner, she resisted the urge to sag with relief.

in terms of mental and physical availability. Even product innovation largely works (when it works) by enhancing mental availability and gaining further physical distribution.

Building mental availability requires distinctiveness and clear branding, while brands seldom compete on meaningful differentiation.

It suggests that while high physical availability is an essential requirement for high market share it does not guarantee market share.

Similarly, we found that more than half the submissions from established brands were cases of advertising being started again after a very long hiatus.

So the maintenance of mental availability depends on the quality of branding and advertising. Distinctive, consistent icons and imagery build memory associations that allow a brand to be noticed and recalled in a range of buying situations. This is a huge part of brand custodianship,

I see,” said Artemis carefully. “I take it that she is still willing to receive me? Dominic—I mean, His Grace—informed me that it was all arranged.” As she spoke, she raised her bare left hand to her throat to quite unnecessarily fiddle with the lace of her collar. Drawing Miss Sharp’s attention to her ruby and diamond engagement ring was equally as petty, but Artemis couldn’t seem to help herself. The governess was infuriatingly supercilious.

He gave the illusion of being a gentleman, so friendly, yet he had not released her or moved even an inch to allow her to get by him. He inhaled, dragged her scent into his lungs. Suddenly his entire demeanor changed. His body stiffened. His fingers dug into her arm. White teeth gleamed a predator’s flash of warning. “Why did you not answer me when I spoke to you?” His words were low and menacing. The suave stranger was frightening. “Let go of me.” She kept her voice even, her mind working at top speed, looking for a way out. He seemed to hold all the cards, but… “Tell me who you are,” he demanded. “Let go of me now.” She lowered her voice, pitched it to a soft, hypnotic melody. “You want to let me go.” The stranger shook his head, his eyes narrowing, recognizing the hint of compulsion in her voice. He inhaled a second time, drinking in her fragrance. At once his face seemed to go still. “I recognize that scent. Jacques. He is dead these seven years, yet his blood runs in your veins.” His voice crawled with deadly threat. For a moment she was frozen with fear. Was this the betrayer Jacques had spoken of? Shea swung her head sideways to remove his fingers from her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Let go of me now!” Byron let out his breath in a low, venomous hiss. “If you wish to see another night, you will tell me what you have done with him.” “You’re hurting me.” He was drawing closer, leaning toward her neck, bending her backward like a bow as she tried to elude him. His breath was hot on her throat, and Shea gasped as she felt needle-sharp teeth pierce her skin. With a low cry she jerked sideways, her heart pounding. Without warning he caught at the neckline of her shirt to examine the bruises at her throat. She could feel his puzzlement, his confusion. Shea took advantage of his momentarily distraction. As hard as she was able, she brought up her knee and screamed for all she was worth. Byron looked so shocked, she nearly laughed. He had been absolutely certain she wouldn’t want attention drawn to her. His hiss, a deadly promise of retaliation, was the last thing she heard before he melted away. And he literally melted away. Shea never saw him move. One moment he was there, his body trapping hers against the wall, and then he was gone. A fine mist was mixing with the layers of fog covering the ground to about knee level.

There had to be a reason for the delay. Suddenly Mikhail inhaled sharply. “Byron. It is well known in the village that he is Eleanor’s brother. If Eleanor, her child, and Vlad were targets, it stands to reason that Byron is also.” Even as his body bent, contorted, and feathers sprouted, shimmering iridescent in the faint light beginning to streak across the sky, he was already sending a sharp warning to the young Carpathian male. The powerful wings beat strongly as he raced the sun to go to the aid of his brother’s best friend.

Gregori’s body bent first, feathers shimmering iridescent in the moonlight. A six-foot wingspan spread, and he glided to the high branch of a nearby tree, razor-sharp talons digging into a branch. The owl’s body went motionless, blended into the night, simply waited. Aidan was next, a peculiar golden color, powerful and lethal, just as silent. Byron’s form was shorter, more compact, his feathers a mantle of white. Mikhail’s solid form wavered in the shadows, and he launched himself into the night sky, the other three following. As if in perfect understanding, they soared higher, shimmering feathers beating strongly as they raced silently toward the clouds high above the forest floor. The wind rushed against their bodies, under their wings, riffling feathers, brushing away every vestige of sadness and violence left behind by the vampire. In the air they wheeled and banked sharply, four great birds in perfect synchronization. Joy erased dread and the heavy weight of responsibility in Mikhail’s heart, lifted guilt and replaced it with rapture. The powerful wings beat strongly as they raced across the sky together, and Mikhail shared his joy with Raven because he couldn’t contain it, not even in the owl’s powerful body. It spilled out, an invitation, a need to share one more pleasure of Carpathian life. Think, my love. Visualize what I put in your head. Trust me as you have never trusted me before. Allow me to give you this gift. There was no hesitation on her part. With complete faith in him, Raven gave herself into his keeping, reaching eagerly for the vision. The slight discomfort, the strange disorientation as her physical body dissolved, did not faze her. Feathers shimmered, sprouted. Beside her, Jacques stepped back, allowing the smaller female owl to hop onto a tall stone angel before his own large frame compressed, reshaped. Together they launched themselves into the night and soared high to join the other four powerful birds circling above them.

To their right, a strange fog glowed eerily, streamed through the rain and wound through the trees. It moved forward at knee level coming straight toward them now. Shea felt her heart in her throat. She touched Jacques’ back for reassurance. He stopped, seemingly relaxed, his muscles coiled and ready, like a panther awaiting its moment. She could feel it in him, his readiness, so still and confident. As the fog grew closer, only several yards away now, the moisture began to stack itself higher and higher, the droplets connecting and forming the shape of a man. Shea wanted to scream with fear, but she stayed very still, afraid of distracting Jacques. Byron’s form shimmered for a moment. She could actually see the tree behind the mist, and then he was solid, standing with the curious elegance of the Carpathian male. He lifted his eyes from the ground to meet Jacques’ icy-black gaze. “We have been friends for centuries, Jacques. I cannot remember a time in my life that we did not run together. It is strange and sad to me that you can look at me and not know me.” Shea, behind Jacques, stirred uncomfortably. Byron’s sorrow appeared more than he could bear. She wanted to reach out to him, make an attempt to ease his obvious suffering. Do not! The command was sharp in her mind, clear and in a tone that brooked no argument. Jacques remained motionless, as if carved from stone. Byron’s words did not appear to move him in any way. Byron shrugged, his face twisted with pain. “When we thought you were dead, we searched for your body. Months, years even. You were never out of our thoughts. You were my family, Jacques, my friend. It was hard to learn to be completely solitary. Gregori and Mikhail and even Aidan survived the centuries because, as alone as they had to be, they had a bond, an anchor to keep them strong through the bleak centuries. You were mine. Once you were gone, my struggle became immense.