Card Deck Quotes

One of the world's most popular entertainments is a deck of cards, which contains thirteen each of four suits, highlighted by kings, queens and jacks, who are possibly the queen's younger, more attractive boyfriends.

One of the world's most tiresome questions is what object one would bring to a desert island,because people always answer "a deck of cards" or "Anna Karenina" when the obvious answer is "a well equipped boat and a crew to sail me off the island and back home where I can play all the card games and read all the Russian novels I want.

In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come.

You never know beforehand what people are capable of, you have to wait, give it time, it's time that rules, time is our gambling partner on the other side of the table and it holds all the cards of the deck in its hand, we have to guess the winning cards of life, our lives.

If the cards are stacked against you, reshuffle the deck.

I mean, five gods in one stomach—dang. That's enough for doubles tennis, including a ref. They'd been down there so long, they were probably hoping Kronos would swallow down a deck of cards or a Monopoly game.

Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course... it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret... but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back. That's why every magic trick has a third act, the hardest part, the part we call "The Prestige".

Sometimes life hands you more than a new hand of cards to play—it hands you a whole new deck, maybe even a whole new game.

Life is unpredictable, and I’d rather play every card as honestly as I can than have a deck full of regrets and what-ifs.

My memories are like a shuffled deck of cards, each one coming up at random.

You can live a lifetime and, at the end of it, know more about other people than you know about yourself. You learn to watch other people, but you never watch yourself because you strive against loneliness. If you read a book, or shuffle a deck of cards, or care for a dog, you are avoiding yourself. The abhorrence of loneliness is as natural as wanting to live at all. If it were otherwise, men would never have bothered to make an alphabet, nor to have fashioned words out of what were only animal sounds, nor to have crossed continents - each man to see what the other looked like.

One day we'll sit and you'll lay it out on the table, neat like a solitaire deck, but now - why, you can't find all the cards.

He tossed the deck to David. 'You get first deal.' 'I've got one hand.' 'Right, then. Deal those cards, Max, and let's have ourselves a game.

Listen, friend, he said, this whole game is just one big deck of cards. if you want to get into the game you have to take whatever comes up in the shuffle.

Liam was a great many things, but mysterious and unpredictable weren’t included in that deck of cards.

Life is too short for games unless it’s a game of cards. Don’t text back right away; if you like them, pretend you don’t; and don’t you dare say I love you first. Well screw all that. I will text you back in three seconds; I will tell you that I like you; and if I love you, I’ll tell you every chance I get. Life is unpredictable, and I’d rather play every card as honestly as I can than have a deck full of regrets and what-ifs.

Books are like Tarot decks. They provide answers and guidance but more importantly, they are doorways and portals to the otherworld and the imagination. They leave their imprint and keep whispering to us long after we close the pages or shuffle the deck.

Like fanning through a deck of cards, my mind flashes on the thousand chances, trivial to profound, that converged to re-create this place. Any arbitrary turning along the way and I would be elsewhere; I would be different. Where did the expression "a place in the sun" first come from? My rational thought process cling always to the idea of free will, random event; my blood, however, streams easily along a current of fate.

When every card in the deck is stacked against you, the only way to win a hand is to break the rules. You beg, borrow, and steal, as the old adage goes, and if you happen to get caught in the act, at least you´ve gone down fighting the good fight.

It is a bit of a cliché to characterize life as a rambling journey on which we can alter our course at any given time--by the slightest turn of the wheel, the wisdom goes, we influence the chain of events and thus recast our destiny with new cohorts, circumstances, and discoveries. But for the most of us, life is nothing like that. Instead, we have a few brief periods when we are offered a handful of discrete options. Do I take this job or that job? In Chicago or New York? Do I join this circle of friends or that one, and with whom do I go home at the end of the night? And does one make time for children now? Or later? Or later still? In that sense, life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions--we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made shape our lives for decades to come.

I intercepted Chaol, and he informed me of your ‘condition.’ You’d think a man in his position wouldn’t be so squeamish, especially after examining all of those corpses.” Calaena opened an eye and frowned as Dorian sat on her bed. “I’m in a state of absolute agony and I can’t be bothered.” “It can’t be that bad,” he said, fishing a deck of cards from his jacket. “Want to play?” “I already told you that I don’t feel well.” “You look fine to me.” He skillfully shuffled the deck. “Just one game.” “Don’t you pay people to entertain you?” He glowered, breaking the deck. “You should be honored by my company.” “I’d be honored if you would leave.” “For someone who relies on my good graces, you’re very bold.” “Bold? I’ve barely begun.” Lying on her side, she curled her knees to her chest. He laughed, pocketing the deck of cards. “Your new canine companion is doing well, if you wish to know.” She moaned into her pillow. “Go away. I feel like dying.” “No fair maiden should die alone,” he said, putting a hand on hers. “Shall I read to you in your final moments? What story would you like?” She snatched her hand back. “How about the story of the idiotic prince who won’t leave the assassin alone?” “Oh! I love that story! It has such a happy ending, too—why, the assassin was really feigning her illness in order to get the prince’s attention! Who would have guessed it? Such a clever girl. And the bedroom scene is so lovely—it’s worth reading through all of their ceaseless banter!” “Out! Out! Out! Leave me be and go womanize someone else!” She grabbed a book and chucked it at him.

They found records and video-cassettes at their place, a deck of cards, a chess set. In other words, everything that's banned.

I could lie there as long as I wanted, and let all the pictures of things a man might want run through my head, coffee, a girl, money, a drink, white sand and blue water, and let them all slide off, one after another, like a deck of cards slewing slowly off your hand. Maybe the things you want are like cards. You don't want them for themselves, really, though you think you do. You don't want a card because you want the card, but because in a perfectly arbitrary system of rules and values and in a special combination of which you already hold a part the card has meaning. But suppose you aren't sitting in a game. Then, even if you do know the rules, a card doesn't mean a thing. They all look alike.

I think," Nick snarled, "that the stupid bastard isn't smart enough to win a poker hand with a deck of marked cards.

It's like the Negro in America seeing the white man win all the time. He's a professional gambler; he has all the cards and the odds stacked on his side, and he has always dealt to our people from the bottom of the deck.

There will never be another Dark-Hunter who goes free. Your happiness comes at the expense of their freedom because there’s no one else I want to barter with. No one else to pay the fee you set up centuries ago. Knowing that, I hope you sleep well at night. (Artemis) (Artemis leaves.) But what about the Dark-Hunters? (Acheron) The one thing I’ve learned most out of all this is that it’s not over until all the cards are played. She laid down her ace, thinking we can’t beat it. But there are fifty-one other cards in the deck and the game isn’t over yet. We’ll figure something out. Her little fit fight now just shows that she’s played her best hand. That was all she’s capable of doing to hurt you, which is exactly why she did it. Don’t let her ruin your day, baby, and don’t let her take from us what we have. We’ve gotten this far together. What’s another bitter goddess to us? Like my papou always says, over, under, around, or through. There’s always a way and we’ll find it. (Tory)

You never know beforehand what people are capable of, you have to wait, give it time, it's time that rules, time is our gambling partner on the other side of the table and it holds all the cards of the deck in its hands, we have to guess the winning cards of life, our lives

But to fight something, you really have to try to understand its motivations—particularly when the something you’re fighting holds most of the cards, the deck is stacked against you, and the whole gambling hall is on fire and filled with thugs.

Your future can be whatever you wish. We all have the power to choose our own destiny. But, my sweet, if you play with those cards, you give the Fates pictured inside them the opportunity to shift your path. People use Decks of Destiny, similar to the one you just touched, to predict the future, and once a future is foretold, that future becomes a living thing, and it will fight very hard to bring itself about.

I am ready to disclaim my opinion, even of yesterday, even of 10 minutes ago, because all opinions are relative. One lives in a field of influences, one is influenced by everyone one meets, everything is an exchange of influences, all opinions are derivative. Once you deal a new deck of cards, you've got a new deck of cards.

Nico hung his head almost as low as a katobleps. "I, uh... used to play this stupid card game when I was younger. Mythomagic. The katobleps was one of the monster cards." Frank blinked. "I played Mythomagic. I never saw that card" "It was in the Africanus Extreme expansion deck." "Oh." Their host cleared his throat. "Are you two done, ah, geek-ing out, as they say?

They won’t understand,” Persephone said. She laid her deck of tarot cards on the table in front of him. “They didn’t when I came back.” “Am I different?” he asked. “You were different before,” Persephone replied. “But now they won’t be able to stop noticing.

While genes are pivotal in establishing some aspects of emotionality, experience plays a central role in turning genes on and off. DNA is not the heart’s destiny; the genetic lottery may determine the cards in your deck, but experience deals the hand you can play. Scientists have proven, for example, that good mothering can override a disadvantageous temperament.

Perhaps there is a reason that there is no fool piece on the chessboard. What action, a fool? What strategy, a fool? What use, a fool? Ah, but a fool resides in a deck of cards, a joker, sometimes two. Of no worth, of course. No real purpose. The appearance of a trump, but none of the power: Simply an instrument of chance. Only a dealer may give value to the joker.

It’s really a rather simple thing to bring balance to my anger. All I need to do is remember that the ‘hand of cards’ that have been dealt to me pale in comparison to the ‘deck of cards’ that I’ve thrown at others.

She smiled with a newfound optimism. "The one thing I've learned most out of all this is that it's not over until all the cards are played. She laid down her ace, thinking we can't beat it. But there are fifty-one other cards in the deck and the game isn't over yet. We'll figure something out. Her little fit right now just shows that she's played her best hand. That was all she's capable of doing to hurt you which is exactly why she did it. Don't let her ruin your day, baby, and don't let her take from us what we have. We've gotten this far together. What's another bitter goddess to us? Like my papou always says, over, under, around or through. There's always a way and we'll find it."- Tory

Performing magic in the live show thrills me. Just get me a deck of cards and some attentive audience, and I have made my day and theirs too

Grief is like that: One minute you think you know the rules and it's one card, one emotion at a time, the next, the deck explodes all around you.

MY THOUGHTS ARE stacked like a deck of cards and I have to continually shuffle the top one to the back of the pile.

keep purifying your motivations so that they're completely about love and service to elevate the energy and experiences even further.

Years vanish. Months collapse. Time is like a tall building made of playing cards. It seems orderly until a strong gust of wind comes along and blows the whole thing skyward. Imagine it: an entire deck of cards soaring like a flock of birds.

But this was not what Blue was told. Again and again, she had her fingers spread wide, her palm examined, her cards plucked from velvet-edged decks and spread across the fuzz of a family friend’s living room carpet. Thumbs were pressed to the mystical, invisible third eye that was said to lie between everyone’s eyebrows. Runes were cast and dreams interpreted, tea leaves scrutinised and séances conducted. All the women came to the same conclusion, blunt and inexplicably specific. What they all agreed on, in many different clairvoyant languages, was this: If Blue was to kiss her true love, he would die.

Brad pulls out the chair next to him while Darin begins shuffling a deck of cards. "Have a seat, Lily. One of our friends decided to be an idiot and get married last week, and now his wife won't let him come to poker night anymore. You can be his fill-in until he gets a divorce.

I gave you too much power because I always yearned for your love, but I guess the love card wasn’t meant for me to have in my life. I always thought I was dealt a bad hand because that card never appeared in the deck.

But as I began to write this book, I realised that without the whole truth my life would have no power, no real meaning. With the help of my mother, the memories of our lives in North Korea and China cane back to me like scenes from a forgotten nightmare. Some of the images reappeared with a terrible clarity; others were hazy, or scrambled like a deck of cards spilled on the floor. The process of writing has been the process of remembering, and of trying to make sense out of those memories.

I stared in awe as Ferius shuffled the deck, her hands moving smoothly and confidently as the cards flipped around her fingers. It was like watching a master mage performing a dazzling series of somatic shapes one after the other. It was like magic.

in the dark room she sits and in front of her is a plate and on the plate lies a black hunk of bread the size of a deck of cards. The bread has sawdust in it, and cardboard. She takes a knife and a fork, and cuts it slowly into four pieces. She eats one, chews it deliberately, pushes it with difficulty through her dry throat. eats another and another and finally the last one. She lingers especially on the last one. She knows after this piece is gone there will be no more food until tommorow morning. She wishes she could be strong enough to save half of the bread until dinner, but she isn't, she can't. When she looks up from her plate, her sister Dasha, is staring at her. Her plate is long empty. " I wish Alexander was coming back" says Dasha. " He might have food for us" I wish Alexander was coming back, thinks Tatiana.

He did not believe in luck at all, good or bad. Gamblers believed in luck, and he was not a gambler. Never had been, never would be. John Henry Holliday believed in mathematics, in statistics, in the computation of odds. Fifty-two cards in a deck. Make it easy. Say it's fifty. Any card has a 2 percent chance of being dealt from a full deck. Keep track of what's out. Adjust the probabilities as the hand progresses.

This is a mess. A mess! Shraplin, you’re probably sober-esque. How many cards in a standard deck?” “Sixty, boss.” “How many cards presently visible in our hands or on the table?” “Seventy-eight.” “That’s ridiculous,” said Amarelle. “Who’s not cheating?

A stable, loving family is something that should absolutely, fundamentally never be taken for granted! I am lucky that I got dealt some cards that showed me what it's like to not have family, and I am much luckier to now have the chance to create my own deck!

According to Q-Jo, the whole tarot deck, or at least the twenty-two trump cards of the Major Arcana, may be read as the Fool's journey. "On one important level," she explained, "the major cards are chapters in the story of a quest. I'm talking the universal human quest for understanding and divine reunion. And it doesn't matter whether the quest starts with the Fool or ends with him, because it's a loop anyhow, a cycle endlessly repeated. When the naive young Fool finally tumbles over the precipice, he falls into the world of experience. Now his journey has really begun. Along the way, he'll meet all the teachers and tempters - the tempters are teachers, too - and challenging situations that a person is likely to meet in the task of his or her growing. The Fool is potentially everybody, but not everybody has the wisdom or the guts to play the fool. A lot of folks don't know what's in that bag they're carrying. And they're all too willing to trade it for cash. Inside the bag, the have every tool they need to facilitate their life's journey, but they won't even open it up and glance inside. Subconsciously, the goal of all of us out-of-control primates is essentially the same, but let me assure you of this: the only ones who'll ever reach that goal are the ones who have the courage to make fools of themselves along the way.

For even in the triviality of a single playing card missing from a deck, the world's order is inevitably turned awry.

When white people accuse you of "pulling the race card"―don't even deny it! Tell them; "Yeah, it's the only card I've got while you enjoy a full deck.

Samuel said, “One day we’ll sit and you’ll lay it out on the table, neat like a solitaire deck, but now—why, you can’t find all the cards.

Just a card in my deck of dreams.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Perhaps you should invent a new deck with numbered pink butterflies and God cards." ~Dyer

You can't change the cards you are dealt unless you stack the deck.

When I fell, every future move exploded apart in my mind, a deck of cards thrown in the air.

Love is private and primitive and a bit on the funky and frightening side. I think of the Luna card in the Tarot deck: some strange, huge crustacean, its armor glistening and its pinchers wiggling, clatters out of a pool while wild dogs howl at a bulging moon. Underneath the hearts and flowers, love is loony like that. Attempts to housebreak it, to refine it, to dress the crabs up like doves and make them sing soprano always result in thin blood. You end up with a parody.

The heroes pop out at you, impossibly vivid, colorful as playing cards but all from different decks, a jumble of incompatible suits and denominations dealt out for an Alice in Wonderland game.

We all shuffle our own deck in life ... The deck is our brain, the cards are our thoughts, the results we get will determine if we are giving ourselves a fair deal. Do you have an authentic dealer?

You’ll soon find out that much of this job involves a lot of waiting around,” the hook-handed man said. “I usually keep something around to help pass the time, like a deck of cards or a large rock.

She pulled a deck from a drawer and sat across from Tyler. "What would you like to play?" She looked at Tyler. "Strip poker?" Carlie started to rise, her mouth drawn in annoyance, but Tyler stopped her. He was laughing. "Okay, okay. Bad jest. Sorry." She nodded grudgingly. "So. What should we play?" With a twinkle in his eyes, he asked innocently, "Old maid?" She threw the cards at him, then sat there glaring. "Well, I suppose that decides it." He grinned wryly, a card sitting on top of his head, the rest scattered in his lap and on the floor. "Fifty-two pickup it is." -Carlie and Tyler

Honey, have you seen my measuring tape?” “I think it’s in that drawer in the kitchen with the scissors, matches, bobby pins, Scotch tape, nail clippers, barbecue tongs, garlic press, extra buttons, old birthday cards, soy sauce packets thick rubber bands, stack of Christmas napkins, stained take-out menus, old cell-phone chargers, instruction booklet for the VCR, some assorted nickels, an incomplete deck of cards, extra chain links for a watch, a half-finished pack of cough drops, a Scrabble piece I found while vacuuming, dead batteries we aren’t fully sure are dead yet, a couple screws in a tiny plastic bag left over from the bookshelf, that lock with the forgotten combination, a square of carefully folded aluminum foil, and expired pack of gum, a key to our old house, a toaster warranty card, phone numbers for unknown people, used birthday candles, novelty bottle openers, a barbecue lighter, and that one tiny little spoon.” “Thanks, honey.” AWESOME!

The stories of tarot are the reason for its existence. With a deck of cards, we can tell the stories of where we come from, how it is that we are here, what awaits us, and what we will or might become. Tarot tells the story that we are made in a divine image, and that the world (at least the world as we experience it) is made in that same image, so that in some subtle way God, humanity, and the world are all the same shape and are made of the same things. if that is true, then to be a student of tarot is to be a student of everything.

Tea's like magic, man. I felt like I could slip a tea reading into a church potluck and everyone would be amused, as opposed to the horrified reaction I'd get slamming a deck of Tarot cards beside the green bean casserole.

In every deck, the Fool is in a precarious position. Think of all of the idioms we have for taking chances. “Going out on a limb.” “Winging it.” “Break a leg.” “Going for broke.” These all sound really painful, but what they’re about is deciding that being still is not for you. When you see this in a reading, you'll know it's time to jump.

How can you take it, when the people that say they are close. That say they care about you lie to you and be deceitful? Route; Know that you are worth more than how they treat you. Know that with these characters, their face and identity may change. But they still fall into a default card. From the major arcana deck. Affirmation; Grieve and move on

David had been photographing endangered species in the Hawaiian rainforest and elsewhere for years, and his collections of photographs and Suzie's tarot cards seemed somehow related. Because species disappear when their habitat does, he photographed them against the nowhere of a black backdrop (which sometimes meant propping up a black velvet cloth in the most unlikely places and discouraging climates), and so each creature, each plant, stood as though for a formal portrait alone against the darkness. The photographs looked like cards too, card from the deck of the world in which each creature describes a history, a way of being in the world, a set of possibilities, a deck from which cards are being thrown away, one after another. Plants and animals are a language, even in our reduced, domesticated English, where children grow like weeds or come out smelling like roses, the market is made up of bulls and bears, politics of hawks and doves. Like cards, flora and fauna could be read again and again, not only alone but in combination, in the endlessly shifting combinations of a nature that tells its own stories and colors ours, a nature we are losing without even knowing the extent of that loss.

It's hard to know another person. It's like everyone fades and glows in ever - changing light. Like we're each a playing card in a deck, random only to a certain point. Yet still random enough to keep us guessing which card will be played next.

Through that journey, I hoped to learn how to make the best decisions I possibly could, not just at the card table but in the world. Through poker, I wanted to tame luck—to learn to make a difference even when the deck seemed stacked against me.

the way, when I showed this to Leslie, I used real cards, not a bridge diagram. If you find it difficult to follow the diagrams, try using a real deck. For the first hand, you can also try dealing East the king of spades instead of West, and you will see why the finesse won't work. A finesse is a cool play that allows you to win two tricks with the ace and queen of a suit, even though one of your opponents holds the king. It has a 50 percent chance of success, depending on which one of your opponents holds that king.

Qabalah is a portrait of what it means to be human, what it means to be divine and exist. That is what the theory of Qabalah is meant to accomplish. And tarot is that same exact portrait, done as a deck of cards. It is a portrait of the workings of the invisible universe.

How long have you known about Big Bolliger?” “Weeks. We’re going to be short-staffed. That reminds me, let Rojakke go.” “Why? There’s no one like him at the tables.” “Lots of sobs know their way around a deck of cards. Rojakke is a little too quick. He’s skimming.” “He’s a good dealer, and he has a family to provide for. You could give him a warning, take a finger.” “Then he wouldn’t be a good dealer any more, would he?

Everyone has a deck of cards for each person they love. You’ve got your regret cards, your good memory cards, bad memory cards. When one of your people dies, the deck of cards gets thrown up into the air and the cards scatter everywhere. Wakes and funerals are about putting them into a new order. You have to.

As soon as the period of mourning for Dona Ester was over and the big house on the corner was finished, Esteban Trueba and Clara del Valle were married in a modest ceremony. Esteban gave his wife a set of diamond jewelry, which she thought beautiful. She packed it away in a shoe box and quickly forgot where she had put it. They spent their honeymoon in Italy and two days after they were on the boat. Esteban was as madly in love as an adolescent, despite the fact that the movement of the ship made Clara uncontrollably ill and the tight quarters gave her asthma. Seated by her side in the narrow cabin, pressing cold compress to her forehead and holding her while she vomited, he felt profoundly happy and desired her with unjust intensity considering the wretched state to which she was reduced. On the fourth day at sea, she woke up feeling better and they went out on deck to look at the sea. Seeing her with her wind-reddened nose, and laughing at the slightest provocation, Esteban swore that sooner or later she would come to love him as he needed to be loved, even if it meant he had to resort to extreme measures. He realized that Clara did not belong to him and that if she continued living in her world of apparitions, three-legged chairs that moved of their own volition, and cards that spelled out the future, she probably never would. Clara's impudent and nonchalant sensuality was also not enough for him. He wanted far more than her body; he wanted control over that undefined and luminous material that lay within her and that escaped him even in those moments when she appeared to be dying of pleasure. His hands felt very heavy, his feet very big, his voice very hard, his beard very scratchy, and his habits of rape and whoring very deeply ingrained, but even if he had to turn himself inside out like a glove, he was prepared to do everything in his power to seduce her.

The old intergenerational give-and-take of the country-that-used-to-be, when everyone knew his role and took the rules dead seriously, the acculturating back-and-forth that all of us here grew up with, the ritual post-immigrant struggle for success turning pathological in, of all places, the gentleman farmer's castle of our superordinary Swede (a character). A guy stacked like a deck of cards for things to unfold entirely differently. In no way prepared for what is going to hit him. How could he, with all his carefully calibrated goodness, have known that the stakes of living obediently were so high? Obedience is embraced to lower the stakes. A beautiful wife. A beautiful house. Runs his business like a charm... This is how successful people live. They're good citizens. They feel lucky. They feel grateful. God is smiling down on them. There are problems, they adjust. And then everything changes and it becomes impossible. Nothing is smiling down on anybody. And who can adjust then? Here is someone not set up for life's working out poorly, let alone for the impossible. ... the tragedy of the man not set up for tragedy -- that is every man's tragedy.

Some of these tools were ingenious, including sets of playing cards for Iraq, Egypt, and Afghanistan—regular fifty-two-card decks, but with images and information about archaeological practices, famous cultural sites, and notable artifacts; the reverse sides could be pieced together to form a map of the most iconic site for each country.

begs me for a deck of cards so he can teach her Spite and Malice.

What follows is the strangest forty minutes I have ever spent at St. Bernadette’s, and I was once locked in a cupboard for an entire afternoon with a deck of cursed tarot cards.

Not all of us are dealt the easy cards in life, but that doesn’t mean you can’t reshuffle the deck once you’ve seen the light and the possibilities of a better outcome.

Fighting against the system is like going against a house of cards. The deck will always be stacked against you!

All the magicians have 52 mutual friends.

For a professional magician, a stack of playing cards is as good as a stack of money.

A magician may step out without a purse, but he should never step out without a pack of playing cards.

I also juggle,” he said in a grave tone, “and am quite adept with a deck of cards.

He wasn’t playing with a full deck of cards.

Shadow felt like a pea being flicked between three cups, or a card being shuffled through a deck.

A traditional tarot deck is composed of seventy-eight cards. You might encounter modern sets with extra cards. Frankly, I'm not a fan of those because I'm old skool.

Always play your best cards—Love and Kindness. They trump every other card in the deck.

When every card in the deck is stacked against you, the only way to win a hand is to break the rules.

To be able to communicate at a soul level with another human being is the biggest treasure of the physical dimension.

But listen, we all get a deck with some cards missing. Get up and get on with it, I say.

Thoughts flashed by, like cards glimpsed as the dealer shuffles the deck.

Lisette Matson’s gnarled hands shuffled the deck of playing cards like a magician.

Nothing lasts, but nothing is lost. Seek the lesson, and you will find yourself.

I suppose "cartographer" is as good a description as any, but the Argosi do not draw maps of places, but rather of people... cultures.' She tapped the deck in my hand. 'You understand the meaning of the suits? ... look more closely at the individual cards and you'll see that the particular design on each card reflects part of the fundamental power structure of that society.

One of these days in your travels, a guy is going to show you a brand-new deck of cards on which the seal is not yet broken. Then this guy is going to offer to bet you that he can make the jack of spades jump out of this brand-new deck of cards and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, do not accept this bet, because as sure as you stand there, you're going to wind up with an ear full of cider.

She knew scotch from whiskey, had no trouble counting markers, and almost certainly dealt her cards from the bottom of the deck.  She was absolutely shameless.  He hadn’t had this much fun in years.

He’s not playing with a full deck of cards. The magic returned his strength and prowess, but there is only so much magic can do for the mind. That vampire only has one oar in the water, so to speak.

The Empress surrounds you at all times. She feeds the soul with her brilliance and beauty of the night sky. Mountain landscapes, rolling hills, and ocean waves rise like the curve of her hips. Her breath is the warm air of summer, her cool palms are the willow tree's shade. She is the peace of mind of a walking meditation. The Empress fills you with the entirety of the world's beauty if you let her in. She shows you in no uncertain terms, that you are never, ever alone. You are part and parcel of the glistening, pulsating world of energetic and beautific connection. You are her and she is you. She is everything and everything is you.

I’m done waiting for you to see me. Something shifted beneath my feet like moving sand. Things in my chest, around my brain, rearranged. It was like a deck of cards being shuffled. There was before. This was after.

People’s bodies sometimes know things before people themselves do. In a controlled experiment, scientists asked people to draw cards from four decks, two of which were heavily skewed with penalties. Skin measurements showed that people contemplating the bad decks began sweating more profusely before they themselves could verbalize an intuition about which decks to avoid. Such research shows that emotions are a mix of brain states and body experiences, which include increased heart rate, hormonal activity, and input from the gut brain. It also shows that the body plays a role in the reasoning process. Having a gut feeling is not just a metaphor.

Your first deck, or any subsequent decks, does not have to be given to you as a present. That’s just ridiculous (and probably an old control tactic by “those in the know” to keep the cards out of the hands of the masses).

Gran said, “Not that the Minor Arcana would allow such a union anyway.” My eyes widened. “They exist?” In any Tarot deck, there were fifty-six Minor Arcana cards, divided into four suits: cups, pentacles or rings, wands, and swords. Such

Well, you played me, Rabbit. You played me, and it worked, and I’m not the kind of person to make the same mistake twice. Your whole life is a game, but you know what? I already have a life. Poker’s nothing to me but a goddamn deck of cards.

Kaylee, For over a hundred years, magicians have been pulling objects out of hats. Rabbits, flowers... It's become such a famous trick that rabbits are known to represent magic in general. I'm a magician. I've been pulling things from hats since I learned the trick at ten years old. It's all about sleight of hand. Misdirection. Distraction. What people don't really know is it isn't the magician that makes the trick magical. It's the object. What is a zig-zag box without the blades? What is a cage without a dove? The object is the spark--the real reason why the illusion is worth seeing, worth doing, worth discovering. Sometimes magicians lose their rabbits. They get lost in the act, or the magician makes a mistake and has to coax the rabbit back out. Because without the rabbit, the trick is useless. Without the rabbit, the hat becomes insignificant. Kaylee Elizabeth Sperling, you are the rabbit to my hat, and I love you. Please forgive me for losing the spark in your trick. I will do whatever I can to make it up to you, starting with this deck of cards. 52 reasons why I love you. And I could fill another deck. Perhaps two more or three. Whatever it takes to coax my rabbit back out. -Nate

At 2:00 sharp on the afternoon of his internment, with his body resting in a casket in the front room of his home, the pallbearers--all bridge players--stuck a deck of cards in Mr. Hampton's cold hands, shut the lid over his head, and played bridge.

And maybe this is how time has always worked; maybe time is all over the place, only perfectly linear in a person’s memory, like a deck of cards being thrown into the air and then gathered and put in order after the fact. There’s no way to know for sure.

My compass of preference was a Tarot deck—seventy-eight cards, each with their own unique images, which arranged themselves into spreads I could decipher with remarkable success. Whether the cards aligned properly out of luck, coincidence, or because secret fairies made it so, I never much cared.

To use Simonides’ technique, all one has to do is convert something unmemorable, like a string of numbers or a deck of cards or a shopping list or Paradise Lost, into a series of engrossing visual images and mentally arrange them within an imagined space, and suddenly those forgettable items become unforgettable.

 St. Irenaeus (125–203), The Scandal of the Incarnation, and St. Athanasius (297–373), On the Incarnation, are two early classics that set a bar of good theology that we have since seldom matched or even understood. The mystery of incarnation is the unique trump card that Christianity adds to the deck of world religions.

Set down your phones. Run barefoot through the grass. Let snowflakes land on your cheeks. Break out a deck of cards on the deck. Lean in. Listen. Relax. Smile. Enjoy. Toss the baseball until the streetlights come on, and then watch the stars appear. You’re doing enough. Keep going. It’s the small things that add up to a big life.

Just making conversation! I was only trying to…smooth over the moment. I, uh, remember one Solstice years ago when High Prince Celadon gifted my mother a deck of cards with bizarre animals on the front. He told her they were enchanted, and that all she had to do was throw them while shouting their names and the creature she wished to summon would come to her aid. She spent an entire week trying to summon something called ‘Pikachu’ before someone kindly explained to her what Pokémon cards were, and that they weren’t magic. I’m pretty sure the High Prince has cemented his place on the top of her death list for that, but all the High King did was ground him.

From a scientific perspective, ‘destroy’ isn’t really accurate. Nothing has disappeared. All the matter that used to be there is still there, and so is all the angular momentum. It’s only the arrangement of matter that has changed, like a deck of cards being reshuffled. But life is like a straight flush: Once you shuffle, it’s gone.

The Fool in the Tarot deck frequently depicted a boy with a dog at his heels, staring at the sky while he walked blithely off a cliff, burdened only by a bundle on a stick. The diabolist had admitted a relationship to the card. No single detail was quite right, but much as something might appear similar if one were to unfocus their vision… The young diabolist walked with the sparrow at his shoulder, eyes on the windows without looking through the windows, walking forward as if he were afraid to stop. His burden here was the gas containers. No, he was burdened not just by the gas containers, but by some notion of responsibility. A man, when facing death, aspires to finish what he started. What had the custodian of the Thorburn estate started? What drove him? She knew he sought to do good and to vanquish evil, and she could surmise that both good acts and the existence of evil had touched him deeply. The Fool card was akin to the ace. Depending on the game being played, it was often the lowest card or the highest. Valueless or highly valued. Powerless or powerful. It all depended on context. He sought to kill the demon, and he would either catastrophically fail or succeed. This Fool sought to slay the metaphorical dragon. He felt his own mortality, which was quite possibly her fault, in part, and now he rushed to finish the task he’d set for himself. To better the world. The Fool was wrought with air – the clouds he gazed at, the void beyond the cliff, the feather in his cap, even the dog could often be found mid-step, bounding, just above the ground. He was a Fool wrought with a different element. The familiar didn’t quite fit for the departure from the air, but the traditional dog didn’t conjure ideas of air right off the bat either. What was he wrought with? That was another question that begged an answer.

Now, now, ladies, you two know the rules.” Finn rose, holding up his hands like a referee. “No fights outside of a Jell-O ring.” I twirled my be-clawed fingers in front of her face, and eventually she backed off. “So tell me what his story is.” Finn jerked his chin in Jackson’s direction. “He’s not one of us?” After a final threatening look at Selena, I said, “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him do anything superhuman.” Selena flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Because you haven’t experienced him in the right situation, honey.” Her tone dripped with innuendo. Was this the proof that I’d been waiting for? Or another lie? Maybe they had gotten together—at least on the night we’d stayed at her place. And possibly more often. Though I did believe Jackson was interested in me again, I didn’t know how I could get past them. Between gritted teeth, I said, “Then tell us what card he is, Selena.” She sighed. “My Jack of Hearts.” Claws aching, I snapped, “Wrong—deck—hooker.” Finn groaned. “This can’t be happening! So you’re both digging that Cajun dude? Both of you? Come on, pussycats, that’s just not right! Spread the wealth.

I glance over at the window ledge where a huge basket of miscellaneous goods waits for me from my squad. All my favorite snacks, a deck of cards, a porno magazine and some lube—that was fun to pull out in front of the day nurse—and in the center, a children’s book on fire safety and some Band-Aids. Not just any Band-Aid, but kid ones with little puppy firefighters on them. Fuckers.

But if it turns out that she really can adjust them from without? Reshuffle the deck of his past, leave a few cards out, sub in several from a sunnier suit, where was the harm in that? Harm had to be the opposite, didn’t it? Letting the earliest truth metastasize into something that might kill you? The gangrenous spread of one day throughout the life span of a body— wasn’t that something worth stopping?

Nash used to say that living your life was like shuffling a deck of cards. One day you might draw a good hand, the next, a bad beat. But buying into that meant surrendering what control we did have. Life wasn't drawing cards at random, it was choosing to pick up the deck, it was choosing how to shuffle, it was choosing the rules of play. It was the thousand of choices we made every single day, and the path those choices created for us.

The old woman sat in her leather recliner, the footrest extended, a dinner tray on her lap. By candlelight, she turned the cards over, halfway through a game of Solitaire. Next door, her neighbors were being killed. She hummed quietly to herself. There was a jack of spades. She placed it under the queen of hearts in the middle column. Next a six of diamonds. It went under the seven of spades. Something crashed into her front door. She kept turning the cards over. Putting them in their right places. Two more blows. The door burst open. She looked up. The monster crawled inside, and when it saw her sitting in the chair, it growled. “I knew you were coming,” she said. “Didn’t think it’d take you quite so long.” Ten of clubs. Hmm. No home for this one yet. Back to the pile. The monster moved toward her. She stared into its small, black eyes. “Don’t you know it’s not polite to just walk into someone’s house without an invitation?” she asked. Her voice stopped it in its tracks. It tilted its head. Blood—from one of her neighbor’s no doubt—dripped off its chest onto the floor. Belinda put down the next card. “I’m afraid this is a one-player game,” she said, “and I don’t have any tea to offer you.” The monster opened its mouth and screeched a noise out of its throat like the squawk of a terrible bird. “That is not your inside voice,” Belinda snapped. The abby shrunk back a few steps. Belinda laid down the last card. “Ha!” She clapped. “I just won the game.” She gathered up the cards into a single deck, split it, then shuffled. “I could play Solitaire all day every day,” she said. “I’ve found in my life that sometimes the best company is your own.” A growl idled again in the monster’s throat. “You cut that right out!” she yelled. “I will not be spoken to that way in my own home.” The growl changed into something almost like a purr. “That’s better,” Belinda said as she dealt a new game. “I apologize for yelling. My temper sometimes gets the best of me.

life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come.

In that sense, life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come. —

As the old gent shuffled his way to the bureau, I scanned the room, curious as to his weakness. At the Sunshine hotel, for every room there was a weakness, and for every weakness an artifact bearing witness. Like an empty bottle that has rolled under the bed, or a feathered deck of cards on the nightstand, or a bright pink kimono on a hook. Some evidence of that one desire so delectable, so insatiable that it overshadowed all others, eclipsing even the desires for a home, a family, or a sense of human dignity.

Before she could say anything more, Sabella swung around at the sound of Noah’s Harley purring to life behind the garage. God. He was dressed in snug jeans and riding chaps. A snug dark T-shirt covered his upper body, conformed to it. And he was riding her way. “Is there anything sexier than a man in riding chaps riding a Harley?” Kira asked behind her. “It makes a woman simply want to melt.” And Sabella was melting. She watched as he pulled around the side of the garage then took the gravel road that led to the back of the house. The sound of the Harley purred closer, throbbing, building the excitement inside her. “I think it’s time for me to leave,” Kira said with a light laugh. “Don’t bother to see me out.” Sabella didn’t. She listened as the Harley drew into the graveled lot behind the house and moved to the back door. She opened it, stepping out on the back deck as he swung his legs over the cycle and strode toward her. That long-legged lean walk. It made her mouth water. Made her heart throb in her throat as hunger began to race through her. “The spa treated you well,” he announced as he paused at the bottom of the steps and stared back at her. “Feel like messing your hair up and going out this evening? We could have dinner in town. Ride around a little bit.” She hadn’t ridden on a motorcycle since she was a teenager. She glanced at the cycle, then back to Noah. “I’d need to change clothes.” His gaze flickered over her short jeans skirt, her T-shirt. “That would be a damned shame too,” he stated. “I have to say, Ms. Malone, you have some beautiful legs there.” No one had ever been as charming as Nathan. She remembered when they were dating, how he would just show up, out of the blue, driving that monster pickup of his and grinning like a rogue when he picked her up. He’d been the epitome of a bad boy, and he had been all hers. He was still all hers. “Bare legs and motorcycles don’t exactly go together,” she pointed out. He nodded soberly, though his eyes had a wicked glint to them. “This is a fact, beautiful. And pretty legs like that, we wouldn’t want to risk.” She leaned against the porch post and stared back at him. “I have a pickup, you know.” She propped one hand on her hip and stared back at him. “Really?” Was that avarice she saw glinting in his eyes, or for just the slightest second, pure, unadulterated joy at the mention of that damned pickup? He looked around. “I haven’t seen a pickup.” “It’s in the garage,” she told him carelessly. “A big black monster with bench seats. Four-by-four gas-guzzling alpha-male steel and chrome.” He grinned. He was so proud of that damned pickup. “Where did something so little come up with a truck that big?” he teased her then. She shrugged. “It belonged to my husband. Now, it belongs to me.” That last statement had his gaze sharpening. “You drive it?” “All the time,” she lied, tormenting him. “I don’t have to worry about pinging it now that my husband is gone. He didn’t like pings.” Did he swallow tighter? “It’s pinged then?” She snorted. “Not hardly. Do you want to drive the monster or question me about it? Or I could change into jeans and we could ride your cycle. Which is it?” Which was it? Noah stared back at her, barely able to contain his shock that she had kept the pickup. He knew for a fact there were times the payments on the house and garage had gone unpaid—his “death” benefits hadn’t been nearly enough—almost risking her loss of both during those first months of his “death.” Knowing she had held on to that damned truck filled him with more pleasure than he could express. Knowing she was going to let someone who wasn’t her husband drive it filled him with horror. The contradictor feelings clashed inside him, and he promised himself he was going to spank her for this.

Adam Parrish was uncanny. Perhaps standing next to Ronan Lynch, dreamer of dreams, he looked ordinary, but it was only because everything uncanny about him was turned inside instead of out. He, too, had a connection with the peculiar ley line energy that seemed to power Ronan's dreams, except that Adam's connection happened while he was awake, and only ever produced knowledge instead of objects. He was something like a psychic, if there was such a thing as a psychic whose powers extended more towards the future of the world than the future of people. During the idyllic summer he'd spent at the Barns with Ronan, he'd played with energy nearly every single day. He'd gaze into a bowl of dark liquid and lose himself in the unfathomable pulse that connects all living things. While on the phone with Gansey or Blue, he'd take out his deck of haunted tarot cards and read one or three cards for them. At night, he'd sit on the end of Ronan's childhood bed and meet Ronan in dreamspace--Ronan, asleep, in a dream, Adam, awake, in a trance. He had put all of that away to go to Harvard.

When she finally opened them and took in the sight of the two men, a burble of silvery laughter spilled from her dusty lips. "You-you look like bandito snowmen from hell," she choked mirthfully. "And very old ones at that!" Rider yanked his bandanna from his face, and she laughed even harder at his two-toned complexion. Winking at Juan, Rider commented, "This is the thanks we get for coming to her rescue." Juan chuckled. "Si, I think she deserves to have to gaze at herself in the mirror. She looks the bruja pequena, hey, compadre?" "Little witch!" Willow blustered. "Well,none of you are sitting on the furniture until you've cleaned up," Miriam interjected sternly. Willow hurried to the sitting-room window, gasping at the sight of swirling, brownish-gray dirt and debris. "We might as well break out a deck of cards and take a seat on the floor because I think it's going to be awhile before we can get to the water pump and wash ourselves." As if to confirm her words, a loud boom of thunder reverberated above the house. Seconds later, rain pelted the windowpane, and a jagged spear of lightning knifed through the riotus gloom. Willow automatically jumped back from the window, surprised when she stumbled over Rider's toes. He steadied her and she gave an embarrassed smile. "Sorry. I know darn well that lightning can't get to me in here, but it never fails to make me blink and jump." Rider grinned down at her. "It's a natural reaction.If I'd been paying attention to the sky instead of you, I'd have jumped,too." Willow flushed and glanced at Miriam, hoping her friend hadn't heard his candid remark. To her dismay, Miriam winked and smiled knowingly.

Cheating in a game of cards can involve “stacking the deck”—arranging the cards in a way that advantages yourself while ensuring your opponent loses. It is almost certain that this is the way special counsel Robert Mueller approached his investigation. He chose to hire for his staff a group of lawyers who are Democrats and others, like Strzok and Page, who vented in their messages their hostility toward Trump. Factor into the equation Mueller and Rosenstein’s own disqualifying conflicts of interest, and you have an investigation that bears no resemblance to fairness.

Early that evening Wilson and Gallagher and Staff Sergeant Croft had started a game of seven card stud with a couple of orderlies from headquarters platoon. They had grabbed the only empty place on the hold deck where it was possible to see the cards once the lights were turned off. Even then they were forced to squint, for the only bulb still lit was a blue one near the ladder, and it was difficult to tell the red suits from the black. They had been playing for hours, and by now they were in a partial stupor. If the hands were unimportant, the betting was automatic, almost unconscious

When everyone was busy playing their cards, guessing others hands and counting chips, we took a deck and a bottle and a corner table. At the end of that dreamy night, rattles stopped, bottles emptied, everyone gone. But there on our table was this beautiful house erected of cards, stories, hopes and secrets. Something we built quite unknowingly. She looked at me with starry eyes and whispered – “Can we keep it?” The curious inn keeper, from a distance answered – “No”. She made a face and looked at me and I said – “We shall come back tomorrow and make a new one everyday”. And we never did.

Aunt Harriet surprised Grandfather right away. She brought her flute, which did not impress Grandfather. “You don’t have to like it,” she told Grandfather when she saw the look on his face. “I didn’t bring it for you.” She also brought a deck of cards and invited him to play. They played many games, and Aunt Harriet beat Grandfather every time. While Aunt Mattie helped Mama with her dress for the wedding, Aunt Harriet kept winning into the night. Lamplight fell across the cards on the table long after Jack had gone to bed. “I’m not amused,” said Grandfather as Aunt Harriet won again. “That’s all right. I am,” she said. “Me, too,” I told her.

Why don’t you make a set of oracle cards for Tamsy to use?” Gwyneth suggested, steering our family ship out of troubled waters. “You can put your special pictures on one side, and write their meaning on the other.” She set a pile of index cards on the table, along with a pot of colored pencils and crayons. “Like what?” Becca said, clambering onto a nearby stool. “Things that hold meaning,” Gwyneth said. “Colors, books, food, songs. Anything you like. There’s no right or wrong.” I wondered if all the Proctor decks had started this way, with a child drawing out their inner hopes and fears and refining them over a lifetime until they sang with power and insight.

Why didn’t God want them to build the Tower of Babel?” I said. “Why did He make it so everybody couldn’t understand each other?” “You know I don’t believe in God.” “I know.” “Probably there was just a ziggurat, you know what a ziggurat is? Over in Mesopotamia. Maybe it was in ruins. Maybe it was only halfway built, left unfinished. And they made up a story to explain what happened to it, why it looked incomplete.” “Oh.” “You understand what I’m saying?” I understood: Everything got ruined and nothing was ever finished. The world, like the Tower of Babel or my grandmother’s deck of cards, was made out of stories, and it was always on the verge of collapse. That was proverbial.

They really haven’t told you anything about the future, have they? This is my phone.” “A phone. You use it as a phone. You carry around a device that’s the size of a deck of cards and is more powerful than a Cray supercomputer, and you use it as a phone?” “I also play games on it, and watch a movie occasionally.” “You can watch movies on that?” “Not many. I mean, I only have a sixteen-gig memory card in it.” Phillip muttered, almost to himself, “My Commodore has sixty-four kilobytes of memory and a floppy drive that stores one hundred and seventy K. You can double that, but you have to cut a notch in the disk.” Then, loud and clear, Phillip said, “I kind of hate you right now.

If collaboration is a headache for learning in the workplace, it’s hard to know where to start with schools. First, most schools don’t call it ‘sharing’ anyway – they call it ‘cheating’. Think about it for a moment: the kids who are now in school will be entering a workplace where internal and external collaboration is the work. We prepare them for this interconnected world, by insisting that almost everything they do, every piece of work they submit, is their own work, not the fruits of working with others, because every student has to have an individual, rigorously assessed, accountable grade – if they don’t, the entire examinations system collapses like a deck of cards.  Except it doesn’t.

Ryzhkova was accustomed to tarot with its layers of meaning, interpretations, and reversals, and how a picture might look one way but contain a contrary truth. Used to her silent apprentice, she had forgotten that language itself was as subtle and slippery as her cards, and that words contained hidden seeds that blossomed with a speaker’s intent. A wish for safety meant nothing if the force behind it was a desire to kill. Though she spoke of love and protection, dread, grief, and anger bled through. Each word that fell from her tongue bound itself to paper with a small part of her soul, infusing the cards not with love as she thought, but with a hex burned strong and deep by fear. Buried in the heart of the deck, the Fool’s eyes shut. She closed the box. A

Sure, you can stay home and work towards the day when you have the perfect boat, perfectly outfitted, as most people try to do. You might even wait and do your cruising as a retired person clutching a fistful of platinum credit cards on a finely fitted boat filled with expensive gadgets needed to maintain your increased demands for comfort and security. But by that time you are somewhat lacking in the robust health and enthusiasm to fully engage in your long-postponed adventure. If I chose to sail as a young adventurer, poorly equipped in the material sense, I make no apologies. I was well-fitted out in health and spirit. As all sailors ultimately learn, it is easier to prepare a boat for sea than to clear the decks of your life for a voyage into unknown waters.

He told them he regretted that he had missed an early opportunity to invest in Nintendo in the 1970's. "They were just a playing-card company," Watanabe-san said, with a self-deprecating laugh. "Hanafuda. For aunties and little children, you know?" Nintendo's most successful product before they made Donkey Kong was, indeed, a deck of hanafuda playing cards. "What's hanafuda?" Sam asked. "Plastic cards. Quite small and thick, with flowers and scenes of nature," Watanabe-san said. "Oh!" Sam said. "I know these! I used to play them with my grandmother, but we didn't call them hanafuda. I think the game we played was called Stop-Go?" "Yes," Watanabe-san said. "In Japan, the game most people play with hanafuda is called Koi Koi, which means..." "Come come," Marx filled in.

It’s to do with knowing and being known. I remember how it stopped seeming odd that in biblical Greek, knowing was used for making love. Whosit knew so-and-so. Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy… we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a deck of cards? Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what’s shared — she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone everything is pain. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.

The Temperance (XIV) Card “Highway 17 in Texas: we stop to watch buzzards supping on a roadkill porcupine. The mountains are a Persian rug of emerald and brown, wolfish clouds gathering rain. The towns stack up like a tarot deck. A row of Mexican women stand at clotheslines, shake the static from dresses. The fortune you believe is the one you'll get. Eres muy sexy, says the wrinkled man at the gas station. Eres divina. The jade cottonwoods speak of flooding; the yucca tattle on the south. You might say this about exile, mountains eroded by six hundred years of women's feet, the heavy press from babies and water buckets. Forty miles south, mothers find their daughters' bodies in boxes. The dusk is a murder of magenta and indigo against the black land, as monstrously beautiful as a rape tree. As we drive, a brown woman names the dying plants. She reads the cacti like an open palm.

Self-examination requires time alone spent in thoughtful study. We naturally fear aloneness, which reluctance can stifle attaining self-knowledge. In her 1942 memoir titled ‘West with the Night,. Beryl Marham spoke eloquently why we must overcome our fear of aloneness and conduct a search for our inner authenticity. “You can live a lifetime and, at the end of it, know more about other people than you know about yourself. You learn to watch other people, but you never watch yourself because you strive against loneliness. If you read a book, or shuffle a deck of cards, or care for a dog, you are avoiding yourself. The abhorrence of loneliness is as natural as wanting to live at all. If it were otherwise, men would never have bothered to make the alphabet, nor to have fashioned words out of what were only animal sounds, nor to have crossed continents – each man to see what the other looked like.

My skin feels too tight, like I might rupture. My mother must have read the end, the cards Enola keeps reading, the same thing Verona Bonn read, all the way back to Ryzhkova. They passed the cards to each other creating history, fingers touching paper, imbuing it with hope and fears, fear like a curse. Of course they wouldn’t clear their cards, they were talking to their mothers, and isn’t that part of why I’ve stayed here? The book noted a falling out between Ryzhkova and her apprentice, a falling out over the mermaid. Enola said that cards build history—what a perfect way to wound someone. The cards were hers, Ryzhkova’s, then Amos and Evangeline’s on down the line, each leaving themselves in the ink, each pulling from the deck, pulling in fears that work like poison. The wind blows a sheet of paper across a split board. The only paper of consequence was never in my possession—it was in Enola’s.

I would like to see you cheat,” Elizabeth said impulsively, smiling at him. His hands stilled, his eyes intent on her face. “I beg your pardon?” “What I meant,” she hastily explained as he continued to idly shuffle the cards, watching her, “is that night in the card room at Charise’s there was mention of someone being able to deal a card from the bottom of the deck, and I’ve always wondered if you could, if it could…” She trailed off, belatedly realizing she was insulting him and that his narrowed, speculative gaze proved that she’d made it sound as if she believed him to be dishonest at cards. “I beg your pardon,” she said quietly. “That was truly awful of me.” Ian accepted her apology with a curt nod, and when Alex hastily interjected, “Why don’t we use the chips for a shilling each,” he wordlessly and immediately dealt the cards. Too embarrassed even to look at him, Elizabeth bit her lip and picked up her hand. In it there were four kings. Her gaze flew to Ian, but he was lounging back in his chair, studying his own cards. She won three shillings and was pleased as could be. He passed the deck to her, but Elizabeth shook her head. “I don’t like to deal. I always drop the cards, which Celton says is very irritating. Would you mind dealing for me?” “Not at all,” Ian said dispassionately, and Elizabeth realized with a sinking heart that he was still annoyed with her. “Who is Celton?” Jordan inquired. “Celton is a groom with whom I play cards,” Elizabeth explained unhappily, picking up her hand. In it there were four aces. She knew it then, and laughter and relief trembled on her lips as she lifted her face and stared at her betrothed. There was not a sign, not so much as a hint anywhere on his perfectly composed features that anything unusual had been happening. Lounging indolently in his chair, he quirked an indifferent brow and said, “Do you want to discard and draw more cards, Elizabeth?” “Yes,” she replied, swallowing her mirth, “I would like one more ace to go with the ones I have.” “There are only four,” he explained mildly, and with such convincing blandness that Elizabeth whooped with laughter and dropped her cards. “You are a complete charlatan!” she gasped when she could finally speak, but her face was aglow with admiration. “Thank you, darling,” he replied tenderly. “I’m happy to know your opinion of me is already improving.” The laughter froze in Elizabeth’s chest, replaced by warmth that quaked through her from head to foot. Gentlemen did not speak such tender endearments in front of other people, if at all. “I’m a Scot,” he’d whispered huskily to her long ago. “We do.” The Townsendes had launched into swift, laughing conversation after a moment of stunned silence following his words, and it was just as well, because Elizabeth could not tear her gaze from Ian, could not seem to move. And in that endless moment when their gazes held, Elizabeth had an almost overwhelming desire to fling herself into his arms. He saw it, too, and the answering expression in his eyes made her feel she was melting. “It occurs to me, Ian,” Jordan joked a moment later, gently breaking their spell, “that we are wasting our time with honest pursuits.” Ian’s gaze shifted reluctantly from Elizabeth’s face, and then he smiled inquisitively at Jordan. “What did you have in mind?” he asked, shoving the deck toward Jordan while Elizabeth put back her unjustly won chips. “With your skill at dealing whatever hand you want, we could gull half of London. If any of our victims had the temerity to object, Alex could run them through with her rapier, and Elizabeth could shoot him before he hit the ground.” Ian chuckled. “Not a bad idea. What would your role be?” “Breaking us out of Newgate!” Elizabeth laughed. “Exactly.

EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER ONE MY LIFE ON CRAIGSLIST Stars and Cards Never Lie Date: 2011-04-1, 9:17PM EST Reply to: sev-rgddta-26664852@craigslist.org Life and the economy beating you down? The accuracy of the Rider Waite Tarot cards and my Astrology consultations will amaze you. The insight you’ll gain from these readings will be a fantastic catalyst for spiritual growth and personal advancement. Available by phone and skype. Alternative decks and house calls can be arranged upon request. •Location: New York City, MANHATTAN •it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests Chapter 1 Four Cookies and a Funeral Yesterday I went on Craigslist and hired a Tarot reader to tell me whether I was in any danger of losing my job. I wasn’t really worried because last week, an astrologer I’d also found on Craigslist, had told me there was no major movement in the sixth house, which is the area of my chart that governs work. But just in case, I met with the Tarot card reader who told me everything was going to be okay. Today I got canned.

Although I am an optimist, my imagination can conjure countless deadly hands from any shuffled deck before the cards are dealt. I am, therefore, perplexed by so many people who, whether they’re optimists or pessimists, trust any dealer as long as he claims to share their vision of how all things ought to be, who trust their own vision to the extent that they never question it, and who believe that four of a kind and royal flushes always fall by chance in a world without meaning. To such folks, Hitler was a distant and half-comic figure—until he wasn’t; and mad mullahs promising to use nuclear weapons as soon as they obtain them are likewise harmless—until they aren’t. I, on the other hand, believe life has profound meaning and that the meaning of Creation itself is benign, but I also know that there are such things as card mechanics who can manipulate any deck to their great advantage. In life, little happens by chance, and most bad hands we’re dealt are the consequence of our actions, which are shaped by our wisdom and our ignorance. In my experience, survival depends on hoping for the best while recognizing that disaster is more likely and that it can’t be averted if it can’t be imagined.

A box of dominoes, a deck of cards, those were under the folded blankets. There are a lot of paperbacks on the shelves in the bedrooms, detective novels mostly, recreational reading. Beside them are the technical books on trees and the other reference books, Edible Plants and Shoots, Tying the Dry Fly, The Common Mushrooms, Log Cabin Construction, A Field Guide to the Birds, Exploring Your Camera, he believed that with the proper guidebooks you could do everything yourself; and his cache of serious books: the King James Bible which he said he enjoyed for its literary qualities, a complete Robert Burns, Boswell’s Life, Thompson’s Seasons, selections from Goldsmith and Cowper. He admired what he called the eighteenth-century rationalists: he thought of them as men who had avoided the corruptions of the Industrial Revolution and learned the secret of the golden mean, the balanced life, he was sure they all practiced organic farming. It astounded me to discover much later, in fact my husband told me, that Burns was an alcoholic, Cowper a madman, Dr. Johnson a manic-depressive and Goldsmith a pauper. There was something wrong with Thompson also; “escapist” was the term he used. After that I liked them better, they weren’t paragons any more.

Tell me the truth. Is there a way Elspeth and I will meet again on this side of the veil?” The answer was a cold, deafening silence. Ravyn squeezed his eyes shut and bit down so hard his jaw seized. He felt like he was back in the meadow, a knife in his side, bleeding out. Then, soft as a shifting breeze through yew branches, the Nightmare answered. “Only one.” Ravyn opened his eyes. The Nightmare stood before him like he had in his bedroom. Hand extended, palm open. And the Nightmare Card therein. “Destroy it,” he whispered. “With the final Nightmare Card gone, my soul will disappear. Her degeneration will have nothing to cling to. She will return. And I…” His voice faded. “I will finally rest.” Ravyn reached for the Nightmare Card, hands shaking. “Destroy this, and Elspeth returns?” “Yes.” Something hot touched Ravyn’s relief. “You’re telling me I’ve had the means to free her all this time?” The Nightmare grinned. “Yes.” “You didn’t—Why—” He pinched his nose, swallowing fury. “You make it so hard not to hate you.” “I had my Deck to collect. History to revisit—and rewrite. A path to draw for you and the Princeling, both of you Kings in your own right.” The Nightmare clung only a moment longer to his namesake Card, then released it into Ravyn’s hand. “And I was not yet ready to bid Elspeth goodbye.

The doors led to Prince Rhy’s private chambers, and Gen and Parrish, as part of Prince Rhy’s private guard, had been stationed outside of them. Parrish was fond of the prince. He was spoiled, of course, but so was every royal—or so Parrish assumed, having served only the one—but he was also good-natured and exceedingly lenient when it came to his guard (hell, he’d given Parrish the deck of cards himself, beautiful, gilded-edge things) and sometimes, after a night of drinking, would shed his Royal and its pretentions and converse with them in the common tongue (his Arnesian was flawless). If anything, Rhy seemed to feel guilty for the persistent presence of the guards, as if surely they had something better to do with their time than stand outside his door and be vigilant (and in truth, most nights it was more a matter of discretion than vigilance). The best nights were the ones when Prince Rhy and Master Kell set out into the city, and he and Gen were allowed to follow at a distance or relieved of their duties entirely and allowed to stay for company rather than protection (everyone knew that Kell could keep the prince safer than any of his guard). But Kell was still away—a fact that had put the ever-restless Rhy in a mood—and so the prince had withdrawn early to his chambers, and Parrish and Gen had taken up their watch, and Gen had robbed Parrish of most of his pocket money

I’ve made myself into the character of a book, a life one reads. Whatever I feel is felt (against my will) so that I can write that I felt it. Whatever I think is promptly put into words, mixed with images that undo it, cast into rhythms that are something else altogether. From so much self-revising, I’ve destroyed myself. From so much self-thinking, I’m now my thoughts and not I. I plumbed myself and dropped the plumb; I spend my life wondering if I’m deep or not, with no remaining plumb except my gaze that shows me – blackly vivid in the mirror at the bottom of the well – my own face that observes me observing it. I’m like a playing card belonging to an old and unrecognizable suit – the sole survivor of a lost deck. I have no meaning, I don’t know my worth, there’s nothing I can compare myself with to discover what I am, and to make such a discovery would be of no use to anyone. And so, describing myself in image after image – not without truth, but with lies mixed in – I end up more in the images than in me, stating myself until I no longer exist, writing with my soul for ink, useful for nothing except writing. But the reaction ceases, and again I resign myself. I go back to whom I am, even if it’s nothing. And a hint of tears that weren’t cried makes my stiff eyes burn; a hint of anguish that wasn’t felt gets caught in my dry throat. But I don’t even know what I would have cried over, if I’d cried, nor why it is that I didn’t cry over it. The fiction follows me, like my shadow. And what I want is to sleep.

— ’tis flatten and fold, isn’t it, and flatten again, among the thicknesses of Hide, till presently you’ve these very thin Sheets of Gold-Leaf.” “Lamination,” Mason observes. “Lo, Lamination abounding,” contributes Squire Haligast, momentarily visible, “its purposes how dark, yet have we ever sought to produce these thin Sheets innumerable, to spread a given Volume as close to pure Surface as possible, whilst on route discovering various new forms, the Leyden Pile, decks of Playing-Cards, Contrivances which, like the Lever or Pulley, quite multiply the apparent forces, often unto disproportionate results. . . .” “The printed Book,” suggests the Revd, “— thin layers of pattern’d Ink, alternating with other thin layers of compress’d Paper, stack’d often by the Hundreds.” “Or an unbound Heap of Broadsides,” adds Mr. Dimdown, “dispers’d one by one, and multiplying their effect as they go.” The Macaroni is of course not what he seems, as which of us is?— the truth comes out weeks later, when he is discover’d running a clandestine printing Press, in a Cellar in Elkton. He looks up from the fragrant Sheets, so new that one might yet smell the Apprentices’ Urine in which the Ink-Swabs were left to soften, bearing, to sensitiz’d Nasalia, sub-Messages of youth and Longing,— all about him the word repeated in large Type, LIBERTY. One Civilian leads in a small band of Soldiers. “Last time you’ll be seeing that word.” “Don’t bet your Wife’s Reputation on it,” the Quarrelsome Fop might have replied. Philip Dimdown, return’d to himself, keeps his Silence.

Why are there no queens in the deck?” I asked rather suddenly. “It seems odd.” Suzanne Brantôme, on my left, and Mimi La Salle, on my right, smiled knowingly, and I felt foolish. But Marguerite did not smile. “You have by now read The Book of the City of Ladies, have you not, Anna?” “I have.” “Then you should tell us why the deck has no queens.” “Because…,” I began, but I hesitated, for my mind was racing far ahead of my voice. I wished so very much to please the duchess with my answer. “There has been so little recognition of the contributions of women in every walk of life?” I finally offered, with a woeful lack of confidence in my answer. But Marguerite bade me go on with a subtle nod. “Men have looked down upon our sex,” I said. “They have withheld education and caused us great suffering. They do not see women as fit rulers and…” I stopped and thought about my summary of Christine de Pizan’s work. When I began again, it was slowly, as if the words were falling together into an idea as they were spoken. “So why would men place queens in a deck of cards? It might signify their importance in the world.” Marguerite looked at me with affection and approval. “I have thought the same thoughts many times, as have my ladies at these tables. We all know very well there are no kingdoms without queens.” We sat silent for a moment as we pondered the wisdom of that idea. “Mayhap someday soon there will be queens in the playing cards,” I said hopefully. “If it is left to the men to decide, we shall first see the Second Coming of Christ!” Lady Brantôme declared. Everyone laughed at that. Mimi,

Cribbage!” I declared, pulling out the board, a deck of cards, and pen and paper, “Ben and I are going to teach you. Then we can all play.” “What makes you think I don’t know how to play cribbage?” Sage asked. “You do?” Ben sounded surprised. “I happen to be an excellent cribbage player,” Sage said. “Really…because I’m what one might call a cribbage master,” Ben said. “I bet I’ve been playing longer than you,” Sage said, and I cast my eyes his way. Was he trying to tell u something? “I highly doubt that,” Ben said, “but I believe we’ll see the proof when I double-skunk you.” “Clearly you’re both forgetting it’s a three-person game, and I’m ready to destroy you both,” I said. “Deal ‘em,” Ben said. Being a horse person, my mother was absolutely convinced she could achieve world peace if she just got the right parties together on a long enough ride. I didn’t know about that, but apparently cribbage might do the trick. I didn’t know about that, but apparently cribbage might do the trick. The three of us were pretty evenly matched, and Ben was impressed enough to ask sage how he learned to play. Turned out Sage’s parents were historians, he said, so they first taught him the precursor to cribbage, a game called noddy. “Really?” Ben asked, his professional curiosity piqued. “Your parents were historians? Did they teach?” “European history. In Europe,” Sage said. “Small college. They taught me a lot.” Yep, there was the metaphorical gauntlet. I saw the gleam in Ben’s eye as he picked it up. “Interesting,” he said. “So you’d say you know a lot about European history?” “I would say that. In fact, I believe I just did.” Ben grinned, and immediately set out to expose Sage as an intellectual fraud. He’d ask questions to trip Sage up and test his story, things I had no idea were tests until I heard Sage’s reactions. “So which of Shakespeare’s plays do you think was better served by the Globe Theatre: Henry VIII or Troilus and Cressida?” Ben asked, cracking his knuckles. “Troilus and Cressida was never performed at the Globe,” Sage replied. “As for Henry VIII, the original Globe caught fire during the show and burned to the ground, so I’d say that’s the show that really brought down the house…wouldn’t you?” “Nice…very nice.” Ben nodded. “Well done.” It was the cerebral version of bamboo under the fingernails, and while they both tried to seem casual about their conversation, they were soon leaning forward with sweat beading on their brows. It was fascinating…and weird. After several hours of this, Ben had to admit that he’d found a historical peer, and he gleefully involved Sage in all kinds of debates about the minutiae of eras I knew nothing about…except that I had the nagging sense I might have been there for some of them. For his part, Sage seemed to relish talking about the past with someone who could truly appreciate the detailed anecdotes and stories he’d discovered in his “research.” By the time we started our descent to Miami, the two were leaning over my seat to chat and laugh together. On the very full flight from Miami to New York, Ben and Sage took the two seats next to each other and gabbed and giggled like middle-school girls. I sat across from them stuck next to an older woman wearing far too much perfume.

He sat in the reading room by himself, the diffuse morning light rendering him soft and dusty. He had removed one of the tarot decks from its bag and lined all of the cards faceup in three long rows. Now he leaned on the table and studied the image on each, one at at time, shuffling on his elbows to the next when he was through. He looked nothing like the Adam who'd lost his temper and everything like the Adam she had first met. That was what was frightening, though⁠—there'd been no warning.

We hold a universe in our hands when we pick up a deck of tarot cards.

Whalebone fan Spherical chalkboard Locks (11) Keys (“a handful”) Reflecting circle Deck of cards

Mike, have you ever heard that marriage is like a deck of playing cards?” Badde said. “Rappe . . . ?” Jan said, her tone warning. “No, can’t say that I have heard that,” Santos said. Badde grinned. “Yeah,” he said, “in the beginning of a marriage you just need two hearts and a diamond . . .” “Ha,” Santos said. “. . . But in the end you want a club and a spade.

In that sense, life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come.

Oh, dey put me under arrest one day for vacancy in Bartow. When de judge found out Ah had a job of work. He took and searched me and when he found out Ah had a deck of cards on me, he charged me wid totin' concealed cards, and attempt to gamble, and gimme three months. Then dey made out another charge 'ginst me. 'Cused me of highway shufflin', and attempt to gamble. You know dese white folks sho hates tuh turn a n****r loose, if every dey git dey hands on 'im.

Why don’t we see what the cards have to say?” Gran handed me a handkerchief and rocked back on her heels. I dabbed at my eyes as she shuffled the cards, the same deck she’d been using since I could remember. The gold foil had worn off their backs, but she said that just made them more magical. They gave up a little of themselves and took in a little of us, and with each generation, grew wiser.

He said, "I am. I'm--I'm pulling another card." He hesitated, waiting for her to tell him it wasn't allowed. But she just waited. Adam cut the deck, laid his hand on each stack. He took the card that felt warmer. Flipping it, he placed the card beside the nine of swords. A robed figure stood before a coin, a cup, a sword, and a wand--all of the symbols of the tarot suits. An infinity symbol floated above his head; one arm was lifted in a posture of power. Yes, thought Adam. Understanding prickled and then evaded him. He read the words at the bottom of the card. The Magician.

We were a deck of cards, a club, a heart, a diamond and a spade, all of us made for dealing in death. I had my Joker, my Jack, my King, and my scruffy little pooch of an Ace. Somehow, I’d become the Queen of all that, and together we made a full house, even if it didn’t look like anyone else’s version, even if it was a jumble of suits and colours. It didn’t make us any less real.

It is a bit of a cliché to characterize life as a rambling journey on which we can alter our course at any given time—by the slightest turn of the wheel, the wisdom goes, we influence the chain of events and thus recast our destiny with new cohorts, circumstances, and discoveries. But for the most of us, life is nothing like that. Instead, we have a few brief periods when we are offered a handful of discrete options. Do I take this job or that job? In Chicago or New York? Do I join this circle of friends or that one, and with whom do I go home at the end of the night? And does one make time for children now? Or later? Or later still? In that sense, life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come. —

Because I’m going to. It hits me like a train. I’m saying no. I’m Whitaker Kayes. Heir to the Barons. I have options. I hold my own deck of cards.

Something shifted beneath my feet like moving sand. Things in my chest, around my brain, rearranged. It was like a deck of cards being shuffled. There was before. This was after.

Marriage is like a deck of cards. In the beginning all you need is two hearts and a diamond. By the end you wish you had a club and a spade.

Throughout Saturday afternoon, launches from the Arizona and the six other battleships moored along Battleship Row ferried sailors to the fleet landing in the harbor’s Southeast Loch. Leaving one’s ship was a formal affair. Those answering liberty call lined up on the quarterdeck in two rows. The officer of the deck inspected those assembled to make certain that uniforms were clean and pressed and shoes polished. Receiving his liberty card, each man saluted the officer of the deck and asked for permission to leave the ship. As his salute was returned, the man’s name was checked off the liberty list. He then saluted the American flag above the quarterdeck and climbed down the gangway to the waiting launch.

I do not lie. You know that I do not. You may find wealth in one of these cards. You might find items of great magic. You might find allies of great power, or enemies beyond you. You might find curses or blessings, your greatest wishes, your greatest fears.” “What games do you play?” “I’m not playing this game—you are.” “What is the game, though?” “One that entertains me.” “Fiend.

Ra-Hoor-Khuit is an Egyptian deity who is an aspect of the hawk-headed god, Horus. He is of some significance within the magical paradigm of Thelema, which has evolved out of the magical work of Aleister Crowley. Among other things, he is described as the god of “strength and silence.” He appears as a hawk, or as a hawk-headed man. Ra-Hoor Khuit is generally associated with martial prowess. He is a warrior-god, but we can gain a further insight into his nature by looking at the qualities of a hawk. A hawk is powerful, aggressive and predatory, but in a very controlled sense. It hovers high above the land, until it spots its prey, whereon it swoops in for the kill. Ra-Hoor Khuit also has solar associations, and a powerful representation of him is the ‘Aeon’ card in the Crowley-Harris Thoth deck. So, when invoking Ra-Hoor-Khuit, we are identifying with these qualities; the power, confidence and poise of the god, the perceptual acuity of the hawk, and also a sense of freedom and detachment from the object (target) of our will.

Marriage is like a deck of playing cards. When you first wed, all you need is two hearts and a diamond. After a spell, all you need is a club and a spade.

Light begins to shine out to the world, and thought emerges swiftly. She feels a smile form and her brain begins to buzz. Understanding.

But I realized that the odds as the game progressed actually depended on which cards were still left in the deck and that the edge would shift as play continued, sometimes favoring the casino and sometimes the player.

apparently there are some holes in it. It’s like an incomplete deck of cards –

Às vezes a vida nos atinge com o resultado das nossas atitudes calculadas ou do mero acaso, não importa, pois precisamos sobreviver a pancada de qualquer jeito.

Às vezes, podemos nos perder naquilo que somos e saber que temos a confiança de quem nos importa, pode nos trazer de volta.

Quando você se dispõe a ser mau, precisa estar preparado para ser o pior possível, pois sempre haverá alguém que vai tentar te superar!

— Por que você veio mais cedo?— Perguntou, quando conseguiu falar. — Pretendia te levar para jantar, mas você foi meu prato principal.

You can live a lifetime and, at the end of it, know more about other people than you know about yourself. You learn to watch other people, but you never watch yourself because you strive against loneliness. If you read a book, or shuffle a deck of cards, or care for a dog, you are avoiding yourself. The abhorrence of loneliness is as natural as wanting to live at all. If it were otherwise, men would never have bothered to make an alphabet, nor to have fashioned words out of what were only animal sounds, nor to have crossed continents — each man

Emerging science tells us that the genes we inherit aren't fixed. They are influenced by our environment. The groundbreaking discovery of epigenetics tells a new story about our ability to change. We are, of course, given a set of genes, but like a deck of cards, to some degree we can choose which hands we want to play. We can make choices about our sleep, nutrition, relationships, and the ways we move our body that all alter gene expression.

There are times when I sit on the hotel bed with a deck of cards and play solitaire to give my “little mind” something to do. I got that phrase from my grandmother, who used to say, when something surprised her, “You know, that wasn’t even on my littlest mind.” I really thought that there was a small mind and a large mind, and if I could occupy the small one, I could get more quickly to the big one.

Deck of Phase 10 playing cards.

Fortunately, they had a card up their sleeve. Or rather, an entire deck made entirely of aces. As they said, if you aren’t cheating, you aren’t trying hard enough.

Okay, check this. The fact that there are 52 cards in a standard deck doesn’t mean very much. It isn’t a very interesting fact on its own. The fact that there are also 52 weeks in a year could be a mere coincidence. Except there are also four suits in a deck and four seasons in a year, thirteen cards in a suit and thirteen lunar cycles in a year, and if you count all the symbols in a deck they add up to 365. So, a fact is knowing that there are 52 cards in a standard playing card deck, but a good trivia fact is knowing that the 52-card deck’s design was based on a calendar year. Trivia takes this boring piece of information and makes it . . . magical. It makes meaning out of raw data, the way statistics does with numbers, except trivia does it with all the loose odds and ends of the universe.

Bethany is an open book, with all her defiance and sadness and fight right there under the surface. But when she flipped that tower card to the table—Jesus. Gives me chills. And the only thing I hate more than being at the mercy of some old woman with a deck of cards is being at the mercy of surprises.

Nude #5. Deck of cards. Each card is made of flesh. The living cards are days of a woman’s life. I see a great silver needle go flashing right through the deck once from end to end.

The scent of new paper and whatever glue coats the cards fills the small space as he pulls out the deck. His hands move impossibly fast, shuffling the cards with intimate knowledge. The same intimate knowledge I imagine he has with women. You’re a woman, my mind helpfully supplies. Damon Scott won’t be intimate with any part of my body. Not if I win this game. There’s a sense of loss about that, but also power—because I’ll be the one to decide my fate.

Looks counted, although he honestly didn't know which ones or why. He'd have thought smouldering eyes and impressive breasts or shoulders would win every time but that didn't seem to be the case. There were a lot of wild cards in the human sexuality deck.

The people in our lives are like cards in a deck. At different times we draw, hold, and discard, but, in the end, we don’t really know the cards’ value until life calls our hand.

This was my first lesson about gambling: if you see somebody winning all the time, he isn't gambling, he's cheating. ater on in life, if I were continuously losing in any gambling situation, I would watch very closely. It's like the Negro in America seeing the white man win all the time. He's a professional gambler; he has all the cards and the odds stacked on his side, and he has always dealt to our people from the bottom of the deck.

Did you guys just win again?” I asked Pete after we finished the hand. Pete nodded, prompting Reggie to gather up all the cards, rise from his chair, and toss them into the trash bin. “Hey, Reg, that’s still a good deck!” Pete said, not bothering to disguise his pleasure at the beatdown he and Marvin had just administered. “Everybody loses sometimes.” Reggie flashed a hard look at Pete. “Show me someone who’s okay with losing,” he said, “and I’ll show you a loser.

Carstensen gave her hypothesis the impenetrable name “socioemotional selectivity theory.” The simpler way to say it is that perspective matters. She produced a series of experiments to test the idea. In one, she and her team studied a group of adult men ages twenty-three to sixty-six. Some of the men were healthy. But some were terminally ill with HIV/AIDS. The subjects were given a deck of cards with descriptions of people they might know, ranging in emotional closeness from family members to the author of a book they’d read, and they were asked to sort the cards according to how they would feel about spending half an hour with them. In general, the younger the subjects were, the less they valued time with people they were emotionally close to and the more they valued time with people who were potential sources of information or new friendship. However, among the ill, the age differences disappeared. The preferences of a young person with AIDS were the same as those of an old person.

It is necessary and helpful to be, and in some ways to remain, a beginner. For this reason, the Tarot deck beloved by intuitives, romantics, fortune-tellers, and scoundrels alike contains within it the Fool as a positive card, an illustrated variant of which opens this chapter. The Fool is a young, handsome man, eyes lifted upward, journeying in the mountains, sun shining brightly upon him—about to carelessly step over a cliff (or is he?). His strength, however, is precisely his willingness to risk such a drop; to risk being once again at the bottom. No one unwilling to be a foolish beginner can learn. It was for this reason, among others, that Carl Jung regarded the Fool as the archetypal precursor to the figure of the equally archetypal Redeemer, the perfected individual.

Life was a card game. You couldn’t stack the deck; only make the most of your hand.

In that sense, life is less like a journey than it is a game of honeymoon bridge. In our twenties, when there is still so much time ahead of us, time that seems ample for a hundred indecisions, for a hundred visions and revisions—we draw a card, and we must decide right then and there whether to keep that card and discard the next, or discard the first card and keep the second. And before we know it, the deck has been played out and the decisions we have just made will shape our lives for decades to come.

the major trumps of the tarot deck of symbolic cards.664 The Yosher (straightness, uprightness) provides a framework and procedure for achieving enlightenment. Let’s pause for a moment and make a few key observations. The Yosher has 10 spheres and 22 paths between them and represents a road map to human

Every time you shuffle a deck of cards, you have made a combination nobody has ever made in history. But how? How many combinations can there be? Millions? Billions? Trillions? Not even close. There are 80,658,175,170,943,878,571,660,636,856,403,766,975,289,505,440,883,277,824,000,000,000,00 combinations. That’s 70 numbers. The actual word for this number is 80 vigintillion. If you are wondering how this is possible, here’s a simple way to understand it. There are 52 cards in a deck. There are 26 letters in the alphabet. How many different stories have been created from those 26 letters? So, if you ever feel like you haven’t accomplished anything unique in your life, shuffle a deck of cards and you have done something that has never happened ever. Unless you don’t know how to shuffle. Which I don’t.

everything i love, i love because you taught me to. when you decided i was finally old enough, you gave me my first deck of tarot cards for my birthday. you told me, these aren’t magick. not by themselves. they’re magick because your hands are the ones holding them. - my high priestess

everything i love, i love because you taught me to. when you decided i was finally old enough, you gave me my first deck of tarot cards for my birthday. you told me, these aren't magick. not by themselves. they're magick because your hands are the ones holding them.

It’s like the Negro in America seeing the white man win all the time. He’s a professional gambler; he has all the cards and the odds stacked on his side, and he has always dealt to our people from the bottom of the deck.

Something shifted beneath my feet like moving sand. Things in my chest. Around my brain. Rearranged. It was like a deck of cards being shuffled. There was before. This was after.